[x]

earth circuitAnd when the sun sinks, the earth's skin crawls:

I.
I wonder if this awkward creature would notice me the way I notice him.
He's so tragic at his throne
I stare after him longingly.
And yet,
He never realizes that I'm the one
Who forever basks in his brilliant beams.
If only he knew how much brighter he could burn
[with me]
He'd light up the universe.

II.
I heard him speak of thirst, once.
The quenching lust of the stars had run dry.
So that night, I brought along a jar of acid.
(And how it gleamed in his glow).
I handed it to him, wrapped in taffeta ribbons,
screaming
I wish curdling joy
On my gurgling boy

windstorms and labworkafflatus, inflatus, my morning globe,
as lithe as your impermanence.
and home! dread homes! are rabbit dugs,
spoonholed piles of mexican brick
where nothing ever touches down,
nothing here alive receives
the plains’ poor offering of gypsy light,
the ugly wind that meets the mudline.

[metaphors]
1. a mottled fence
2. and how these storms hold faceless teeth
that slat their eyes through butter-wood
then purge their guts on wintered florets
4. some freshly headless nativities,
their polyethylene skirts upturned
from violent sacks
5. and knowing i’m a souless
speck

i lick at what is manifest
beneath your

The Price of Dying“I want to be interred after I die,” Mr. Peters said. He made that clear to his family while he was still lucid, before old age and illness rendered him unintelligible. Seventy wasn’t that old, but he recognized the symptoms that were creeping up on his ailing body – the aches, the fatigue, the feeling of helplessness and despair. Despite his daughter’s attempts to assuage his concerns, he sensed his own mortality.
The worst part about dying, Mr. Peters thought, was what happened afterwards. Even since he was a small boy, he had been afraid of fire. He could never forget the scorching heat of the orange flames searing his skin, the dark billowing smoke entering his nostrils. The time that his house burned down, the fire almost took him with it. How ironic then, to escape the fire only to be fed into it after death.
So one day, he sat his son and daughter down after dinner. “I want to be buried whole,” he said, emphasizing the

SolsticeOnce upon a time, when you were still sunlighthouses and shimmering existence wherever you were needed most, you found him. He was November, shaky on his first last legs, and you saw through the mind-twistings he feigned to the mind-twistings that were really there, knotted up in his dreams.

You were still birdsong then, and thunderstorms, and your bodyheat melted the frost claws that held him tight. You held onto him as his November deepened. When he howled, you howled with him, and the wind played with your voices and pressed the softness of your lungs against your cageribs—and then against each other's.

November became solstice, and

GlassI always laugh when you refer to me as glass.
Not just because of the way you say it,
(glass-as-in-gas).
Or because I know it's a crack at my fragility.

Glass is pure.
I am like granite -
my body nullified from too many clashing traits.

Glass is transparent.
I am like clay -
illegible from all the plastered smiles.

Glass is unyielding.
I am like chalk -
easily broken and scuffed away by meagre things.

Glass is hung up on walls and in great cathedrals,
tinted for enhancement, but only ever painted on by fools.

I am hidden behind keypads and camera lenses,
coated in a thick paste of deceptiveness.

No, my love,
I was never glass. (Despite

The Homeless Shelter     The morgue was colder than Douglas expected. He jammed his good hand into his pocket, but the fingers trapped in his cast were exposed. The cold bit into them, and he prayed they would go numb soon.

     “Detective,” the coroner said as he came out of his office. “How nice to see you again. But to be honest, you weren’t the detective I was expecting. Where is McKenzie?”

     “Probably hiding under his desk. I got roped into coming down here to talk to you.”

     “Hmm. I wonder what I could have done to make him avoid me. Well, no matter. I’ll be with you as soon as I finish signing these release forms. It’s always bittersweet, letting the corpses go to their loved ones. I feel like a bond has formed during our time together.”

     &

6:30:09what i wouldn't give
to have my body sink down
into yours, cocooned
in the tumultuous quicksand
of human flesh.

i have never been so moved
as by your touch, the slinking seeping
brush. the universe dispels
and in the absence of everything,
i am less alone
than i have ever been.

rootslike drowned men who have lost their
clothes and faces, they lay suspended
facing the sun and grinning without
eyes through the ripples of the water.

those passing by wonder how they got here,
these homeless men without fingers or toes
long spindly stumps twisting into lost roots:

reaching to the east, to the south,
to the homes they have forgotten.

la musica dulceheartbeats are psycho-
-somatic, dear;
the ocean has swallowed
me whole.

hay una guitarra bajo
mi almohada, y
sueño de música cuando
estoy solo.

you came here with
city smoke in your lungs,
and i
forgot to breathe.

A ParenthesisYou were (a parenthesis, that paused
the daily, mundane stuff
of life;
a bundled breath
of fresh joy,
and borne in the wonder
of love.

Gasping and grasping,
'til in quiet you laid
still;
and I, my Child,
lie in quiet, still
tears).

