a snapshot of the world by successwithhonor on DeviantArt

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January 14, 2015

Life observations are beautifully captured in a snapshot of the world by successwithhonor

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successwithhonor

Published: Apr 27, 2014

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Literature

A THEORY OF SIGHT

that the world is not all frosted window or pixelated screen cartooning the moment into fiction. looking back is neither a kaleidoscope of meaning or exhausted glass in the violent hands of a toddler; we must learn to consider blindness without also having to mention corrective lenses. i mean to say something of desert, that all memory is a house in a field at the end of a winding road or an empty we cannot fathom. outside there is marching, inside an echo. little has been said of justice, only in name, damp and hanging from another still mouth. the seers see and we refuse to listen. the past tumbles across our windshield on another strange planet and we brake, pull to the shoulder, take a polaroid of the asphalt, squared at our feet.

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They say the one who prays

They say the one who prays receives much more than whom we pray for, shaping what we want to what we get. We find a way to pour the outcomes into candle molds we can't have fashioned for ourselves. But then we light the wax and sniff the scent and call us blessed by blessings in disguise. For what is right in contexts so complex we cannot test? For those who say that praying contradicts free will or undercuts the will to change injustice, fine. You have no wax, no wicks, no blessing and no curse, you are the sage. I pray to sculpt the candle and the mold and scent with pity earth and heaven's hold.

Literature

fabled life

i. she talks through her wrinkles, 'i have no desire for food', she says. i take her plate to the kitchen noticing how the beetroot shavings bled into the skin of the chicken and brown rice. it was blood, skin, and bone, and the rice was a million starlike cells floating between. this reminds me of my anatomy textbook: we've been learning what's beneath our skin, we learned that all cells divide. some cells often don't stop dividing. other cells divide and stop when they should... but not my grandmother's. starlike, they explode, they shatter, they consume they divide. ii. i want to be mad at my grandmother's cells, but what would that do? i

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Watch the World Burn

When I was young, I was told I’d live to see the world end. I believed it to be true when the earth was split wide and began swallowing everything in its path before closing over it, sealing us in the soil. When I was free, I assumed that was that; my world had ended, replaced by one of men who feared the unknown and an unknown that feared man. I did not expect to find people and a place I could call home, didn’t ever imagine how attached I would become, how much I’d grow to love this odd little group of creatures. So when I watch a girl who I have thought of as a sister begin to spiral towards the dark as did my true sist

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Literature

Being Pretty Won't Save You

"Being pretty won't save you," she says as if she knows exactly what I'm thinking As I look into her ebony eyes deeper than the universe, her face dotted with freckles like stars in the night sky, the lines on her wrists counting days where it was just that hard to hold on, she opens her mouth once more and repeats, "Being pretty won't save you and neither will being smart or being talented or being rich of having a better personality or a better dream." "Why?" "Because with each imperfection you erase, another one will come into clearer view until you've erased them all and suddenly you'll look at yourself and wonder who it is that's lo

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California

My father was San Francisco and my mother, the Pacific; at five I was in love with nine-lane highways, the scent of eucalyptus pressed between my fingers, yellow parchment hills crumpled up under the eye of the sun. If I had a sunset to myself I would curl up on a park bench like the hippies do, and eavesdrop on the sea lions’ bedtime conversations. Alcatraz never quite unbarred me and yet I have found freedom in hills steep as my shoulders; I know that I am beautiful even in the rain because I have kissed the smoke of Berkeley and tasted her on my teeth. I was born to dangle my legs over Golden Gate Bridge and of course, of

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sepulcher

your body is jerusalem, he’ll tell you coveted first, then plundered. – you’re my backwater bedroom martyr, he’ll tell you as he nails your wrists to bedposts, seizes your tongue like a white flag, pulls stones from your parapets – little sister, i’ll tell you the children’s crusade is lost: and you’ll kneel at his sword and know you were always his to take

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written as we look

well, what do the stars say? I dreamed of the world ending in full colour when I was 12 what comes true? stars blink in time

ALL FICTION poetry, stories

Literature

Broken

Internal desperation of pain and loss unable to break the emotional and physical impotence to overcome the mental barriers needed to cleanse and heal cry HELP and I will come be silent and bleed away the pain until it returns rampant again and again its bitter conclusion short and satisfying but eternal and broken

Literature

Hangnail

Hangnail, hangnail, Thorn in my hand, What glory shall ye yield? Thorns in the side gain biblical verses, Or are necessary evils of roses beloved. Sand grains in oyster shells become pearls, Rough turned into diamond, Bane into beauty. But what of you, oh blessing of stepmothers? Some fairy tale of plaguing those toiling stepdaughters, Insult to injury? Or perhaps some lore bespeaking the mothers-die of the lace of queens, Or the fathers-die of black widows… But in the end, it shall matter not. For to me, ye shall yield nothing But voicelessness in the jaws of clippers.

Literature

eighteen.

. i. nyctophilia; i'm in love with the night. lips red from kissing the sun goodbye, hands powder-white from holding the moon, eyes drowsy grey because i've been up all night counting how many stars remind me of you. ( 94, 95 because one wears your face, polaris. ) and i fall asleep with a threadbare blanket that twinkles, and i wake with stardust in the hollows of my eyelids and i twinkle- i gleam, and i shine, and i twinkle like the galaxies are accepting new-born beauties. ii. i was born a starchild; indigo in the eye, indigo in the lips, indigo in the heart. i had sunlight hair, and hot-headedness, and a brain of endless summer brea

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i really like this one. will probably end up lengthening it for use in slams and such.

the privilege of being a white male is not having to recognize whiteness or maleness as factors in your life

as always, thoughts/discussion is welcomed

edit: a couple added sections, some extensions, and a myriad of quick fixes. this piece will always be on the drawing board

Mature