Shop Forum More Submit  Join Login
About Literature / Hobbyist ♔Miistical♔United States Recent Activity
Deviant for 1 Year
Needs Core Membership
Statistics 42 Deviations 11 Comments 1,603 Pageviews
×

Newest Deviations

Literature
life on other planets judge us from afar.
to the alien eye
humans are nothing more than the animals they keep;
after all, what kind of king kills the gods
who killed the titans for them? what kind of man, any
in or beyond the boundaries of the universe,
looks into the soul of another and decide with all
the weight of a mother's grief, to end it?
yet, to the alien eye,
humans are also those dead gods,
the ones they molded themselves after.
after all, it takes certain death to move
a solider from his post,
a man from his country,
a woman from her sisters,
a child from their mother's lap - it takes nothing
less than the absolute absence of human to move one.
humans often love in ways beyond ritual;
they too often laugh without reason
just as they often cry.
humans condemn one another but protect any stranger, 
just as they shall hold a fist as if
it were an open palm.
humans often mourn with such vigor that
any are justifiably surprised when
they manage to live on.
to the alien eye,
that is their alieness - 
to the
:iconhedonophobe:hedonophobe
:iconhedonophobe:hedonophobe 9 1
Literature
ain't i still a child (apparently not).
the voices speak to me, make me cry—
my life is all a painting and i am merely blinking in between portraits.
i am an old type of young; a young type of old -
what does that even mean? no one knows, especially me.
i feel everything through my stomach;
that could be the ache talking though.
strange how these days are the good old days,
everything is in shades of rose.
and i would be crying if i wouldn't crash
(burn baby burn in that wreckage, what's a moral).
of memories and metal and magic,
i want those scars; dressed in black, mourn my own funeral.
but i ain't dead yet -
ain't been two decades yet -
ain't nothing been happening yet -
there ain't nothing yet -
not yet.
:iconhedonophobe:hedonophobe
:iconhedonophobe:hedonophobe 8 3
Literature
a senior english class is a hell, too.
my teacher is an older man of white hair that never touches the top of his head,
who roars at the pitiful yet deserving sophomores of his earlier classes,
who dances about my senior class as if he is giddy - and he must be because mine
is the last of the day.
usually, that is all there is to it.
he drones on and on about a type of literature even i will not appreciate
and names it Classic but the rest of my peers share in my apathy at his odd cheerful
voice; another thing to gossip about in the hall leading toward the choir room
as we giggle at the memory of it and compare it to Skye's slurred marijuana speech and red eyes.
i do most of the talking.
yet now here he is, waving another tome above his head like the gospel and thank
that particular God that this is not the religious studies class or else i would have killed
myself with it before the class had even started.
he speaks of lost little boys and far away islands and a pig's head and how absolutely disgusting
lord of the flies is
:iconhedonophobe:hedonophobe
:iconhedonophobe:hedonophobe 3 2
Literature
the past is where it's at.
i used to love.
it was grand and loud and always present in a quiet room;
i had been told that my love spilled from the seams of me,
that there was no space big enough to fit it all comfortably.
i gave it away to anyone i thought needed it and
hurt myself doing it - i do not regret it though. regretting
it means that i wouldn't do it a second time. a third time.
as many times needed as long as they asked.
and oh how people asked. they were always so sweet,
polite, speaking through sharp teeth and a hungry smile.
but i was raised to feed the guests in my house, even
when i did not want them there. especially then, actually.
but i never knew what to do with the love i gave when
it was discarded; as if they had no more room in themselves
to hold on to it. so i let it drift in the cracks between us
until it eventually faded back into the cold air - after all
nothing can be destroyed or created, merely changed and
it did. 
it became a ghost and lived in the sullen silences and 
