deviantART

#Writers-Workshop

Where writers workshop writing!

Suggest a Favourite

Featured

spring's casteA phoenix-colored bellflower surveys the composition of one glorious spring afternoon as only a flower can experience it. She is a Codonopsis clematidea, a wondrous little adolescent blossom swaying gently in the sweet-sung breeze.

Just as her vine-sisters, she is a bursting orange sensation, identical in appearance. But even as the other petal ladies clump together on the high end of their vine, she is removed.
Instead she dallies lower, angled towards the sparkling pit pond and its inhabitants. This nameless flower is thoroughly uninterested in her sisters' chirping gossip of blue jay and cardinal affairs, choosin spring's caste
by ~AstarteKatz

The Grammar GangstersBeware the grammar gangsters! The mafia of the literary underworld. They saunter into stanzas, Weapons concealed Under their trench coats Or in violin cases.
They can make you talk, "With just a few well-placed speech marks," Leave you shouting! Where you should have whispered! And pulp your bold statements into quavering questions? They can, pepper, your, phrases with, commas, Or bring your piece to a dead. Full. Stop.
They'll trap you (between brackets) As you - dash - to the exit. Then: punch a blunted colon Into the gut of y The Grammar Gangsters
by ~CyberPhantom

The Genres of Crime WritingHard Boiled
Some Historical Stuff:
Personally, when I’m writing within a certain genre, I like to understand where it comes from. I understand if you do not have the same curiosity, but hopefully this is interesting anyway.
The hardboiled style emerged post WW1 from pulp fiction –cheap and accessible prose, usually written anonymously and within formulaic conventions. It grafted the English Holmes characters to attributes previously conceptualised as criminal (violence, alienation, rejection of conventional ethos. Although it is to be noted, that hardboiled prot The Genres of Crime Writing
by `poprocksandcharlotte

Punctuating Poetry Part TwoShifting Gears
The great thing about punctuation is that there is rarely one single, correct, perfect way to punctuate a poem.  Given to a number of different poets, a poem could be punctuated and re-punctuated in as many different ways.
So let's take a breather from so many rules and look at Leave the Door Open, by KrystalIce:
Crash! =Thud= ~~Twang~~ *Shatter* +BOOM+ Duh-duh-duh-duh-duh-duht ^Pink^ , ^Pink^ , ^Pink^ , &Clatter& @Rollrollroll@ (Ri-i-i-i-i-i---ng) .STOP.
“… Punctuating Poetry Part Two
by ~LaMonaca

Punctuating Poetry Part OneSome people believe poetry shouldn't be punctuated and others are still taught to put a comma after every new line. So where is the balance? What does one - especially one new or growing in poetry - do? Well, that's simple: a poet must punctuate with purpose!
In order to punctuate with purpose, however, a poet must understand two things: what she wants to achieve with the poem and what a piece of punctuation can achieve in a poem. This means a poet must understand more than the common rules of punctuation; she must know the effect that certain punctuation points can have on a reader or in a text.
This overview tackle Punctuating Poetry Part One
by ~LaMonaca

Synchro-CityThey breathed in unison. All over the city, all over the planet, the bots were breathing together. They moved and walked and spoke as their individual programming dictated, but their breathing was synchronised, in and out with the constancy of a ticking clock. She was in her twenties when she first managed to make her own working robot and it breathed with inexorable regularity. In out. In out. In out. "Hello," it said. In out. "Are you my mother?" She laughed.
"The female creator of my form," it insisted, "The instantiator of my existence. Are you my mother?" She had to concede that she was, although the term made he Synchro-City
by ~Queen-of-Marigold

Space-FarerShe cried from her high window sill Up in her tower room. Where is it love, you hide from me, Upon that barren moon?
A vow, before you took your leave You would return, and soon But what has come of my cosmonaut High upon the moon?
Far above, he directs his gaze to Earth Wishing, wasting on the dunes Haunted by the thought of his true love Somewhere beneath the moon
My comrades rest beneath the sun To dust their bodies hewn And I languish for my lover fair Trapped on this desert moon
My ship lies wrecked on Rümker&# Space-Farer
by ~TheLightsWentOutIn99

.:Silver Swirl II
by `ginkgografix

~~Previous Page~~Next Page

W-W Stamps

writers-workshop stamp
by ~itzjusdrama

writers-workshop stamp2
by =inspiredimperfection

~~Previous PageNext Page~~

Workshop Submissions DD'd

spring's casteA phoenix-colored bellflower surveys the composition of one glorious spring afternoon as only a flower can experience it. She is a Codonopsis clematidea, a wondrous little adolescent blossom swaying gently in the sweet-sung breeze.

