50% off for a limited time!

Get Core

Theme

Display Mature Content

Suppress AI Content

Get Help and Send Feedback

literature

Fold Secrets in Flowers

Deviation Actions

InklingArt

Published: Aug 25, 2010

288 Views

Literature Text

september brought us budded fingers and willow limbs for arms. it brought pools of pink flowers that held your secrets during the day, when you didn't use them. at night you bathe in moonlight, starlight, and flowers. Don't let others near, lest your silver arrow be perched on your bow like the death of a star. be gentle; the plants glow in vulnerability, and your feet are arrows to their hearts.
october brings us misspellings in the form of bare twigs and patches of grass in the pathway. it might bring tapping fingers and ripped paper, but only the bees who bath in flowers know secrets like those.

More by InklingArt

Literature

She grew up believing it was W

The boy with horns whispered, and told me he was Spring. I have circles under my eyes, holding the midnight dreams I've never claimed. They're brimming with a thousand memories I'll never have and sometimes their ashes are left behind in the folds of the books I use instead of pillows. Sometimes, they collect, heavy, in the creases of my eyelids. The boy with horns whispered, and told me he was Spring. I grew up along with everyone else (but then again, nobody really did). We're here together, same years in our bones, but some of us are so much older than others, and sometimes I miss being the young girl. I wonder if she's trapped in my ci

Recommended Literature

Literature

Life and Other Choices

When you talk to people on the train they all seem to tell you they're going home. Tonight on the number fifty-nine train to New Orleans I am not one of those people. I am leaving home. And I swear that someday I will never leave home without her again, but until that day I will spend my nights on the train explaining to people exactly why I can't sleep. And it's because I'm just that tired of leaving.

Literature

help, i'm alive

i'm somewhere minus a half decade and half a reality away, feet tapping to the steady broken beat of the half dead speakers booming the first half of the song they'll play at my funeral next week half a bottle of vodka later and a handful of half slurred sentences and i'm half of the way through the obscure pills in my medicine cabinet all of me is hoping that it really works this time. i haven't seen heaven in half a lifetime but i'm pulling prayers from paltry lips for a bit of peace as my head hits the floor and the last of the vodka pools onto the carpet. the whole morning greets me with hideous glare, gloating at my

Literature

felicity

who thought that one could love so fiery… awfully intense like splinters of wood crackling in the stillness of the night among ashen skies and flaming embers quenched only by the heaviest storms with fingertips entwined within red threads and ribcages coalesced within overgrown dandelion fields; I beg of you, darling enshrine my heart between your hands and nestle its beating in mid-April showers with clouds veiling the sky and the taste of evanesced silver between my teeth

Suggested Collections

Literature I likes

Literature

Insurrection

Insurrection Prologue The four tyrants stood over the hero's fallen figure. It had surprised them that he had put up such a fierce fight, but they had prevailed as they knew they would. The quartet were a motley group of villains the fallen hero had defeated in the past. All had been assumed dead, but they had revealed themselves to be alive and well years earlier. It had taken them until now to band together. The shortest of the four, a diminuitive Riptoc with fiery orange scales, emerald-green eyes and dressed in purple robes held his sceptre at the crumpled form's neck. He grinned revealing a row of sharp, pearly-white teeth. "Well Dr

Literature

Society Is Ugly.

Society is ugly. Not you. Beauty is defined by How you act. Not by the number on the Scale. Starving doesn't work. Purging doesn't work. Pills don't work. The girl you see In the mirror is Perfect Just the way she is Now. Don't get upset because You don't match up To the media's Expectations. Cutting won't work. Crying won't work. Dying won't work. Remember this: Society is ugly. Not you.

Literature

Jack in the Box

Jack springs out of its festive cage in the darkest corner of my bedroom, shaking off the cobwebs time and time again. Jack and I used to get along. I would reel that handle like I was using a meat grinder - showing a little resistance as I slowly cue Jack into the scene in the outside world of his circus prison. Laughs were shared... My innocence from childhood was buried in as shallow grave. Losing my smile was hard, but not as hard as finding a new one. I'm still looking. All this time, Jack is mocking me. Jack no longer needs a hand to get himself out of jail; Jack pops when he pleases and laughs, and laughs, and laughs. This i

Poetry favorites

DavidMnr on DeviantArthttps://www.deviantart.com/davidmnr/art/Floraison-blossom-793735893DavidMnr

Literature

if i could invent words

i would like to create a word for what one feels when they realize: if we were birds, the only cage we would be in are the ones we create ourselves. how many times have our wings been clipped by our own hands alone. christ, i'm sorry. dear past self: i apologize for trying to define you; for definition is the metaphorical cage to change. the only limit the sky has is how far we can see.

Literature

nothing left but the paranoia

they say crows never forget and i am terrified this is true. see, the other week, i hit a crow with my car & they saw. they saw, and if they remember, then they know, and if they know, they will come. here is the thing: i am terrified they can see me & i am terrified they can not. my thoughts lately are a spiral, a maze, with an entrance but no exit. i am lost. i am lost, and they know. last week, i saw a cat, eating a crow, and in my mind, i am the cat, i am the crow, i am the car that hit the crow, i am my thoughts lost in my maze, and what if they see me.

POETRY

Literature

2711

You make me ill to my core. It's the way you curl yourself beneith my skin and suck the love and passion from my bloodstream like a sun starved flower. You sit benith the open sky in your flowerpot, adorned with my words. I bathe you in the things you need, but yet you still rob my bones. You betray my trust when I need you most. Then you dissapear, like some godforsaken ghost into an early morning fog and all you leave behind is dew-drops on the lashes that protect my eyes. When you kiss, you consume. You burn like a forest fire, searing and violent, across the tips of

Literature

Untitled

"You left your watch here" This place has become a store house for bad memories Except when it comes to you because the only thing you've ever left here was me and now I'm stuck here waiting for you to take me home But you cant There's a whole lot of distance between us, gaps that not even the sun knows how to swallow up We are mismatched cookie cutter pieces stripped and sewn to the same heart Your patterned like A Clockwork Orange- all violence and vulgar slurs while I'm shaped a little like Happpythankyoumoreplease- all I want is your love. All you give me is your bullshit

Literature

Amongst the Stars

I could always handle you when you were cold water dripping down the curve of my spine and kissing the heat from my shoulder blades but when you wound around my legs and tried to drip off the tips of my fingers I had to stop you and press you back against my sternum Your kisses tasted like flower petals with edges more jagged than razorblades but I never minded when you left me raw and aching Instead I pulled your lips to my throat and let you kiss away the stardust and peel the paint from my skin- You always said I was like an old house and benith the cheep wallpaper that covered my frame were hidden secrets. I told you they wer

Featured in Groups

InklingArt on DeviantArthttps://www.deviantart.com/inklingart/art/Flower-ID-153183563InklingArt

I felt like writing, but something small, so I wrote a steam-of-consciousness piece.

All comments and critiques are welcome.
Is the imagery too flowery or cliche?
What mood do you sense when reading this?
On what aspect of my writing do you suggest I work?