Shop More Submit  Join Login
About Literature / Student Member sense-and-stupidityFemale/United States Recent Activity
Deviant for 3 Years
Needs Premium Membership
Statistics 390 Deviations 3,892 Comments 11,953 Pageviews

Newest Deviations

Favourites

Activity


Mature Content Filter is On
(Contains: sexual themes)
I just wanna fuck you,
I imagine you need someone like that,
someone who runs the 5 minute mile
in spiked shoes and spends twenty minutes
leaning down to kiss you,
but doesn't.
I don’t kiss you.
Your lips touch my blood in dirty ways,
raising puddles of it like oblong heads
from out of the sea of dead,
from my veins.
My veins Irish dance around you,
lifting ten feet off the ground, Icarus
enamored with the fall, Eve
eating the unripe fruit, the green,
the soft palm of your hand.

Life lines have nothing to do with this.
We’re musicians and we know what to do,
how to write love songs about blonde girls
and brown-eyed boys, whispering to our strings
this is the one, is this the one, is there just one
For me,
your penis is the shape of Vietnam,
revived by the sound of the ocean's
maracas,
shush shush.
You wrap your hands around my throat
one day while washing the dishes,
and my skin bruises like the Solomon Islands.
I open the newspaper to the obituaries and
spend an afternoon there,
reading your love songs.
I do not kiss you.
Good-bye, hello, or even
in charity, in public,
in the morning when you hand me
coffee in bed.
Someone else’s lipstick already on the rim,
her matching underwear on the floor.

I would walk a thousand miles
if I could just let this five page letter go,
but I know,
I know
In Scio, Oregon there’s the smallest noodle house
with my nail-polish painted on the windowsill.
Us, arguing, wrong, like it’s another Thanksgiving,
our plates sitting full and cold, arguing
over Dorian chords, over syllables themselves.
Graphs of quadratic equations on the window,
and organic chemistry, the carbons lined up
like a chain of all the teeth I’ve lost over you.

I imagine that you need someone like me,
who swoons over strangers that acknowledge
her name-tag, always pinned on the left side
like a plea. Is this me, is that you, is this thing
Is this thing going to run its course,
rursus rursus,
before I manage to move all my spare
clothes to your place;
before I learn the paths you take downtown,
whether you stand or sit down when the elderly
board the bus;
before I realize that there’s something wrong with you,
that you keep spaghetti sauce in zip-lock bags and
eat poached eggs straight from the hot water.

Will all the good bruises fade
before I find myself pining for you,
before I fall in love with the way you feed me
slices of red pepper fresh and bloody from the
cutting board,
before you undress me, a thousand bobby-pins,
one at a time, leaving them scattered on the bathroom sink
like spider’s legs.
Parts of me
I’ve decided to dump in the trash:
my faith and fidelity throw away like sandwich crusts,
pizza coupons.

Your key weighs heavily in my pocket;
if I swallowed all your possessions whole
would it make it any easier to say
no.
No to hanging my guitar beside your own.
No to leaving one window open while we sleep,
no to showering any other way but
alone.
My heart, my aching bundle of muscles,
my strongest machine, this packet of chewing gun,
masticating,
my heart is a 60 watt light-bulb type of heart, it cannot
handle any higher power;
it’s a 'one brand of salsa and that’s it for the rest of my life'
type of heart,
it’s a short thesis, brief introduction,
long long thousand mile long
explanation type of heart.
Explanations for why homeward bound
sometimes sounds like you,
and sometimes sounds just like this
crappy apartment far away from everything;
explanations for how someone with so many grammatical
corrections just sitting at her finger tips
can feel for someone who speaks only in
contractions, contractions, contractions.

They call giving birth contractions
because it is two people snapped and stuck together.
It’s an imbeautiful metaphor but
part of you chipped away inside me last week,

when I said

I just wanna fuck you
and you responded by snagging your
fingers in my hair.

The first bobby-pin hit the counter,
I swallowed the red pepper and
wrote you a love letter that started with

"palm mute, down strum, up strum,
E, E, D, palm mute, down strum, palm mute,
that freckle on your earlobe is an appoggiatura,
and I wouldn’t want to marry you any other way"

and ended with

"palm, palm, down strum, down strum, E, E, D, palm,
do you wanna fuck and lean on each other,
you handsome blue transgressor.”

This is my way of telling you.

Did you know that hearts beat in iambic pentameter;
inside of me is a little Shakespeare
who developed lungs yesterday,
who touched me from the inside
and you from the outside
and it felt like a contraction,

a contraction.

Won’t.

Can’t.

Don’t.

I’m gonna love you.
I’m gonna love you,
palm mute, palm mute,
palm mute,

don’t don’t ba bump,

ba bump.
I’m gonna love you,
little Shakespeare.
Little Shakespeare
x.