Just as her vine-sisters, she is a bursting orange sensation, identical in appearance. But even as the other petal ladies clump together on the high end of their vine, she is removed.
Instead she dallies lower, angled towards the sparkling pit pond and its inhabitants. This nameless flower is thoroughly uninterested in her sisters' chirping gossip of blue jay and cardinal affairs, choosin spring's caste
by ~AstarteKatz

The Grammar GangstersBeware the grammar gangsters! The mafia of the literary underworld. They saunter into stanzas, Weapons concealed Under their trench coats Or in violin cases.
They can make you talk, "With just a few well-placed speech marks," Leave you shouting! Where you should have whispered! And pulp your bold statements into quavering questions? They can, pepper, your, phrases with, commas, Or bring your piece to a dead. Full. Stop.
They'll trap you (between brackets) As you - dash - to the exit. Then: punch a blunted colon Into the gut of y The Grammar Gangsters
by ~CyberPhantom

Synchro-CityThey breathed in unison. All over the city, all over the planet, the bots were breathing together. They moved and walked and spoke as their individual programming dictated, but their breathing was synchronised, in and out with the constancy of a ticking clock. She was in her twenties when she first managed to make her own working robot and it breathed with inexorable regularity. In out. In out. In out. "Hello," it said. In out. "Are you my mother?" She laughed.
"The female creator of my form," it insisted, "The instantiator of my existence. Are you my mother?" She had to concede that she was, although the term made he Synchro-City
by ~Queen-of-Marigold

Space-FarerShe cried from her high window sill Up in her tower room. Where is it love, you hide from me, Upon that barren moon?
A vow, before you took your leave You would return, and soon But what has come of my cosmonaut High upon the moon?
Far above, he directs his gaze to Earth Wishing, wasting on the dunes Haunted by the thought of his true love Somewhere beneath the moon
My comrades rest beneath the sun To dust their bodies hewn And I languish for my lover fair Trapped on this desert moon
My ship lies wrecked on Rümker&# Space-Farer
by ~TheLightsWentOutIn99

House Poem
by ~batousaijin

Remembering HazelI remember Hazel really well. Sometimes my memories are so clear that I can almost feel her sitting next to me, or walking by my side. Seven years have passed, and I miss her like she went away yesterday.
I met Hazel for the first time when I was twenty; I was an ambitious guy studying psychology who thought that he had already reached happiness, buying a nice car and hanging out with friends. Hazel opened my eyes and, thanks to her, I discovered how beautiful it is helping others and giving them second chances. Hazel helped me grow with her generous words, her patient work and her strawberry candies given to everyone. She Remembering Hazel
by ~xCamix

WorshipPast gloaming, with its auburn vault, a gloom of august murmurs bump against torn lips. "What's this?"
you ask, suspicious, as occasion twists our plans from hands to holding. Tight, your hips brush scars I count to mark
our nights: strings that rip and tug a common cusp of stars in sync--a land of coward souls. Constant, baffling
days, stark with scant account, you vow to play with dust and dawn among our twilight god--our thanks
for artistry. I pray without your words-- with gravity, bowing to my faith and asking you, again, to st Worship
by `GeneratingHype

Red DressThe store was not busy tonight. Customers wandered in and out, solitary dancers to the muzak that floated down the aisles. Cady watched them with unfocused eyes - her job didn't take a lot of concentration. "Good evening, ma'am, do you have Flybuys?" Hands moved automatically, packing groceries into plastic bags with unconscious precision. "That will be $11.90, thank you, have a good night. Good evening, sir, do you have Flybuys?" Her eyes focussed with a snap - he hadn't handed over a card. "Sir?" There weren't any groceries on the counter, either. "Sir?" The man's face was unremarkable, the kind of Red Dress
by ~Queen-of-Marigold

