She likes to think she could bury him. She likes to imagine a place she can visit and know he is near, even if it’s only skin and bones. At least he’d be near. But, she imagines him lying in a field somewhere in France, his beautiful skin ravaged by different carrion. She imagines him alone and it kills her more than the telegraph did.
How out of place that telegraph had seemed. It came on a perfectly ordinary Wednesday morning. Shouldn’t the world have ended the moment he stopped breathing? Shouldn’t she have known? Why had she needed a telegraph to tell her the news, when she should have felt it?
Her mother, a self
Who You Were Is No Longer Who You Are by losingmyfaith, literature
Literature
Who You Were Is No Longer Who You Are
They washed away the blood you left on the pavement; the rest of what you were slowly circling down a sewage drain. I'm two blocks from where you last stood, drinking a vodka cranberry, reflecting on how alive I am compared to how dead you are. I drink and I drink and it seems funny to me that only a matter of seconds can rip away a life, leave it leaking onto the Earth where I walk.
I don't know who you were.
I don't know what your name was.
I drink some more.
The destination, the final resting place
for all beautiful things
is covered in tragedy.
In a plethora of "too much"
"too little"
"too late."
Tragic circumstances bred from the consequences of having a beautiful face
beautiful words
a beautiful way of viewing the world.
The place in which we live
is not capable of holding beautiful things.
They always turn to black
to pain
inwardly reaching for something they've lost, but had before, grasped before
right out of reach
falling
to a beautiful death
of their own doin
For the third time that week, something dragged her from the bowels of sleep, thrust her from her dreams into a fear inducing state of sleep paralysis. For what seemed like long, taxing minutes, she rose from the depths of dreams, struggling to open her eyelids, knowing she must wake up. Must wake up. Slowly, bit by bit, her body became hers again. She could breathe.
What had awaken her, she had no clue. There was merely a black space, a fear left in the back of her brain that told her to turn on the light--to check closets and underneath beds for unseen monsters.
Awake, she decide to make tea, hoping the warm liquid would soothe her back t
stuck
more than nothing
less than a whole
blood scattered across the globe
steps sunken into deserts, mountains, and rivers.
who had a touch like mine?
a voice like mine?
I come from a line of warriors, healers,
cowards.
I come from a people of pain
shown not through my ancestral records
but the palms of my hands
the brown of my eyes.
Stroke the fire
feel it burn
cleansing all the poisonous bits that can't be scrubbed away--
thrusting a purer sense of being out of the ashes.
After destruction comes beauty
the smallest flower appearing from a lava bed.
After death comes life,
a newfound knowledge
of love and history.
It's amazing the pain
a body can take
to make something new.
I close my eyes and all I see is snow-capped mountains, waterfalls rushing to the tune of our rotation, star-filled nights. We are alone. No one can touch us here, can tear your hand away from mine. We're just laughter and soft silhouettes, our shadows blending into the background. Your fingers through my hair and you whisper you love me and everything is okay, everything is where it should be.
the night outside is cold, and the spark thats jumping between us is too delicate to be left out in this lack of oxygen. but theres something in the stars tonight that seems to tell me that the waves in my chest aren't going to be lasting too much lon
I want you to love me when I cannot love myself. I need you to be my sacred space, my sanctuary away from the noise, silent and forgiving. Silent.
I don't breathe the same without you; my veins don't beat unless they are beside yours. We work in synchronous motion, thoughts running from one mind to the other.
From your pages to my fingertips, I find myself, an identity hidden within the corners and spines of all the books I've read and all I will never get the chance to.
Silent.
I am nothing without your beauty, your gentleness, your prose littered with meaning and lessons to guide me through the various stages of my life when I cannot gu
She likes to think she could bury him. She likes to imagine a place she can visit and know he is near, even if it’s only skin and bones. At least he’d be near. But, she imagines him lying in a field somewhere in France, his beautiful skin ravaged by different carrion. She imagines him alone and it kills her more than the telegraph did.