And now, that is all you are,
and still so much more.

ich liebe dichdaylight wakes me up and i turn into the green moth on the windshield.
a few months ago i would have died to be someone with the same kind of pulse
as you. i wanted to know what it felt like to breathe your same
air and listen to the fabrication of your words, your lies like lists of things
you wanted me to hear, essays crafted to the palaces of my mind.
you knew what i wanted because you know the architecture of so many women—
not seeing my poisonous nature, the blisteringly sweet aftertaste that crumples
you into me again, again, again, each hit better than the last. together
we chase the dragon, needing more and more of each o

mosaics.sometimes unique
is not loud;
or bright, alive and raging,
possessed of a hunger for the atypical,
up front and too close,
or thrice-pierced and drenched
in the rebellions
particular to the latest generation.

sometimes it is a girl with
mouse brown hair and eyes
the color of weak tea,
who stands with her schoolbooks clutched
to her chest, in uniform shades of grey-blue
like the midmorning autumn sky

who has a wide mouth prone to nervous smiles,

pale lips and pale cheeks
and words that don't always come out
the way she means

who holds the universe
in the intricacies of her fingerprints
and laughs in treble clef notes
and u

This Common BloodI am young when I first hear the word 'adoption'. I am so very young, perhaps three, maybe four. I accept it easily when my mother sits me down and explains that I did not grow beneath her heart, but rather in it. I nod my head, smile big, and ask when I'm getting a little sister. My mother kisses me on the forehead and puts her hand on my head as she stands up. "If you wish on a star, Sarah, maybe she will be here very soon." I practice my wishing until night's companions wink merrily in the sky.

Dear Anna,
I turned seventeen just recently. I thought of you when I woke up, and I wondered if you were thinking of me. I like to think that you

The Lost PianistThe Lost Pianist

Tears reminisce mahogany boxed memories,
Of ecstatic crescendos and tearful diminuendos.
For deep in eternal sadness lies the lost pianist,
Who once dreamt of glorious symphonies.

As he caresses the goddess of the piano,
She moans of rhythmic joy and pleasure,
Executing works that rival the Siren's song,
Echoing the lost voices of her past masters.

But in time's command, their hearts went astray.
Each lying in their own pool of heartfelt miseries.
While he walks asunder, away from melodic Eden,
She beckons to him, yearning to be loved.

Her sorrowful notes whisper his name,
When he contemplates sweet nostalgia.

Ottumwa ShamanIn Iowa, weeping willows dream of
Tigers, born in pagan fog, their
Coat of stripes singing shaman
Songs; shrill symphonies of grief.
Heaven tilts, crashes, and we race
The dirt to get away. We drink the
Earth with bullets of air and grow
Dizzy, light-headed from breathing
Some far off flame. Perhaps a poet
Who braved the fog of Ottumwa, and
Caught fire. Every cowboy has his
Six chances before high noon, before
The fog forms wispy jackals to take
Them home again. Every son inherits
An empty gun, six voids to fill with
Answers, skimmed and guessed from the
Covers of books their fathers used
To read. There is no other way.
In s

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I've been digging through the thoughts so long my fingers became calloused.
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Hoping stars would burn the fingerprints left there those lonely nights.
I couldn't reach. It was a strange sensation,
When the lines in my hands became constellations.
My skin's not think or rough, I'm not strong enough
To confront the night but the moonshine helps me sober up.
I've traveled down the same road, kicking yellow bricks home,
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Stared at myself, he stared back at me
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Love, My Love, You've Never...The skeletons in my closet remind me of home
Lately I've been dancing to their breaking bones when I'm alone.
I'm just waiting for their screams to quiet down,
These days not even ghosts will move into this town.
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With the stench of dying men and the taste of cigars.
I sit alone in the back, eyes on the sunset,
Windows clouded with breath, pointing towards the West.
Bartender walks over, hands wrapped around a glass
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He says, "Learning to love is a cu

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Submitted: May 26, 2011
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Lullaby

by *MattVoscinar, May 26, 2011, 6:10:39 PM
Literature / Poetry / General Poetry / Urban & Spoken Word

"I've been waiting my entire life to tell you that I'm dying and I figured I'd finally get it over with.
So here I am, carving forgive me
into my teeth, so every time that I speak
I can still say that I'm sorry.
More years have passed in the last than I care to remember
but I could never forget:
In eighth grade my chorus teacher always told me,
'Michael, you'll never be good enough.'
and it always excited me. It reminded me of my mother.
On the last day of school she smiled,
her teeth jagged like a train wreck,
she didn't say a word,
but I knew exactly what she meant.
In high school I fell in love with a roadside bomb waiting to be detonated by a passing glance.
Every time she blew up,
she'd pick the pieces of herself off of bathroom floors
mixed with the medicine she never needed. She had
The Disappointment.
One day she caught me staring, smiled, walked over, and hugged me...
she smelled like a lonely night.
As she pulled away she looked me dead in the eyes and said,
'Don't worry about me boy. I don't hate my life, I just fell in love with stormy weather
and when my head clears up I put it back into the fog where it belongs.'
We made love to each others' broken promises
and I sang her to sleep when she got tired of chasing everything else."