Let me know if things don't work so well. This is definitely a work in progress, and some lines are rough (Vietnam section, especially).
Loading...
I don't usually do this, but I'm going to shamelessly advertise for my father anyway. 
My dad is a musician (he's played piano for most of his life) and has been working on several albums these past few years using the little synthesizer in our house. He's been a significant influence on the artistic part of myself; listening to him play and sing as a kid got me interested in music myself (a place where I found friends and coping stategies) as well as my own creative outlets. 

His music has always been a part of my life, and I'm incredibly proud to be able to share it with all of you, if you are so inclined. I'm working on gathering more details about how much his CDs cost and how you would go about purchasing one from him (I'm away at college, so communications are at a minimum), but I believe they are around 5 dollars. Please, if you enjoy writing to music (or any other activity), consider buying a CD. Both of them are instrumental; each song blends seamlessly into the next so it's very soothing. 

So, yeah, I'm just gonna put this here and see what happens. Sorry if I sound a little awkward; I'm just really passionate about art, especially my father's music. :) Let me know in comments or notes if you're interested in purchasing or anything else. I will post an edit when I find out more. 

You can visit jango.com to listen to several songs free, and get a feel for his music. Search for Brian DeBunce. I recommend "Arthur," "Bee," and "Chateau d'Amberville" (the latter isn't included on the album but it's one of my all time favorites). Just listen, guys. 

[P.S. If you find yourselves so inclined, I'm thinking about listening to some of his songs and writing poems about/inspired by certain ones and possibly making something from it for him. If you find yourselves inspired to write anything like that, even if you just happen to write something while listening, I would love to read it and/or share it with him. I'm sure he'd be ecstatic to know.]
  • Mood: Bewildered
  • Listening to: Walter Reed - Michael Penn
  • Reading: Paradise Lost, Book XI
  • Watching: House
  • Eating: potassium
  • Drinking: bad bad bad coffee
At this point in my life

my chest is a desk of junk

I’ve broken and still think I need.

I need to learn to let go;

my stomach hangs like a bag

full of old pennies,

my esophagus feels like a

mitten with fingers that can’t

uncurl, strangulation glove.

And the bruises,

why does blood have to pool

so stagnantly. This is why sadness

is the color of my blue sheets;

sleeping all day makes you

who you want to be.

Most days, my organs feel like

someone else’s dirty laundry.

I keep folding and folding

myself in, but the creases don’t hold.

I need to learn to stop

pouring detergent on everything that makes

me happy;

I used to collect grass stains like trophies,

my friend wipes his face on his knee

so he can remember if he’s eaten

today,

today I need to remember if I’ve eaten,

if I’ve slept just right on this mattress

of my life because

some days my hips ache

like I’m carrying all my smiles

in my pockets.

Happiness is a heavy thing.

My jeans have grown tight with it,

but I’m okay. I don’t have to dip my

fingers in to keep myself warm;

I’m at a point where some boy could fall in

love with my outlook on life.

When I smile I can feel others smiling

along with me,

I can recite 170 of the countries,

slowly, my world is expanding.

I still panic attack sometimes;

still sometimes the havoc writhes in me.

I stood against the wall at work and

breathed gray air and washed my right hand

seventy times until it felt clean,

but if I count to twenty

and touch my neck extremely gently,

somehow it doesn’t seem so bad.

Mist hovers around the trees outside my window,

and the trees themselves are shedding

their green, shivering and rattling with autumn,

but the sidewalks,

don’t they look so pretty.
Closer to that Uncurl
One of many poems I've written/am going to write tonight. I'm extremely happy today, and inspired.

I'm twenty today. It doesn't real. 
Loading...
My dearest, my hope is that one day we will be able to talk about it. We will talk about it.

Somehow the words will come out like they do when we're sad and fed up with how our hearts beat through every inch of our skin, when we're blue and wayward, when we're silent in those crowded rooms and all we want is that door, that door that always slams shut tight with the hinges that swing, swing like music beneath our palms, the silence, the stark gray light of bathroom stalls when life rages on behind the walls.

One day, we will talk like we talk then. When our favorite people in the world are next to us, when our hips brush with strangers on public transit and for a moment, looking out the window at that faded, frosted, rain-slicked city, we feel ten-thousand leagues long. When we feel uncorked, when our emotions aren't the red and the blue humming in our wrists, but the synonyms. The synonyms we use for finding rhythm, for finding steady teeth in our sore jaws that pronounce the words.

One day, we will talk like we talk when we're ready to be done. When the words are volcanic ash stuffed into jars, when the words are the licorice color in our angry eyes, when they are the soft goodbye at the end of a phone call.

One day, the phone call won't end in goodbye, but "wait, listen." One day, it won't hurt to talk about it; to discuss moods and disorder and sadness and the happy things too. Goodbyes will not be soft, but hard, because the best things are.

My dearest, we will talk about it.
In celebration of the imminent Thanksgiving holiday (and my impending birthday), I purged today for the first time in...5-6 months?

I also took the handy-dandy depression spectrum quiz my school sent out today and....I placed in the top ranking 52-56 percentile with a 60 percent (based on how I felt several months ago, yay me) and then a 52 (based on now).
Either way, I am apparently "severely depressed" according to their scale.