How out of place that telegraph had seemed. It came on a perfectly ordinary Wednesday morning. Shouldn’t the world have ended the moment he stopped breathing? Shouldn’t she have known? Why had she needed a telegraph to tell her the news, when she should have felt it?
Her mother, a self
Who You Were Is No Longer Who You Are by losingmyfaith, literature
Literature
Who You Were Is No Longer Who You Are
They washed away the blood you left on the pavement; the rest of what you were slowly circling down a sewage drain. I'm two blocks from where you last stood, drinking a vodka cranberry, reflecting on how alive I am compared to how dead you are. I drink and I drink and it seems funny to me that only a matter of seconds can rip away a life, leave it leaking onto the Earth where I walk.
I don't know who you were.
I don't know what your name was.
I drink some more.
The destination, the final resting place
for all beautiful things
is covered in tragedy.
In a plethora of "too much"
"too little"
"too late."
Tragic circumstances bred from the consequences of having a beautiful face
beautiful words
a beautiful way of viewing the world.
The place in which we live
is not capable of holding beautiful things.
They always turn to black
to pain
inwardly reaching for something they've lost, but had before, grasped before
right out of reach
falling
to a beautiful death
of their own doin
For the third time that week, something dragged her from the bowels of sleep, thrust her from her dreams into a fear inducing state of sleep paralysis. For what seemed like long, taxing minutes, she rose from the depths of dreams, struggling to open her eyelids, knowing she must wake up. Must wake up. Slowly, bit by bit, her body became hers again. She could breathe.
What had awaken her, she had no clue. There was merely a black space, a fear left in the back of her brain that told her to turn on the light--to check closets and underneath beds for unseen monsters.
Awake, she decide to make tea, hoping the warm liquid would soothe her back t
stuck
more than nothing
less than a whole
blood scattered across the globe
steps sunken into deserts, mountains, and rivers.
who had a touch like mine?
a voice like mine?
I come from a line of warriors, healers,
cowards.
I come from a people of pain
shown not through my ancestral records
but the palms of my hands
the brown of my eyes.
Stroke the fire
feel it burn
cleansing all the poisonous bits that can't be scrubbed away--
thrusting a purer sense of being out of the ashes.
After destruction comes beauty
the smallest flower appearing from a lava bed.
After death comes life,
a newfound knowledge
of love and history.
It's amazing the pain
a body can take
to make something new.
I close my eyes and all I see is snow-capped mountains, waterfalls rushing to the tune of our rotation, star-filled nights. We are alone. No one can touch us here, can tear your hand away from mine. We're just laughter and soft silhouettes, our shadows blending into the background. Your fingers through my hair and you whisper you love me and everything is okay, everything is where it should be.
the night outside is cold, and the spark thats jumping between us is too delicate to be left out in this lack of oxygen. but theres something in the stars tonight that seems to tell me that the waves in my chest aren't going to be lasting too much lon
I want you to love me when I cannot love myself. I need you to be my sacred space, my sanctuary away from the noise, silent and forgiving. Silent.
I don't breathe the same without you; my veins don't beat unless they are beside yours. We work in synchronous motion, thoughts running from one mind to the other.
From your pages to my fingertips, I find myself, an identity hidden within the corners and spines of all the books I've read and all I will never get the chance to.
Silent.