ra
:iconhedonophobe:hedonophobe
:iconhedonophobe:hedonophobe 8 3
Mature content
dear ariel, i still hear you. :iconhedonophobe:hedonophobe 6 1
Literature
i don't believe in god (but i could).
i have always loved sunrises.
when i was young, i would crane my
neck so far back that i nearly
fell over. i would stare, open mouth,
wide eyes, and reach. my small
hands with sticky fingers would
stretch as far as i could make them,
as if they could hold the whole sky.
i would laugh, bright and loud,
a kind insight to a laugh that would
one day belong to me again when quiet
days were over. but the quiet days
had not yet begun so i would fill
the street with my joy, have it wash
into the neighbor's yards, crawl up
the large tree in the backyard that
is now no longer there.
but it seemed that i had only been
dreaming. soon sunsets replaced
my sunrises and the night welcomed
me as it did all who grow older. i
spent so many years washing myself
in sunsets and curling myself in 
darkness that sunrises seemed only
to taunt me. sunrises became my
alarm of tired eyes, of an empty
stomach, of tears sliding down round
cheeks. i cursed that younger me
who wished to grow up and then i 
:iconhedonophobe:hedonophobe
:iconhedonophobe:hedonophobe 10 3
Literature
confessions of a broke girl with a broken spirit.
i love how the sky never
changes except for when it
does, which is to say that i
hate the sky and change—
and i love how every day is
a today which means there
is never a better tomorrow—
and i love things that look like
mistakes so long as i am not
looking in a mirror—
and i love how my mind makes
miseries that my heart turns
into tragedies and the difference
is that a tragedy always ends in
the main character's death and
that makes me Greek.
i pull out my eyelashes and i
pluck at the dry ends of my hair
and i pick at my ripped nails and
i scratch like a broken record
until my skin is flushed with all
the blood in me—
the blood that should be going
to my heart but is instead
seeping from my femininity in
a way i had not known—
not known for thirteen years
and now know for six and how
strange that is—
it is as if this pain has been
with me for eternity but i
suppose that is what growing
up only to be disappointed
in yourself feels like.
i
:iconhedonophobe:hedonophobe
:iconhedonophobe:hedonophobe 11 2
Literature
i don't go to the park for the birds.
So says that thing that perches
in the soul, with it's trilling tune
and sweet song; so says the
thing with feathers, who never
pauses nor quits, who can't
ever seem to stop it—so says
hope, so says, but I've always
liked the silence best.
Be still and steady and so very
pretty, be kind and calm and
so very sweet - when hope sings
all must halt and listen; all the
good smile and all the evil bloom
and all the people down fill
every room—yet I've never been
lifted and never wanted to lift,
never have I cried in unmistakable
bliss, just as I still do not wish
to be roused by a bird when all I
want is sleep nor to be interrupted
as I sit to read.
So says the empty gale and its
cousin, the storm; so says those
abashed and sore just as that
bird so says, that bird who kept
so many warm—but I've a liking
to the cold and its darling winter
breeze and so it is the bite of
ice that comes to me with ease.
:iconhedonophobe:hedonophobe
:iconhedonophobe:hedonophobe 10 2
Literature
i woke up pissed off today.
I keep breathing in memories
and they make me heave
and I want this all to stop
but there's something in me
that can't help but just keep
inhaling it all into me -
I'm an unwilling addict and
my gaze feels heavy just as my
chest is full of thunder and
my mind is all the damp fog
rolling off of my soul - why am I
not as light as air yet?
It's like I'm stranded with
absolutely no where to go or,
better yet, with absolutely
no where that I was to begin with;
it's like drowning—it's like
becoming the water and it's
like seeing yourself through
the sea's eyes;
it's two hurricanes in a bottle
with the atmosphere somehow
keeping it all inside but that
atmosphere is actually my mouth
and I am still trying to breathe
and doing a poor job at it;
all of that water taps at the tip
of my teeth but my head
is being held back by strong
hands that are somehow my own