~~Previous PageNext Page~~

W-W Journal CSS

Nimbus RedThe sky is a watercolor of Dante’s best fears.   Gross carbon molecules mix with the storm and the sunset
and everything lights on fire as I cross the parking lot to unlock my car.   I cough up yellow and brown flem and it’s all the same as heaven
       flying out my window
It’s two cigarettes home where I set my backpack down beside the new girl living with me.   It’s the same set of complaints and dogma to learn. Stop this, I like that, it’s too cold in here. The push and pull makes me diz Nimbus Red
by ~wretchedteddy

Simple Silver CSS
by =Freesong

.:Silver Swirl II
by `ginkgografix

~~Previous PageNext Page~~

Guides created for workshops

Life CyclesFebruary 17, 2091
So, I start writing a journal once more.  Who knows how long I’ll keep going with it this time.  Until death?  That should be sooner rather than later, at this point.  Which gets me, of course, to why I decided to start keeping a journal again.
I have a brain tumor.  I found out, officially, today.  I suspected as much before, which is why I went to the doctor.  It’s kind of funny, really, that I actually did end up with a brain tumor.  I should explain…
No, wait, I shouldn’t.   Life Cycles
by `BerylAlexandros

The Genres of Crime WritingHard Boiled
Some Historical Stuff:
Personally, when I’m writing within a certain genre, I like to understand where it comes from. I understand if you do not have the same curiosity, but hopefully this is interesting anyway.
The hardboiled style emerged post WW1 from pulp fiction –cheap and accessible prose, usually written anonymously and within formulaic conventions. It grafted the English Holmes characters to attributes previously conceptualised as criminal (violence, alienation, rejection of conventional ethos. Although it is to be noted, that hardboiled prot The Genres of Crime Writing
by `poprocksandcharlotte

Punctuating Poetry Part TwoShifting Gears
The great thing about punctuation is that there is rarely one single, correct, perfect way to punctuate a poem.  Given to a number of different poets, a poem could be punctuated and re-punctuated in as many different ways.
So let's take a breather from so many rules and look at Leave the Door Open, by KrystalIce:
Crash! =Thud= ~~Twang~~ *Shatter* +BOOM+ Duh-duh-duh-duh-duh-duht ^Pink^ , ^Pink^ , ^Pink^ , &Clatter& @Rollrollroll@ (Ri-i-i-i-i-i---ng) .STOP.
“… Punctuating Poetry Part Two
by ~LaMonaca

Punctuating Poetry Part OneSome people believe poetry shouldn't be punctuated and others are still taught to put a comma after every new line. So where is the balance? What does one - especially one new or growing in poetry - do? Well, that's simple: a poet must punctuate with purpose!
In order to punctuate with purpose, however, a poet must understand two things: what she wants to achieve with the poem and what a piece of punctuation can achieve in a poem. This means a poet must understand more than the common rules of punctuation; she must know the effect that certain punctuation points can have on a reader or in a text.
This overview tackle Punctuating Poetry Part One
by ~LaMonaca

Punctuating Dialogue: A GuideStandard Punctuation: Dialogue
Sometimes we read dialogue so often, punctuated in so many different ways, that we either forget what we've learned (if that was anything memorable to begin with) or we rely on instinct to guide us.  A common example of this can be seen in the opening dialogue of darksouldream's piece, Bobby:
‘No,’ replied Cindy `I think his sister Becky is staying with her, but she keeps muttering about parents out living children. The doctors been keeping her pretty sedated.’
Most Americans will cringe at this.  Why?  Well, double quotation mar Punctuating Dialogue: A Guide
by ~WordCount