I am nothing without your beauty, your gentleness, your prose littered with meaning and lessons to guide me through the various stages of my life when I cannot gu
sometimes, late at night when it felt as if the weight of the world was
pressing down on her chest she imagined what it would be like to be
curled up in his arms. it pushed and pulled at muscle and sinew and left
her aching from the inside out until her skin was blooming with purple
and blue watercolour bruises. she longed. ached for him until something
in her head snapped and she remembered clearly again. she remembered the
softness of his lips, the delicate slope of his jaw. she remembered the
feel of him pressed against her, all soft skin and teasing warmth. more
than that, she remembered how it felt to be nestled in his arms.
rem
sometimes, late at night when it felt as if the weight of the world was
pressing down on her chest she imagined what it would be like to be
curled up in his arms. it pushed and pulled at muscle and sinew and left
her aching from the inside out until her skin was blooming with purple
and blue watercolour bruises. she longed. ached for him until something
in her head snapped and she remembered clearly again. she remembered the
softness of his lips, the delicate slope of his jaw. she remembered the
feel of him pressed against her, all soft skin and teasing warmth. more
than that, she remembered how it felt to be nestled in his arms.
rem
Each night she came as smoke ring mist
that floated lazy from your mouth,
crooning Tangueray poetry.
A tabletop is littered with
red playing cards and 'tater chips,
and soggy lip-rouged ciggie butts
from fiery redheads tipsy with
one too many vodka shots
to consummate a truckers' stop.
Her gin-sling sequined cocktail dress,
split up the sides & down the back,
hides nothing less from your mind's eye.
She ransomed you her miracles
the first time when you heard her sing
your favorite songs to you that night.
You raise aloft your whiskey glass;
a send-off of a time gone by,
of stains she left along the bar,
while semi-trucks downs
there is a wilderness in my body by this-epiphany, literature
Literature
there is a wilderness in my body
& a compass in my elbow
tugging my body achingly
north. if love
could carry a woman I would find you
where the magnetic fields bend
and break against the atmosphere,
cradle the northern lights
in my lungs, stretch your skin
tight across the tundra,
exhale.
we're all made of stories. by paperheartsyndrome, literature
Literature
we're all made of stories.
We're all either made of cells or stories, but in your case, it's both. You're somehow bigger than what one body can contain. And I know that all of this all these words and breaths and spaces aren't enough to explain you. You're better than any fiction will ever be.
I remember sitting in the passenger seat of your car, watching the familiar city streets flick by, fast like a picture book. It felt like there was something I was missing between the pages and second story houses, but I couldn't place it. I had my arms wrapped tight around my middle, holding my insides in since I was afraid with every passing moment I would let th
i.
God, my heart's not in you
anymore. I want to know when
you'll be a good man again. When
will you roll your
shirtsleeves back down, stop dragging
little girls out of their beds? When will I
be fit to wear my communion dress? When
will you be what you promised? When
will I be
what you promised?
God, you are the phantom of memory,
you make me surly and frightened.
You are hunched against a tree breathing
like a murderer, spitting rocks
from your throat but
in the gasping dark of my nights
all I can remember is that your eyes were
so blue and
so bright
.
ii.
Mary collected porcelain figurines --
Mary, who
Across a scattered galactic arm arcing,
the false peace of stars clings to
the curve of the earth,
stillborn in a celestial rock garden
and I in its soil with limbs
pruned and trained,
until set into motion the undone slumber,
a kiss on the lips of a maiden
under glass for a thousand years,
whose kingdom succumbs to wicker horses,
their manes atrophied in midflight--
the meaning of hieroglyphs hang
like wind chimes,
pairs of sandals from many souls
line the steps to the entrance
of a monk's hut through which I've passed
uncharted many times,
to shake off the earthbound
'til I start to miss oranges again,
and blue peeking from b
I am twenty-one years old and both an English/History major at my university. I'm also the Editor-in-Chief for our campus newspaper, as well as an intern for our literary journal. The English language has fascinated me since I was a little girl. I devoured books left and right, and still do when I have the time. I didn't start properly writing until the summer before I went into eighth grade. I'd written a couple things here and there (tales that are quite hilarious to read in retrospect), but that summer I found a love for poetry--a love that's kept with me ever since. Obviously, I've grown as a writer over the years, and my style of writing has changed a lot. Even looking here on d/A at the pieces I submitted that first year compared to the pieces I submit now, the differences in my style of writing has changed drastically.