when my own are holding onto
my throat and those hands are gentle
as they brush my hair and none
of that water spills over.
I gasp
:iconhedonophobe:hedonophobe
:iconhedonophobe:hedonophobe 24 2
Literature
it's hard to speak with no mouth.
I've always found talking to be a pointless,
tedious affair. I've always found words to
lack the depth in which I say them - 
that lying is so easy because anything
can be said no matter the feeling behind
them. I've always found myself
speechless in the face of my own
language's horrible way with itself.
English is a language from a broken
home that forces its neighbors to listen
to its terrible music at two in the morning.
It has scars and burns, most of which
are self-inflicted - English has this
lovely way of abusing itself that has
left it so shattered it can cut
the tongue, pull the teeth, teach
your vowels to flatten and constants to
be biting and hissed. It is harsh, with
no bounce, no lilt; English cannot dance.
No one wants to be its partner, anyway.
English will surely step on feet and lose the
beat entirely. I have resorted to words
my language has not yet stole. To what
word can hold my sibling disdainful love?
How can my protectiveness be manhandled into
a single wor
:iconhedonophobe:hedonophobe
:iconhedonophobe:hedonophobe 14 0
Literature
i wanna be some kind of other poet.
I. lowercase & steady,
all symbol & one stanza,
full of themself because
they are also full of others -
others who willing pour
themselves into one person;
one person lowercase &
steady & who does not say
'and' when talking.
2. numbers within the
letters just like fangs hiding
in gums, just like the
heart of vampire, just like
finished journals with no
words, just like words with
no journals, just like a
lick of flame in downtown LA,
just like all the water drops
in the ocean, just like properly
used numbers in poems.
E. six words only, always
taunting me.
π. god, oh lord, 
what in name must i hord
for any of this sin,
any of the darkness in my skin,
to burst open and take me,
remake me - leave me aching?
what shall i do in this room,
this empty, silent, forbidden tomb,
filled with nothing but for the walls,
not caring when the lonely calls?
00110101.
silence is my loudest friend
except for when she leaves me too.
VI. five is the best that
i, poet, can do and
:iconhedonophobe:hedonophobe
:iconhedonophobe:hedonophobe 13 0
Literature
did your mom pick out those clothes?
I used to wear my heart on my
sleeve but I don't wear sleeves
anymore so now I have it tucked
underneath my bra strap because
all the pants I own have fake
pockets - and I don't like purses
so I can't carry my empathy with
me anymore (but if I'm honest,
I had always tucked it in a pocket
at the bottom of my bag anyway).
I used to wear flowers in my hair,
a blooming crown all the colors
that I had bleached from my skin,
and now all that's left are horns -
delicate and wilting but still bejeweled
in glittering thorns, red with the
blood of every bitten tongue—all the
words I've ever choked back now
dancing across my glasses and even
I can't see past them anymore.
Clothing and jewels dangle from
every corner of my room and there
are days where I wonder if I need
all of it - days filled with black leggings
and pink sweaters and white shorts
and red bras and matching thongs and
earrings I have no piercings for and
a thousand rings even though I
only wear one (I wear it on my middle
fi
:iconhedonophobe:hedonophobe
:iconhedonophobe:hedonophobe 78 11
Literature
bad habit? i don't think so.
Happiness is best in small doses and
when you are not expecting it - when
there is nothing but the night and its
sweet, forbidden tune—happiness, like
sadness, clings like a scar; that is
to say permanent, always there even
when you forget about it.
It is where the ocean and the breeze
and all the seven seas line up like the
stars would - could - do and we are all
left with wandering wonders that float
like shivers down the spine; left with
an aching throat and burning eyes
and the wish of sleep; left with haunting
memories filled with all the mistakes
that have left your lips.
I told a friend that I loved her and I
hugged a boy hello and goodbye and
that is happiness - I laughed, raw
