Daily Lit Deviations for November 25^th, 2009</u>

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Poetry

_{Also suggested by :runningbear5858:
Featured by teenyxtinyxtina}
The Scent of Lilacs   Shopworn stones atop fresh moist dirt; how many
kids dug-in filthy handed, searching for treasures
or building castles. Pink pinched cheeks we attempt at
reliving our childhood; more beautiful with each a passing day.
Each day - nothing is the same.
They grew one day; out of spite, resentfulness,
paper rolled memories-cigarettes burn. You said -
you always said - it's all too messy. How can they
let them grow, with their pale purple crowns and their gentle pride worn,
above all that dirt-digging?
The scent of lilacs fills my chest with remorse
no brown-sugar curls, pearl teeth, aluminum eyes…
So beautiful each day. They paved cement layers
over brown-black soil in only one bare night with their shovels
and by morning it was gone.
To hell with them stones, all those neatly carved shapes
green grinning plastic grass covering mud in its
elastic punctuality and cold bright shine.
No more the prattle of October rain, hitting thuds against
thick raw mire each day the s
"The Scent of Lilacs" by leoraigarath
<sub>The innocence of childhood shines through
in this with its raw beauty and some of the
most amazing and descriptive imagery I have ever seen.


Featured by: TheBrassGlass</sub>
facsimiletoday was like
a rock-  solid weight
       and textured
not like a headache
                 octopus capabilities
but a slipping arpeggio - - where breathing might chance comfort
       like the profile of a grandfather.
I want to take this rock and build a glass city
   around us
so I can wake up to this carillon of nonsensical
warmth.    every morning- - like someone else's home
     instead of pop-up pictographs
              menagerie
but it goes, melting into the native's love
that is more believable than mine
        always mine
so I must relinquish your
     wingspan that is a buttress to my framework
of paperc
"facsimile" by jarfold
<sub>This poem sings, with its vivid images
and its swinging rhythm.


Featured by: RunningBear5858</sub>
MaskA smile conceals the wounds so deep,
Outside you laugh, inside you weep,
At night you cry yourself to sleep,
Upon a bed of broken dreams.
A tainted world of hate and lies,
Where love is gone, and laughter dies,
This rotten world before your eyes,
Is it as bad as what it seems?
Beneath the mask, it's black like sin,
But if we dig down deep within,
A beam of light, though weak and thin,
A ray of hope through darkness gleams.
"Mask" by Mattachu
_{A beautifully tragic poem about trying
to hide your true thoughts and pain behind
what the author describes as a mask.
Simple, yet touching.}

Prose

_{Featured by: choirsoftheheavens}
:thumb132229053:
"The Writer's Apprentice" by Horsecricket
<sub>The beauty of this story is that it
defies the norm. A writer writing about
writing has never been as eloquent, as
concise, and as hard-hitting as Horsecricket
has been with this piece.


Featured by: midnight-eclipses</sub>
Diary Entries of a Dead Girl"Wanted:  One heart.  It must be scarred along the edges, cracked...but only a little."  She sets the pen down next to her, ink balled upon the tip in black, and glances at the diary.  Torn and tear-stained pages clutter the space between the covers like tissues in a box, the clasp hanging off-kilter.  Broken.  A steak-knife and hammer lie near the tips of her left fingers.  She picks up the pen.
"It must not age, but stay naive forever.  It must be fitting for a girl of sixteen to still be able to dream with.  It cannot shatter."  The down-slanted scroll, learned over eleven years and many alterations, blares the thoughts of a young girl's life.  Twelve pages from the end, the script begins to change, to mutate.  The last entry is a mess of jumbled words and half-hearted pencil strokes.  Despair.
"Wanted:  One heart in mint-condition.  I
"Diary Entries of a Dead Girl" by betwixtthepages
_{I felt all the heartache and despair
that was pushed into this prose. Some pieces
will touch a reader's heart but I think this
one goes past the heart and into the reader's soul.
This piece deserves to be read and reread over
and over again. Sometimes, the most meaningful
things come from the smallest things.}



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_{prepared by: RavensQuill}