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About Literature / Hobbyist daybreaksmilesFemale/United States Recent Activity
Deviant for 3 Years
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Literature
Silver Run
Along the county line, adjoining
corridors of sweet tobacco
and sorghm, a river twirls -
shifting red clay, stones gleam
beneath the current.
I remain silt;
tossed in her
sightless
wake.
:icondaybreaksmiles:daybreaksmiles
:icondaybreaksmiles:daybreaksmiles 9 1
Literature
.
your fingertips I
liked best - blunt with work, and soft
carding through my hair
:icondaybreaksmiles:daybreaksmiles
:icondaybreaksmiles:daybreaksmiles 11 2
Literature
.
Too often it was
impossible to see the
horizon; the way
forever curled, sleeping, in
the lines of our palms.
:icondaybreaksmiles:daybreaksmiles
:icondaybreaksmiles:daybreaksmiles 15 2
Literature
.
We split it all up
silverware, furniture, life
right down the middle.
:icondaybreaksmiles:daybreaksmiles
:icondaybreaksmiles:daybreaksmiles 9 1
Literature
.
six sets of silken
skirts settling, slip'ry, on
silver-satin sand
:icondaybreaksmiles:daybreaksmiles
:icondaybreaksmiles:daybreaksmiles 7 1
Literature
.
Your absence stirs grey
pine needles; in the city
it begins to rain.
:icondaybreaksmiles:daybreaksmiles
:icondaybreaksmiles:daybreaksmiles 24 2
Literature
.
adventures past nudge
memories gently; when did
we run out of firsts?
:icondaybreaksmiles:daybreaksmiles
:icondaybreaksmiles:daybreaksmiles 7 7
Literature
.
open open oh-
pen up your thoughts, your reasons
do not want freedom
:icondaybreaksmiles:daybreaksmiles
:icondaybreaksmiles:daybreaksmiles 6 2
Literature
.
Your mouth: a lily.
Pure, sweet and floating
lithe, just out of reach.
:icondaybreaksmiles:daybreaksmiles
:icondaybreaksmiles:daybreaksmiles 22 3
Literature
fly me to the [moon] garden box
I must say I've tired of the mundane
celestial metaphors and stardust coated images
you use the same wrote lines like you don't know
any other way to tell the story.
Get your milky way whispers away from me,
spare me your constellation smiles,
I don't need the grime of a billion years past
pressing on my shoulders. But
I wouldn't hate a little fresh growth.
I wouldn't mind roots instead of gravity.
:icondaybreaksmiles:daybreaksmiles
:icondaybreaksmiles:daybreaksmiles 30 10
Literature
.
He nestles acorns
in the crook
behind my ear,
crawls into my collarbone
to mound pine needles
between my
head and heart.
I hope he'll
spend his nights here,
secrets kept safe in me.
:icondaybreaksmiles:daybreaksmiles
:icondaybreaksmiles:daybreaksmiles 27 2
Literature
.
Teach my mind to weave
through your name, my fingers your 
frame, 'till dusk settles.
:icondaybreaksmiles:daybreaksmiles
:icondaybreaksmiles:daybreaksmiles 25 6
Literature
seahorse heart
I love too long, too strong.
:icondaybreaksmiles:daybreaksmiles
:icondaybreaksmiles:daybreaksmiles 12 4
Literature
night years
At night the small city seemed quiet and soft
Old like my parents and trapped in a time passed decades ago.
Under the dark sky it was easy to toss the town
Back to simplicity and youth -
Built of bright eyed girls with full smiles and fuller futures;
Young men with softer laugh lines,
Lighter shoulders.
:icondaybreaksmiles:daybreaksmiles
:icondaybreaksmiles:daybreaksmiles 22 6
Literature
The Legacy of Flower Buds
There is a gardenia bush
blooming by my front door and
the scent floods rain-heavy in
through the kitchen window.
Your voice is not here.
A bird chirps your off-key warble and
the cicadas hum for you,
I hear them distant as a memory.
They blend into a buzzing
beeping whir and
again I have to pull the curtains
to shield myself from
all that's left of you.
The gardenia bushes are blooming
and the unforgiving concrete
beneath my feet
reeks of them.
I am six years old again,
clutching chubby fistfuls
of sweet dark earth to my chest.
Trying to see my limbs like petals
thrusting milk-white out
greeting the sun.
My umbrella shudders
against the downpour
while the gardenias bob their heads
like eager children,
and I am in full bloom.
To teach and be taught
how flowers grow.
That is what we're here to do.
:icondaybreaksmiles:daybreaksmiles
:icondaybreaksmiles:daybreaksmiles 22 10
Literature
.
you've got his fingers
fastened on your shoulder
like a grudge you can't shake.
:icondaybreaksmiles:daybreaksmiles
:icondaybreaksmiles:daybreaksmiles 21 4