Writing and reading are not my only loves, though. I love British television far more than I should, adore the French language and studied it for six years in school (and would hope to start studying it again soon), I love coffee (local cafes, starbucks, etc), I love living by a lake because it's beautiful and I've always been drawn to the water, I love philosophy and find it quite interesting, I also love astronomy and find it equally interesting, and I'm quite in love with editing. If you need someone to be looked over, I'm your girl. That's why working at my uni's writing center is so perfect for me! I love music; I delve into every genre. I have one tattoo and nine (ish) piercings. I love horror movies...especially ones with zombies. Because zombies are amazing.
Some of my favourite bands/singers include: Three Days Grace, Breaking Benjamin, Thirty Seconds to Mars, Josh Groban, Bright Eyes, Beirut, Fleet Foxes, Locksley, Passion Pit, Ellie Goulding, Lady Gaga, Ella Fitzgerald, Frank Sinatra (and loads of other old time singers), and Melody Gardot. Seriously, though, that's just a tiny, miniscule amount of the music I listen to.
Some of my favourite movies: Zombieland, Atonement, Pride and Prejudice, Love Actually, Bright Star, Tombstone, Interview with a Vampire, Breakfast at Tiffany's, Arsenic and Old Lace...and lots more. I love movies.
Some of my favourite television shows: Doctor Who, Supernatural, Dexter, House, The Walking Dead, Life, Pushing Daises, Luther, Law and Order UK, The Graham Norton Show, The Secret Diary of a Call Girl, Skins, Misfits, 30 Rock, Bones...I watch a lot of t.v. It's probably a tad unhealthy. But, alas, I don't care.
+ I am an admin for . If you have questions about the group, let me know! +Other addictions: my tumblr my livejournal my aim address is faithadeline my msn address is faithadeline@aim.com
Current Residence: Racine Favourite genre of music: rock/alt, indie/folk, jazz Personal Quote: "Literature is the highest form of art"
Favourite Movies
Listed on my about me.
Favourite Bands / Musical Artists
Listed on my about me.
Favourite Books
Listed on my about me.
Favourite Writers
Jane Austen, John Green, Charlotte Bronte, Emily Bronte, Mary Shelley, Oscar Wilde, J.K. Rowling, Kim Harrison, and many more.
Other Interests
Reading, writing, singing, hanging with friends, music, photography
It's always odd logging into this site after being away for so long. It's kind of like a strange returning home.
I continue to receive so very many nice comments about my work and my gallery here. Y'all can't know how much I appreciate it.
I'm bored at work, so figured it would be a good time to update anyone still here that followed me. My life is good right now. It's...life.
Let's back up. So, last May, I graduated with a Bachelors in English and History. I thought I would be going to grad school, but it wasn't in the cards yet. So, I ended up getting a job at my university. For the past year, I've been supervising the Tutoring and Writi
Okay. Let's just pretend that anytime I say I'm not going to disappear again, I probably will. Because I can NOT say no to people to save my life (I'm learning, I swear!) and always get swamped.
Anyhoo.
Bonjour, my lovelies.
I graduate uni in less than two months. This is crazy. This also means I have been hellaciously busy. Quick list to catch you up!
*I've been rejected from two of the five graduate schools I applied to. I was incredibly sad at first, but now I'm trying to stay positive as I wait for the other three to respond to my applications.
*I've started a lifestyle blog! It's fun and I quite enjoy it. You can check it out here:
Last night, I told someone close to me how I feel towards him. After months of getting some mixed signals and believing that something was there, I finally took the plunge (something I never do) and told him. It was raining; my life sometimes resembles a Hollywood movie.
He was sweet about it when he told me he didn't feel the same way.
I still felt my heart splinter in about a million different pieces.
It's hard. Harder than it's been before. We're good friends, so that's not going to change, but it's going to take a lot of time and mourning for the hope that I had that maybe we could have been something more.
Today I plan on lying aroun