~~Previous PageNext Page~~

Twisted Stories

No More Life, No More LoveThe room was little and grey, except for some pictures on the walls. The sofa was anonymous, the tapestry old, and there were a couple of books with worn covers on a pair of selve. In a word, an ordinary apartment. Apart for the corpse left lying in a broken up position, obviously. “So, what are we gonna to have today?” said the man coming into the room. “Murder, as you can see. But this time is definitely macabre.”. The policeman who spoke moved away from the body, however without remove the gaze. “How are you, Flain?” added, finally looking at the detective. “Not bad… or better, No More Life, No More Love
by ~xCamix

Mrs. Sarah BeecherHolding a sign that says “Let Him Go To God!” a sense of self-righteousness welled up inside the young Mrs. Sarah Beecher. It was time for her to leave the unsuccessful protest, this time regarding feeding tubes. The way she saw it, they were Satan's instrument to keep an innocent soul from the Lord. It was, after all, her anniversary, and she oneeded t hurry, for her husband would be expecting dinner when he returned home from teaching youth group.
On her way home, Mrs. Beecher stoped by the supermarket to pick up salmon, asparagus, and red potatoes, her husbands favorite meal. She walked through the door, hung u Mrs. Sarah Beecher
by ~trippedinahole

Family SecretFew people live to see the great imperial courtyard and the perfect stones of its pavement gloriously aligned with the horizon. The early morning casts long shadows upon it as several figures gather in its wide emptiness. One of them, a young girl, slowly kneels to the ground and begins to speak. Although she bows her head low, her voice is well heard in the silence of the dawn.
"In the mountain land of the North, where the wind blows with a different sound and strength for each time of the day and where each rock and tree may hide many ancient paths, a legendary village lives for generations guarded by a great forest. Many rumou Family Secret
by *RickDanger

Red DressThe store was not busy tonight. Customers wandered in and out, solitary dancers to the muzak that floated down the aisles. Cady watched them with unfocused eyes - her job didn't take a lot of concentration. "Good evening, ma'am, do you have Flybuys?" Hands moved automatically, packing groceries into plastic bags with unconscious precision. "That will be $11.90, thank you, have a good night. Good evening, sir, do you have Flybuys?" Her eyes focussed with a snap - he hadn't handed over a card. "Sir?" There weren't any groceries on the counter, either. "Sir?" The man's face was unremarkable, the kind of Red Dress
by ~Queen-of-Marigold

K Prabhu     In 1988 I died. I was forty years old.

Remembering myself when I was forty
     My friends were all forty too, more or less. Each one had a crisis, a goal, despair, families, something that defined them. I had none of those things and I did not want them either. This worried me a little. I had been a writer for some years. I wasn’t sure if that defined me any longer. I realised I was conflictless. Perhaps it was a phase; perhaps it would change. But because I died, I never found out.       When you die, you stay the same age. I K Prabhu
by `lovetodeviate

Kisses Don't LieCopyright 2006, 2007 by LadyLincoln

She swept into the dimly lit Diner and all eyes were quickly turned towards her – a moment later, she was accompanied by a rather striking gentleman who silently opened the door behind her. Those around them immediately knew that there was something striking about them – but no one could quite put their finger on it…they both walked over to a corner booth together, desperately trying to avoid everyone else’s faces as they sat down, and reached for each other’s hands under the table. I wonder if he kn Kisses Don't Lie
by ^LadyLincoln

Goodbye SarahHe walked across the yard in muddy boots. Starting the engine of the Land Rover with an unenthusiastic splutter, he waited until she had climbed into the passenger seat beside him, and then pulled out the dirt track.
They had driven down this road many times before, but today it would be the last time she came with him. Her previous enthusiasm to leave the house was replaced by fatigue. Her eyes had already closed as he glanced over. She was sleeping, good. Best let her get some rest.
Despite setting his mouth in a steely line of determination, Bill was already regretting his decisio Goodbye Sarah
by *kittyfantastic24

Writers' Workshop Story I
by ~itzjusdrama

~~Previous Page~~Next Page

Ekphrasis

DanceLike a wonderful, fragile butterfly You’re dancing around me with your white, soft dress And if you will go away from me I’ll die Because I can’t live without you, my mistress.
Your hair had stolen all the colours of the wood, And first they’re close to me, and then far away So while the music is playing, I understood I love your smell, it’s like a flower of May…
And seems to me that your deep, dark, shining eyes Are burning like an untouchable great star: And I feel like they are never the same twice And every gaze from you left on m Dance
by ~xCamix

SemeleThey gaze, Lost within each other, In an endless bond, Discovering with a half formed smile, The joy of youth, The pangs of care.