and too loud, just as I wept, raw and
too loud, and that is happiness—
I try to fit all of that love in a gift but
I've never been the one to wrap
the presents Christmas eve.
There are days where all I want is
to scream, to hear my voice echo 
and know tha
:iconhedonophobe:hedonophobe
:iconhedonophobe:hedonophobe 14 1
Literature
i hope i die at the end of a rainbow.
I am green only during winter
dawns—that is to say I am awake
then unlike a summer dawn -
that is to say my soul slept through
autumn - that is to say I hate the
cold but love shivering, love 
the creaking of my bones, love
the way I warm myself up, love how
my eyes catch the steam from
my mouth - that is to say it is the
only time of year where I remember
that my eyes, too, are green.
I am yellow in between the first
and second blink of the morning,
my body soft as I lay in a peeking
sliver of sunshine (I never close
my blinds but I do close my
curtains just as I put on my boots
but I do not lace them) and it
is my legs curled and hooked at
the ankles - such thin and
delicate bones, it is as if my lover
loved me still - that, too, are yellow.
I am orange in the afternoon,
nothing more than a sated
sun - a flickering candle wick -
the desert sands lit like a lantern -
red paint now faded from a
cabin wall - the fallen leaves of
early autumn; everything is so
warm except for
:iconhedonophobe:hedonophobe
:iconhedonophobe:hedonophobe 13 1
Literature
150.
I will be truthful with you:
my warmth in this seat and
my words in the air and all
my effort in the paper I have
finally handed in is all in my
head and not at all in this room—
I saw this hour as time (shush,
Felix, we know time isn't real;
shush, Felix, not now, not again)
easily wasted and I was correct
but I forgot other people existed
and damn what a good way
to be wrong.
Mornings are not my favorite
phases of the sun and eight is
not my favorite number (that 
is seven and that's another poem
I haven't written for any T-day)
but there is something about the
class that I do not have words
for and, out of everyone in this
old room, that is the most ironic
thing to happen all semester.
It might have something to do
with the way Katie strums her guitar
or, instead, the way she sings where
you can hear her smile - how the
girls in the back talk in mumbles or
how I never know what they say
or how they are always pretty walking
in - how Bailey says hi every morning
or ho
:iconhedonophobe:hedonophobe
:iconhedonophobe:hedonophobe 6 2
Literature
this is me alone but not lonely.
I am a well, filled with clear
water with salt lined bricks, and
there is a swinging rope right
above me, trying to get me to 
pull it down and let it rise until
I am out—no, this rope is not
a noose, not a loop, just something
to tie a bucket to and bring
up more life to give to people
who need it.
I am the water in this well too -
that is to say that I am my
own tears but they are not sad
right now but they are not happy
either; I feel like crying for
no reason except, maybe, to
carve and erode away at the stone
that sits in my chest—just to the
side of my heart and not my heart
itself and yes, I know that's not
how this is suppose to go.
I am the red bricks of this well,
stained by the natural clay of the
earth and untouched by my dirty
blood - don't you know that 
could get the others sick? You visit
my town and try to drink from
this well and all around you try
and spy the dark edges that you
think are creeping in—there are no
shadows for you to see int
:iconhedonophobe:hedonophobe
:iconhedonophobe:hedonophobe 10 1

Donate

hedonophobe has started a donation pool!
0 / 100

You must be logged in to donate.
No one has donated yet. Be the first!

Comments


Add a Comment:
 
:iconnosedivve:
nosedivve Featured By Owner Edited Jan 12, 2018   Writer
:highfive: English majors are the best.

PS. I'm an English major.
Reply
:iconblackbloodyrose56:
BlackBloodyRose56 Featured By Owner Aug 22, 2017  Hobbyist Photographer
Hi I'm Yukii,
I love your beautiful profile.
Your poetry is beautiful ! I hope you have an amazing day, thank you for your time. :heart:
Reply
(1 Reply)
:iconhedonophobe:
hedonophobe Featured By Owner Dec 25, 2016  Hobbyist Writer
❣ Please comment under here | Have a lovely day 
Reply
(2 Replies)