Favourites

Literature
Nehemiah
Words don't always come,
but I've been writing you
a letter that never ends
because, even though you're gone,
I still smell you
in the coffee shop
where we last talked,
at your choosing,
about anything
except goodbye.
You still weave memories
into melodies
of songs we shared,
leave sunshine on my shoulders
and frisson on my forearms
as if to offer
a celestial embrace.
I dream of you often.
One night, I was shocked
to hear your anger
at my admission
that I felt sick of life.
But I understood.
Despite your will to live,
you knew more than anyone
how that feels.
Sadness
is a cancer of its own,
and you didn't want me
to fall casualty.
Then you replayed
our last phone call
when you told me
you were proud,
your voice strained with effort
and mine with tears.
And so our dialogue continues,
not always in words,
but in passing moments.
I still hear you,
and I know
you can still hear me.
:iconhopeburnsblue:hopeburnsblue
:iconhopeburnsblue:hopeburnsblue 13 7
Literature
Burnt fabrics
No,
you did not
run your fingers into the sewers
to autograph your laundry
Worry when your kitchen starts
tapdancing?
Too late by then.
:iconoviedomedina:oviedomedina
:iconoviedomedina:oviedomedina 3 5
Literature
The sliding grays
Throw your extra arm into the thrash!
The world swims, the soil swims
and genes will detemine
that your hands will never
be able to grasp anything
by sixty
at thirty you haven´t grasped
your own life
every pendulum of your feet
will be a staggering wave
every memory
a silent room
buried in a bed
like a retiree
waiting for the mailman
with her emergency medicines
:iconoviedomedina:oviedomedina
:iconoviedomedina:oviedomedina 2 2
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Purchase the original, hand edited, found poems from the pages of Sarah Palin's Going Rogue 

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Along the county line, adjoining
corridors of sweet tobacco
and sorghm, a river twirls -

shifting red clay, stones gleam
beneath the current.
I remain silt;

tossed in her
sightless
wake.



your fingertips I
liked best - blunt with work, and soft
carding through my hair

Too often it was
impossible to see the
horizon; the way
forever curled, sleeping, in
the lines of our palms.
.
where can we go from here?
Loading...

We split it all up
silverware, furniture, life
right down the middle.
.
too sharp to be a break
Loading...

six sets of silken
skirts settling, slip'ry, on
silver-satin sand
Though I'm not completely satisfied with the last poem I put up for workshop, and it will doubtlessly be tweaked and reworked thousands of times before I am, time and necessity have urged me to move on and look at other pieces to renovate. This second poem that I'd like to workshop falls under the category of malediction - that is, I'm trying to curse someone and along the way make my readers feel something that really rings true to human experience. With your permission I would like to use you as my guinea pig and litmus test for judging how well this piece does what I want it to do. I don't usually focus on craft like this, I tend to let my poems lead me where they want to go and place them in a genre later, but a good friend of mine suggested writing with an end in sight so here I am. Without further ado:

Workshop 2

Pansies

You cracked the planter by my mailbox when you left.
The impact of tires sent topsoil sailing,
only to land in an undignified heap on the blacktop
as you pulled away, I doubt you even noticed. Or thought


of my reaction when I woke hours later
to find my driveway a graveyard for pansies
and the battered carcass of their housing
strewn across the lawn where it was felled. I'm not angry.

It was just a plastic bucket after all, the kind you buy
a dime a dozen at the hardware store.
This afternoon I'll drive to town and spend an inevitable
three hours hunting for a suitable replacement

to a planter whose shape and style was retired five years ago.
Then I'll trundle back home in rush hour traffic and begin my task
of packing dirt and flower bulbs - maybe tulips this time -
into the too-big too-square too-new flower box.

If I scare a few of the neighborhood kids it's only because
they've never seen such passionate gardening before.
And tomorrow when I pick up the mail,
there will be nothing left to remind me of you.



*my biggest issue is with the ending - the last two lines really. I'm not sure it's strong enough or at a good place or really hitting the poem home.

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daybreaksmiles

Artist | Hobbyist | Literature
United States
Currently working on: found poems - will upload soon!
Currently raising points for: premium membership

tumblr: blackcoffeelies.tumblr.com/

If you're interested in my fanfiction, you can find it here: blackcoffeelies.livejournal.co…

Also, some awesome references for poets:
personal.strath.ac.uk/t.furnis…
www.expansivepoetryonline.com/…
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:iconoviedomedina:
oviedomedina Featured By Owner 3 days ago
Thank you so much for the favorites and comments!
Reply
:icondaybreaksmiles:
daybreaksmiles Featured By Owner 23 hours ago  Hobbyist Writer
Thank you for the beautiful works :heart:
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:iconoviedomedina:
oviedomedina Featured By Owner 21 hours ago
:)
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:iconevilscarrlett:
EvilScarrlett Featured By Owner Sep 5, 2016  Hobbyist General Artist
happy birthday! :D
Reply
:iconemsoileau:
emsoileau Featured By Owner Sep 5, 2016  Hobbyist Photographer
Dunno if you come about much but happy birthday!
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