But it is a gaze that leaves me cold, For I am always wondering, Why I am not there. Semele
by ~ria88

refuge
by ~Queen-of-Marigold

Yet to Be Titled Yet to Be Titled

Oh, words, that have graced my tongue Who have meandered so whimsically across the plains of my thought Who have found solace in the contours of my hands Come hither to this creation I cradle
Come loving words Crying words Angry words and Smiling words
Come see, look and peek.

Words lodged amongst the nooks and crannies Remaining stubbornly unremembered
Come.

Words who dance before me on the stage of another’s tongue Dancing with unfaltering confidence
Come.
Thes Yet to Be Titled
by ~littlemissmoody

train 2Never thought I could lose you How can I keep on goin My life without you Now that you’re gone I’ve had the delusion I could ask you to stay. If only I could turn back time
I know I made u cry But I just wanna die The train is gone. Taken away my heart Watchin all those memories The dreams we made. Just abandon me on the train. I wish time could stop
The moment u notice me And asked me 2 give u a smile. I could never imagine [’d] had an expired date. The times we shared my oxygen To get lost in your ey train 2
by ~legna69

Pottery ClassThe clay waits. It stares back at me. We are so alike; Mute. Lifeless. Without form. We have no potential. Just a grey presence, A reflection of my state of mind. I should pour myself into it. But the wheel is not turning. There is no energy. No heart beats. My imagination is stunted. Heavy hands stay at my side. I stare. Time…stands…still…
The wheel is spinning. I am spinning; Around, and around, and around... Out of control.
I feel dizzy. I feel excited. I panic! & Pottery Class
by *kittyfantastic24

Going to WasteThere was once a woman clad in blue,   Who sat alone in a dreary room. A cup of coffee was always on the table, going to waste.

She sat in a chair, always mourning
A person can never tell How another human being feels
No one may never know How this woman clad- in such a  melancholy shade of blue feels She may always put on a facade.
But when she's alone, she will always sit in that room She will always mourn for something As the cup of coffee remains
Going to waste... Going to Waste
by ~Jupiter-Lightning

Mourning SoleAs I sit here used for the day Feeling relaxed but florin
Realizing my use has not withered
That her feet stay warm However, she has started to fade Life has zipped around her like a storm My tongue sticks out on the floor My spot next to her bed, my dorm
Always there when she wakes But one day she might not One day she’ll stay in slumber And that’ll be when my use is gone And my laces lay limp For that is the day…
…that day is….
…I fear, my sole hurts… Even my soul
For that is Mourning Sole
by ~J-Jammer

~~Previous Page~~Next Page

Jazz

LonelyWalking
through the city
watching the lights…
Nothing looks like how it was in the day…
Sitting

on a chair in a smoky jazz club
and no one cares about you.
It’s very clear how your attention
is not here.
Take a cocktail. Drink it slow.
A man playing sax. The only friend of the night…
Don’t think about this morning.
Better, don’t think
at all.
Drink.

Wait for the dawn.
And Lonely
by ~xCamix

Buri Boogie
by *RickDanger

Jazz Workshop piece
by `RetroZombie

Paper Bird Paper Bird

To move is to propose, initiate and accept or reject. And inside a single step, word or motion
Lies the tiny flame of something more.
In your hands you hold
Creation, destruction,
Power, fame,
Happiness, riches and rags.
Move it. Do it now! Make something!
Make it wild, broken, bleed, angry and grieve Then tame it, fix it, heal it, soothe it and console it
Submerge yourself slowly into the exercise Advance with precision into the flow Be constant and fluid with your gestures keeping perpetual motion.
Ro Paper Bird
by ~littlemissmoody

Lady of PleasureLipstick applied,                  eyes open wide,
                                let’s get ready to play. (Wind me up!)
Flash a mischievous smile,
                       killer style,
           Lady of Pleasure
by *kittyfantastic24

Unconventional Hero WIPHi. My name is Huck Oz Travis. Some of my ex-good friends called me Huck-O. How could I have lost friends so fast, since this is just the beginning of the story? Good, good, good, and very good question. I will get to that in a moment; a small, minor, tiny moment.

