ShopDreamUp AI ArtDreamUp
Deviation Actions
Literature Text
I am getting fat and complacent.
I sup on the riches of your labour and
spit the bones back in your face.
You are not worthy of anything.
You are a fly buzzing in my ear,
neither here nor there.
I can fell you with one slap,
end you with one loud clap
of my hands together and you fall,
like a marionette puppet whose
strings have been cut.
Pitiful thing.
You are easily killed.
I think I'll play with you a little more.
I sup on the riches of your labour and
spit the bones back in your face.
You are not worthy of anything.
You are a fly buzzing in my ear,
neither here nor there.
I can fell you with one slap,
end you with one loud clap
of my hands together and you fall,
like a marionette puppet whose
strings have been cut.
Pitiful thing.
You are easily killed.
I think I'll play with you a little more.
Literature
Where are regrets kept?
Perhaps in the hollow
space between
my clavicle
and scapula-
That's where your chin
rested all summer long
and that's where the tears
fell in September.
Literature
Snowstorm
The children misheard you.
They broke open the jar
looking for petals
and found only flours.
The dust is everywhere,
settling everywhere,
on the refrigerator and the stove,
on the startled mother cat
yowling her pawprints
through the snowy floor,
on her sharp-eared kittens
prancing in the clouds.
The three-year old is screaming.
He has cut his finger on the glass,
there are red streaks in the snow,
and his white-faced brother
stares up at you with a look
commonly reserved for
the confused and the betrayed.
Literature
Loss
It is more than death: a loved one
vanishes into a gathering of ashes,
and still they are not immortalized
by that lump in the throat, that sense
of wrong, that homesickness, that love-
sickness--the unnameable, named. Baudelaire,
I am an unhealthy man now--
this is past forgetting, past frailty.
Age has whitened the crass lines
of my hair; apathy has sewn through
my thinning lips, has stilled each finger
from touching keys, or ink to paper.
Although I've shown the eye of each grape,
how they watch from a neighbor's unkept yard--
I care no longer about the sweetness
of their juice, or the miracle of finding
sense and hope in l
Suggested Collections
Featured in Groups
written: 2.14pm 28.02.2011
updated: 11.35am 03.03.2011
you must imagine one of those beauties the italian greats used to paint. creamy skin, buxom and beautiful surrounded by cherubs and wine and food.
now imagine she has a scowl on her face, a mean smile and eyes that are cold and she is staring straight at you.
and the cherubs are laughing and their arrows are bloody and you are crumpled in front of her strings cut and crying.
This is Lady Depression.
updated: 11.35am 03.03.2011
you must imagine one of those beauties the italian greats used to paint. creamy skin, buxom and beautiful surrounded by cherubs and wine and food.
now imagine she has a scowl on her face, a mean smile and eyes that are cold and she is staring straight at you.
and the cherubs are laughing and their arrows are bloody and you are crumpled in front of her strings cut and crying.
This is Lady Depression.
© 2011 - 2024 I-meghan-I
Comments107
Join the community to add your comment. Already a deviant? Log In
Overall Vision Originality Technique ImpactA unique, almost sardonic look at depression, from depression's point of view. This is exactly the way I think depression would speak if it had human qualities. It would be vindictive and belittling, always there to demoralize you.
I love how this is written almost in letter form, with Lady Depression stating what it is she does. Her naturalistic voice and straightforwardness give this poem a strong sense of coldness, which fits perfectly and adds weight. I also love how there's no sense of hope, only bleakness. The last line, "I think I'll play with you a little more" sent chills up my spine, not only because it was cruel, but because it sounded all too familiar. Needless to say, I was definitely impacted by this poem.
The only reason I gave it four and a half stars instead of five for Originality is because I've seen poems similar to this (poems that personified a thing or emotion, that is) and feel that this could have been longer, a bit more detailed. Lady Depression could have went into the toll she leaves on your body, the way she hurts your loved ones by "playing" with you, why she's so sociopathic, or even how she comes to you. This poem, as it is, is great. But I feel like it could use a little bit of a boost.