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About Varied / Hobbyist Member DanielleFemale/United States Recent Activity
Deviant for 9 Years
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  • Mood: Daily Needs
  • Listening to: Skeleton Key by Dessa
  • Reading: The God Of Atheists by Stefan Molyneux
  • Watching: Stargate SG1
  • Playing: Animal Crossing: New Leaf
  • Eating: Cigarettes
  • Drinking: Coffee

“Because it is on the anvil of pain that the gods forge heroes.” 
- C.L. Werner

“Don't judge yourself by what others did to you.” 
- C. Kennedy

"You own everything that happened to you. Tell your stories. If people wanted you to write warmly about them, they should've behaved better."
- Anne Lamott

Somehow broke the dam and now can't stop writing. Here's to the ride~

I don't want to feel defeat
at the successes of long-time friends;
don't want to wonder what if or why for.

I finally want for myself what they've always wanted for me:
to take the reigns away from grief and live my own fucking life.

But how do I know when it's been too long?
When have I given up too much?

The one thing I know is I'm not beating a dead horse, anymore --
I'm perched, clutching a live one and I want so hard to love it.

Some days I think I do.

Then I doubt.
I'm strangling a paintroller clean
when your crooked lips pop into my head.

I spent the afternoon painting my bedroom in pale green,
slashing bright swatch over dull wound over a dark gray
the same hue as those Victorian painted lady blues.

It had to be three tones, three types of the same;
a family by any other name but always subject
to those fanning subtle degrees of abuse.

When we cleaned brushes at the end of the day,
you always told me to use Dawn; I've got Palmolive but,
really, what's the difference?
They both bring up suds, pry out pigment, leave tiny flecks
of latex looped into my armhair.

For a split second, I can feel the old house-phone against my ear,
remember what Casey's voice was like back then,
knowing you were eavesdropping but too in love to care.
I can see smudges of blue on threadbare jeans
just as clear as I can feel Marie's disgust
booming over your silence as you settled into your armchair.

I can also remember the temperature in the college bar where you begged me
over a honeywiess and some potato skins to start taking my medicine again.
Your dying wish, you said; you could die relaxed then, unworried, you said.
I can't remember what came out of my mouth, then,
but I do recall the tears falling out of your head.

I look up in the now, three hundred miles away from that house
and there's light here -- diffused, sun setting, trees in motion with leaves full furl;
but still, to this day, I get an unhappy prickle across my neck
when someone calls me 'girl.'

I haven't cried over you in years, haven't written a poem in months
but two nights ago, you appeared in my sleep:
Marie was at your side, your jaw muscles were jumping in time
and in the full force of that tidy dark space,
I remembered what it was like to feel small.

She's remarried now and I eat at Perkins with my second partner --
I never order potato pancakes and I don't listen to her new husband, either.
In fact, I sold the necklace she plucked off your corpse and didn't feel a thing;
a voice in the back of my head tries to tie that weight in silver to Judas
but you were never a savior to me, so I let it drift away, unfinished.

I've learned how to do that, in the past year: to drop the hornet,
to ignore the distant rumble of echoed belittlement,
to pull my hands from the fire when they're warm
and to walk away when enough becomes enough.

There's been a great settling in the swampland of my heart --
I don't cling to blind hate, normalize neglect or repeated abandonment;
neither do I push myself to read love in the rotten edges of nostalgia falling apart.

You know, Kyle asked me once: "Why do you care he's dead?
He was always an asshole to you anyway."
I'm not mad at him anymore, to tell the truth;
it's easy to speak in ultimatums
when you've always had the same man to hate your whole life.

Whenever you were around and anyone asked,
you said you were my dad; I've always had issues with that,
but, really, what's the difference?
You hugged me when I allowed it, butted heads when I presented,
packed up your flesh and left like all the ones before.

I outlived Sheila this year and, if I have my way, I'll outlive you, too --
you and your tempter and your belly laughter and all those years of fucking blue.

I still remember the glass I threw at you; can still see the blood
sticking to the cracks between your teeth
as you climbed up from the driveway and kept charging me.

I don't know if you'll believe this but Dennis actually yelled
at me for that, for defending myself against you.
But he said it was because you were an old man and he also hinted
that he'd help me break Todd's legs,
so I've come in time to almost consider it even.

You know I made my poetry professor cry once, with a poem I wrote to you?
I haven't spoken to him in years, either,
and I'm miles away from the path I used to pave then.

You never had faith in my art, never encouraged my paper
or my pen or anything I tried to use against the heat
from the bed of coals you two forced me to sleep in.

You wanted me to sing, bullied me into joining choir,
reserved your thin pride for the moments I stood at the front of the church,
an unbeliever tugging at the hem of an uncomfortable dress.