I am an unconventional hero. I am someone that came upon being such, in a manner that is not at all a way normally taken. How so? Well, Batman’s parents got shot in the face, so he decided to put on the cowl and run around like a rodent with wings. Spider-Man lost hi Unconventional Hero WIP
by ~J-Jammer

InsultOne, two, three, four-- the more you say, the less I adore you-- Stung, you sting me with your songs of egotistic monologues, they chime and rhyme and ring into time that you've "wasted with me" and I listen I listen--still trying to find the harmony but it takes-- takes-- takes-- & Insult
by =inspiredimperfection

Humble Bartender
by ~GrayOne

~~Previous Page~~Next Page

Discovering Dialogue

Happy SmoogSmoog came down the chimney like a thick fog, solidifying in front of the fireplace. He dusted the ashes from his clothing, and coughed up the particles that had caught in his throat. The hacking sound woke up the child, who opened his eyes, rolled out of bed, and entered the living room to see what all the fuss was about.
“Who are you?”
“Why, I am Smoog. Surely you know of me? Do you not celebrate Smoog, little child?”
“No. What’s Smoog?”
Smoog drew up to his full height. He was a terrifying sight, a skeleton with tiny red wings. He focused his dark pits o Happy Smoog
by ~TheLightsWentOutIn99

Confession"Do you have to make conversation?"
"Well, sir, I am a bartender and you are my last customer of the evening. It is my solemn duty to provide some friendly chat, you see. Very much like a priest, but without final judgment or the need for redemption. You can tell me anything you want."
"I don't want a friend or a priest, that's for sure. What am I drinking here?"
"Indeed, sir. Most people these days couldn't care less for their fellow man. We all have questions to ask and nobody to answer them."
"I know how that feels, bartender. What do you call this place?"
"I'm sorry, sir, bu Confession
by *RickDanger

The Elephant in The Cafe“So that’s three coffees, one cappuccino, and a green tea, with a selection of cakes.” The waitress put her notebook back into her apron pocket and left the students to their discussion. They normally met at the café on Tuesday mornings, as none of them had classes until the mid afternoon. It was a ritual that they observed with strict diligence; both as an opportunity to catch-up with any gossip and debate more worldly goings-on.
Adam looked up from his newspaper. “I see that the Tories are proposing stricter controls on immigration laws in their next referendum. A The Elephant in The Cafe
by *kittyfantastic24

WS No Second ChancesBlythe yawned as she shifted the rental car into park. Today she believed there were too many mirrors. She cared not to see her face for it was the face of disappointment. How could she be so careless? Maybe she deserved it, some form of penitence for her sin or, for that matter, sins. She was shocked she was not stalked by those that would have right to wish her dead. She pushed opened her door, fixed her hat so it sat just right to hide her face, but give her sight of her surroundings. Her lungs held a breath for fear of being noticed. Her eyes darted and looked ar WS No Second Chances
by ~J-Jammer

Of Blaise And Toast “Frère, look, I don’t see what the problem is.” “I told you, the stupid thing doesn’t work!” “What is so hard about toasting bread!” Blaise threw up his hands in a sign of surrender. “This is sans espoir!” he said, pacing circles in the restaurant kitchen.
“What is Of Blaise And Toast
by ~itzjusdrama

Can You Hear Me? - 1,000 words “Hey Tabby, wait up!” Ben jogged through the hall and down the school steps to catch his friend. She kept walking. “Tabitha!” Tabby finally glanced over her shoulder and slowed a little, but she didn’t even smile as he fell into stride beside her and adjusted his slipping backpack. “Give a guy a chance, sheesh.” Ben waited for her usual sarcastic retort, but it didn’t come. Frowning a little, he Can You Hear Me? - 1,000 words
by =illuminara

John Bruckhenman“Just what are you going to do with your life anyway?”
His name is John Bruckhenman. Everyone calls him John –family, friends, employees – except for me, and even then only on occasion. I’ve always loved watching him grit his teeth into a darkened and begrudging smile as I call him Mr. Bruckhenman; he hates his last name due a clouded history on his father’s side I’ve heard little about. He’s a large man, perhaps six and a half feet tall and three-hundred pounds, weight that is divided nearly equally between fat and muscle: muscle because he has to carry all that fat around, and fat because John Bruckhenman
by ~EvenAfterTwelve

The Conversation
by ~DariusTheRed

~~Previous Page~~Next Page

Lipogram

Mid AugustMy mid August, Always looking so hollow.
Through folios of a windy suffocation, It rings and it stings, As a musical corrugation.
Whilst my blood drips As saliva chips, Human pupils turning fast. In this August affliction, My sun – in transition, Turns into a moony cast.
A cast of actors. Walking, somnambulant in our sky. Diffusing last days of warmth, As its curtain blocks my cry.
Mid August, Still as hollow. My brook, Still as sorrow. Mid August
by ~X-lesbian-X

CloudPass, flying, through sky of various colours; so big, soft and bright, it's a quilt of light on an opal lawn.
It can catch forms from our fantasy, and taking up pupils you'll look at scary dragons, fluffy animals, and thousands crazy things.
It's simply amazing how it can turn from light to black, and surrounds us, bringing rain and rain.
But why do I always look at you?
Probably it's rain; slipping from you, falling on us, drops of your pain that you occasionally can't contain. Cloud
by ~xCamix

Duct SoupMa! A duct in our duck soup. Now all I did was stir it. I didn’t think a duct would land in it. Cook it in? Crazy much? I’ll still stir, but God! A duct is a nasty thing to slurp It should stay on a roll, not in a soup No, I don’t think it’s tasty. Too much iron, disgusting Probably not nutritious, anyway What am I doing? I’m writing a bit of this for it. Okay, this is a bad pun, But, I’ll stick with it, Ma. Anyway, I’m almost through. You ask, if I could do it again? No, I wouldn’t say anything.
I Duct Soup
by ~TheLightsWentOutIn99

mocking moonlight
by ~rasiqra

At A Loss
by ~Queen-of-Marigold

Work, according to JobTossing fish A bin of frostbit palms Job plows on, as dollars Go from hand to hand Over a calculator And a hot Starbucks cup. Math is tough, but who would miss A buck or two?
Paint pools on floorboards His tarp wasn’t flat Job caught a fold With his boot, now my nook is Hasbrouck Brown.
Job knows now that A coffin falls if you stop to pick a nostril. Old Widow Hannigan R.I.P. Your lipstick brings out your natural glow.
Back again, Job? Fill out this application. Work, according to Job
by `Memnalar

Soul - LipogramA whirl of skin and howling sound, A flash, soon dark. A soul is found By spirits hiding in hard ground.

Sky turns dark and soon, at first light,
A man finds such a grim, harsh sight: Dry limbs of slightly slim, thin slight.

Without a mind, and thoughts as sand,
Our man walks away, shaking hand And frigid lips run ‘cross this land.

Tonight, his frigid lips turn dry,
No mind to sob, nor wings to fly.
This day, our man laid his soul by.

A whirl of skin and howling sound, A flash, soon dark. A soul is found By spirits hidi Soul - Lipogram
by =MaskedVengeance

Bright StarFrom my window I do spy A star so fair, so bright, so far I wish that I could touch you To know your skin as if it was my own To know your glowing light To fill your sight always I wish I was a star-child Your star child
And will you say words on this and that? Of you and I and stars? Of things that I don’t know but you do? Would you bright star? And if I was with you and it was morning… Would you stay or would you fly away?
Bright star, oh, bright star How you fill my tiny soul! Do you watch your star-child At dusk, w Bright Star
by ~littlemissmoody

~~Previous Page~~Next Page

~~Previous Page~~12 3 Next Page

©2009 deviantART. All rights reserved

About Us | Contact Us | Site Tour | Help & FAQ

Advertise | Services

Etiquette | Privacy Policy | Terms of Service | Copyright Policy