At that point Michael turned to me and asked if it was all a dream
as if saying yes would make it any less real.
I nodded.
At that point he turned away, tied his arm up, and shot the blues directly into his veins.
He sang me to sleep that night. When I woke up
I looked over a section that he hadn't said aloud. It read:

I didn't address this to anyone because it was meant for everyone
and no one at all.
There is a time when it is neither day or night
It just is.
As we are. Forever. Everything
and nothing at all

Today, I believe him.
Yesterday I didn't
and tomorrow I probably won't either
but what I do know is that somewhere,
between Heaven and a hard place,
Michael is singing
and god is wishing he had a voice like that.

Lullabyby *MattVoscinar

Literature / Poetry / General Poetry / Urban & Spoken Word

You find a recording of this poem on the album "Unlearning to Live a Little," a spoken word album I recently recorded:
[link]

Daily Deviation

Given 2013-01-03

The suggester says: it captures everything in the most beautiful and bone chilling way: definitions of reality, the devastation of growing up, self-inadequacies, and a sad glimpse of what sleep can really mean. Lullaby is by *ImMattyVYo deviant also suggested by *0hgravity ( Suggested by *intricately-ordinary and Featured by ^NicSwaner )

Critique by ~lunewhisper7 Jan 16, 2013, 4:27:29 PM

This has to be the best piece of literature I have ever read (no offense *cough*).

I love this piece because it has this mysterious feeling to it. You don't quite understand it much as you read it the first few times, but then an idea sinks in, and this piece gets you thinking. I read this at least ten times, and I'm still thinking.

One thing I'm mulling about is the point of view. It's a little confusing to me, but that's what keeps me wanting to read on. I think that it is just great how you did that. Honestly though, it is a little confusing. But if I'm stupid, please tell me. I am young. ><

My favorite line:
'Don't worry about me boy. I don't hate my life, I just fell in love with stormy weather
and when my head clears up I put it back into the fog where it belongs.'

I am in love with this piece! Please write more, I encourage you to keep striving! ^_^

What do you think?

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1 out of 1 deviants thought this was fair.

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Critique by =mangasockattack Jan 3, 2013, 9:15:20 AM

First off, a MAJOR congrats on the DD! This is really beautiful~

Next, to address your questions:

The piece does NOT come off as "too much". As a matter of fact, I think you had a great balance here of poetry and reality along with drama and a sort-of coolness.

Yes, the diction does benefit the piece. It helps it feel more poetic and it also helps the flow.

The piece is too long and a little overwritten. I think the piece could be read this way, but I also think that just the stuff Micheal said in the beginning would be great on its own. The last bit was a little confusing too, the "today-tomorrow-yesterday" part.

It is a little difficult to follow who is speaking. The first time I read it, I didn't know who Micheal was when he finished speaking and I was startled at his name until I looked back up and saw what the teacher had said. If you could mention Micheal's name one more time (in the beginning), maybe when she is speaking, it would help a lot.

Punctuation. Commas can be overused in some poems, but your opening text really needed some.

Vision: 4 and a half stars.
Reason: I think you had a very clear idea of where you wanted to go with this and it shows.

Originality: 5 stars.
Reason: It was very original in the way that it was presented and written.

Technique: 4 and a half stars.
Reason: While I thought your technique was very good, I see room for improvement.

Impact: 4 and a half stars.
Reason: The opening text was so emotional and beautiful, but everything else didn't really give me that feeling.

Favorite line:

So here I am, carving forgive me
into my teeth, so every time that I speak
I can still say that I'm sorry.

Again, congrats on the DD!

XOXO,
MSA

Hosting a HUGE contest, 1,000 point grand prize, 5 points for entering!
[link]

What do you think?

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9 out of 9 deviants thought this was fair.

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~NekoNekoGirl997 Jun 9, 2013 Hobbyist Traditional Artist

This... I'm crying. You've struck a cord I didn't know I had anymore.

*MattVoscinar Jun 10, 2013 Student Writer

Thank you so much. Go check out the album this is on!It's streaming and only costs 5 bucks <3

[link]

~Kym-Japan9 Mar 4, 2013 Hobbyist Traditional Artist

I don't even know what to say............I'm so awed!

~DearPoetry Jan 18, 2013 Hobbyist Writer

Your wonderful work has been featured in my journal: [link]

*MattVoscinar Jan 19, 2013 Student Writer

Thank you

*disrhythmic Jan 8, 2013

I just fell in love with stormy weather
and when my head clears up I put it back into the fog where it belongs.

*MattVoscinar Jan 9, 2013 Student Writer

Thank you. I'm so proud of that part. Glad so many people like it.

~aerialisticheart Jan 5, 2013

I think I just died a little that was so good :S Thank you for giving me the privilege of reading that

~TheAntiAnti-Drug Jan 4, 2013 Student Traditional Artist

There are some beautiful sparks of insight in this piece, little things that resonate with me emotional and make me think of places I've been, people I've known.

It's intense, but to me it's not too much.

~krutch99 Jan 3, 2013 Hobbyist General Artist

i love this.

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