It burns me to admit the child inside wanted you to approve of me;
to admit that if I'd spent few more years in the mine,
I probably would've learned to love those thin tin bars.

It's funny to think I almost killed myself three weeks ago.
In the thick of the storm, all I thought of was holding on, growing up,
spreading out -- I was always becoming more and more a creature of hope
because my misery was measured in years, because the finish line of paper adulthood
came closer and closer each morning I woke up.

Today, I'm a hundred times the cerebral athlete I was then
but the sprint for freedom slipped past as time carried me forward
into a long haul, straight into the longest con;

I lose a lot of nights now trying to figure out
whether I'm the mark or the criminal.

But, really, I guess, what's the difference?
I'm still six feet above cessation, surrounded
by the unconditionally stubborn tribe I always deserved;
and, despite time, despite hate, despite all wounds and wonders,
my brain still refuses to do anything but percolate.

I'm almost done wringing out this ink
when the paintrollers pop back into my head,
bringing with them the non-judgmental truth
that I don't owe anyone anything -- especially the dead.
Concessions never confused themselves with aspirin
and I refuse to condone breathing beneath wet fabric;
hypothermia passed me by, frostbite wouldn't take me in
so now it's just me and the slow drown of survivor's havoc.

Spilled soaking wet at an impasse without captured breath,
roll eyes back into my head but pupils still know the difference;
shoulders mirror knees shaking, I'm almost out of my depth
and still not sure there's an acceptable way to beat this.

My feet find the ground in round-heavy cadence,
body shunning cells I've had for years, faces flaking off;
I'm hungry as hell for the hollowing of my heroes and saints,
it keeps me leaping forward, desperate to shake this holy cough.

Panorama of pulses, they say truth's sleeping somewhere near
but the kaleidoscope distortion of muscle versus emotion shows in bold;
I'm coughing myself raw to this day but still everything's coming up clear,
particulate still burning and bound firm to this pneumonia of the soul.
Sometimes a seance feels necessary, so,
on a humid afternoon in mid-July
two days from outliving my mother by a year,
I decide to call some ghosts and see
what's shaking in the afterlife these days.

Nothing much new, except Ghost Superior finally sees
that people can believe in whatever imaginary friend they need
and Weeping Heart unexpectedly accepted that her miracle baby
has grown into a gigantic asshole.

I'm surprised to find I'm glad for them much in the way
a groundskeeper might be happy there are some new potted plants
to mow around this year.

Time moves slower for them, there in the southern lands,
each clock face a hypnotic circular exercise in pointlessness;
my brain falters when it recognizes the pattern of those voices across the airwaves
and I stumble back in time, just enough that I have to ask myself, "Really
how different am I from them?"

In the next second, my lungs remember how to work
and I hang up the phone, more surprised than ever
at how easy it's become to climb back out of the mausoleum.

deviantID

DanielleWick
Danielle
Artist | Hobbyist | Varied
United States
“Many of life's failures are people who did not realize
how close they were to success when they gave up.”
(Thomas Edison)

“Never confuse a single defeat with a final defeat.”
(F. Scott Fitzgerald)
  • Mood: Daily Needs
  • Listening to: Skeleton Key by Dessa
  • Reading: The God Of Atheists by Stefan Molyneux
  • Watching: Stargate SG1
  • Playing: Animal Crossing: New Leaf
  • Eating: Cigarettes
  • Drinking: Coffee

“Because it is on the anvil of pain that the gods forge heroes.” 
- C.L. Werner

“Don't judge yourself by what others did to you.” 
- C. Kennedy

"You own everything that happened to you. Tell your stories. If people wanted you to write warmly about them, they should've behaved better."
- Anne Lamott

Somehow broke the dam and now can't stop writing. Here's to the ride~

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:iconroryalice:
roryalice Featured By Owner Jul 26, 2014  Hobbyist Digital Artist
I hope that you realize what a beautiful person you are and how dear you are to me!  I can't get enough of your boundless imagination, your slice of humor, and of course you--the personality that comes through all of those that I enjoy and through your comments!  <3
Reply
:iconhollybecker:
HollyBecker Featured By Owner Oct 25, 2013  Student General Artist
Thanks so much for the watch ^^
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:icon0hgravity:
0hgravity Featured By Owner Oct 16, 2013  Hobbyist General Artist
thank you for the watch! I appreciate your support. ^^
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:iconanakron:
Anakron Featured By Owner Jun 3, 2013
Thx for the fav !
Reply
:iconneko:
neko Featured By Owner Mar 12, 2012
Well, thanks for the surprise with the comment/fav bomb. Nice to see some one new taking interest in my work.
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