But I'm not letting it bother me. I'm going to eat breakfast in the morning. I'm going to get up and translate some Latin homework in a few minutes. I'm going to go home next week and enjoy some good food and good family. And on friday, I'm going to learn how to celebrate a birthday.

Keep swinging folks.


[This is discombobulated because my mood is all over the place and I'm dehydrated and tired.]
  • Mood: Bewildered
  • Listening to: home
  • Reading: Paradise Lost
  • Watching: house
  • Eating: eating--purging--drinking
  • Drinking: bad bad bad coffee
I don't usually do this, but I'm going to shamelessly advertise for my father anyway. 
My dad is a musician (he's played piano for most of his life) and has been working on several albums these past few years using the little synthesizer in our house. He's been a significant influence on the artistic part of myself; listening to him play and sing as a kid got me interested in music myself (a place where I found friends and coping stategies) as well as my own creative outlets. 

His music has always been a part of my life, and I'm incredibly proud to be able to share it with all of you, if you are so inclined. I'm working on gathering more details about how much his CDs cost and how you would go about purchasing one from him (I'm away at college, so communications are at a minimum), but I believe they are around 5 dollars. Please, if you enjoy writing to music (or any other activity), consider buying a CD. Both of them are instrumental; each song blends seamlessly into the next so it's very soothing. 

So, yeah, I'm just gonna put this here and see what happens. Sorry if I sound a little awkward; I'm just really passionate about art, especially my father's music. :) Let me know in comments or notes if you're interested in purchasing or anything else. I will post an edit when I find out more. 

You can visit jango.com to listen to several songs free, and get a feel for his music. Search for Brian DeBunce. I recommend "Arthur," "Bee," and "Chateau d'Amberville" (the latter isn't included on the album but it's one of my all time favorites). Just listen, guys. 

[P.S. If you find yourselves so inclined, I'm thinking about listening to some of his songs and writing poems about/inspired by certain ones and possibly making something from it for him. If you find yourselves inspired to write anything like that, even if you just happen to write something while listening, I would love to read it and/or share it with him. I'm sure he'd be ecstatic to know.]
  • Mood: Bewildered
  • Listening to: Walter Reed - Michael Penn
  • Reading: Paradise Lost, Book XI
  • Watching: House
  • Eating: potassium
  • Drinking: bad bad bad coffee

deviantID

sense-and-stupidity

Artist | Student | Literature
United States
My book: www.barnesandnoble.com/w/symbo…

"I want the count down inside of me to stop being so precise; I want to jump to zero and back to infinity. I believe in infinity. It's my fatal flaw."
Interests

AdCast - Ads from the Community

×

Groups

Comments


Add a Comment:
 
:iconfunnywolf2001:
funnywolf2001 Featured By Owner Nov 11, 2014  Student Writer
Thank you for the fav!  
Reply
:iconpsychobeast:
PsychoBeast Featured By Owner Oct 20, 2014
You inspire me so much, your works make me write, write write. If you ever need anyone to talk to, you can always msg me. (even though you dont know me :P)
Reply
:iconsense-and-stupidity:
sense-and-stupidity Featured By Owner Nov 2, 2014  Student Writer
Thank you so much for this. I've kept from replying just so I can keep it in my inbox and look at it when I log on. One of my greatest wishes in life is to inspire other people, in whatever way. :) I'm glad you are writing and writing and writing; it's the only way to live, in my opinion. Have a splendid day, friend.
Reply
:iconchoque-plumbeo:
Choque-Plumbeo Featured By Owner Sep 10, 2014  Hobbyist General Artist
hey wanna read a play with me?
Reply
:iconsense-and-stupidity:
sense-and-stupidity Featured By Owner Sep 11, 2014  Student Writer
Yes. Which and how and when?
Reply
:iconchoque-plumbeo:
Choque-Plumbeo Featured By Owner Sep 12, 2014  Hobbyist General Artist
Its the King in yellow, part of it which i wrote, read it it's in my page, if you like it we'll talk about how. I'd like to record the voices to put the play together and i heard your voice and i really liked it, also i need a Cassilda and i hope you'll like it. As to when, im moving, so i can not until sunday.
Reply
:iconithaswhatitisnt:
ithaswhatitisnt Featured By Owner Aug 12, 2014  Hobbyist Writer
Thank you so much for the fave! :tighthug:
Reply
:iconjimfleming:
jimfleming Featured By Owner Jul 2, 2014
Thank you :)
Reply
:iconsoraismyhomeboy:
SoraIsMyHomeboy Featured By Owner Jun 22, 2014  Hobbyist Traditional Artist
hey, I haven't chatted with you in forever! how are you doing? :)
Reply
:iconsense-and-stupidity:
sense-and-stupidity Featured By Owner Jun 23, 2014  Student Writer
I'm not so well right now, but I'm hanging in there. 

How are you, love? It's been too long.
Reply
Add a Comment: