Sta.sh
`thorns is an OG – she's been a deviant for more than 10 years! With works ranging from digital paintings to literature (and even some emotes!), visiting her page is a must. Make sure to visit her gallery and stop by her page to congratulate her on her Deviousness win and check out some of her amazing writing!
Happy Holidays to All 
Every Sunday this article will aim to promote volunteer opportunities, various resources, prompts, challenges, and workshops, as well as highlighting various contests, and spotlighting a specific group every week. This is by no means a complete list of all the literature going-ons, merely a tool to help you get involved and stay informed.
This week's group spotlight is #Poets-Refuge! 
Friday Night Features
Volume XXIV
Friday Night Features is a weekly feature aimed at displaying
a cross section of the some of the most striking, entertaining
and fantastic literature, photography and artwork from across
deviantArt. Show your support by
ing this article andchecking out these amazing pieces. You may find someone
new to watch
The first three literature features are the winners of the
3rd Annual Poetry Screams Prompt Contest
Check out the new poetry group sharing its name
with the contest:
Literature
offerings of a ghostand there was a vague veracity
in the whisper of your touch
that faded like feathers of frost
before the fevered kiss
of my breath.
winter settled slowly
down the curling knots of my spine
the same path
where your lips once burned
like candles in the night,
shadows tossed high
as autumn leaves riding reckless
on the wind.
at times i feel
this cup of bones
will crumble, blood and ash
and only that
and heavy hearts too full to bear
will break against the cool,
upturned cheek of earth
bare of greenery
but veiled in sinking snow.
your every echo is a curse
limned in regret
and the sting of dark hair whipping
in my b
Dark MotherBleed your colors to the ground,
let them swirl in the vortex of your breath.
The gathering chill escaped from your lungs
whispers the green earth into death.
Dark Mother, keep the spirits
you hold within your hands.
Souls eternally bidden,
soaked and seeped into the land.
Dark Mother, keep your fury
quivering deep within the ground.
Harm us not, but let us hear
the power of that sound.
The wheel is turning, always turning
as the sun falls from the sky.
Mother can you tell me,
oh can't you tell me why?
Dark Mother, stir your cauldron
deep living waters of rebirth.
Wash clean this wretched wreckage
we have wreaked upon the earth.
Dark Mother, shall we reap
all that we have sown?
When spring returns will you be there?
to light our path toward home?
The wheel is turning, always turning
as the seasons slowly die.
Mother can you tell me,
oh can't you tell me why?
Will you exhale a merciful breath,
to warm our world once more?
Or stop the wheel from turning,
leave us trappe
kissing a ghostbend.
once upon a
time, i
inhaled a shooting
star -
silver trail
it was a falling
star (in
ha[i]led)
like kissing a ghost
in the parking
lot in the
stairs hollow
lips pressed
against mine
you said darling i
won't be here
forever;
just long enough
to make you love
me,
sunrise dim on
the horizon, blur
ring the li(n)es -
there is the present
and there is the
future but the
past is merely
memories
/fingerprints
enclosed in
stories between
the pages
and the sun
it is strong it
is bright it is
scorching my moon-
possessed
flesh charring
my lungs burning
my heart
like kissing a ghost
blazing fire blazi
stillDays linger tirelessly,
since praise last graced
your tongue,
composed
of lemon zest.
Bitter words fall upon my grated heart.
Night and day seep sour sorrow,
stinging my ears
with your slaughtered hope.
Veiled below the surface,
I am compressed by silence.
Lies waiting to be shed,
chain me like opinions
sent into contempt
And I wait.
and wait.
and wait.
and break.
and fight.
and fight.
and fight.
And I sow these seeds
into hardened clay
for one blossom of hope.
Natural RepetitionMidnight drips slowly,
Pitch, coating the sky
Dawn, the metaphorical weightlifter,
Hefting the shroud
Noon, apex of light
Blinding defiance to the dark
Dusk rolls down,
Translucent in its task.
Empty CarriageOn the inside of her thigh
Scrawled in delicate black lettering
Was a tattoo
It read:
"Where is my god?"
When they would speak of her
Their voices resembled raindrops
Gentle and falling
Very quiet within all the thunder
She would press her cheek
To the window glass as she listened
It relieved her that their voices held her
When nothing else did
Her eyes ran neither hot nor cold.
Instead they were much as her body
Arrows held taut, ready to be fired
Aimed straight at you
At night she lay with a baby doll
Its plastic ears had no holes
For her murmurs to drain into
So instead she drowned each night
In the overflow
What is Red?Red is your lips
The paint,
On your fingertips
The flush,
Of your cheeks
Your heart,
As it falls
Red is your love.
Red is your dress,
As you glide
Across the carpet,
Of fame.
Red is your hair,
Dashing and envied
And Like a rose,
It betrays.
Red is your cheek,
After his hand
Swings across it
Red are his eyes,
As his anger deepens,
And red is your blood,
As it spills from the wounds.
Red are the sirens,
Once it's all over,
And red is your shame,
As red tears stain.
Red is your lips,
Escaped from death,
The blood,
Like paint,
On your fingertips
The pain,
On your cheeks
Your heart,
As it drowns
Red is your love
The pain of survivalthis was not a choice
when I was younger
I got pregnant
I stopped my studies
when I returned to school
I was not motivated
I had to pay the bills
I had many problems
I had small jobs
I accepted the creepy
I accepted the sordid
Now I give my body
This is not a choice
it's just to survive
to give a life to my son
for him give a future
the evening in the mirror
I look at myself, I cry
because I'm afraid to finish dead
the body lacerated in a ditch
Morning VerseThe morning makes me reckless
with the smell of coffee curling
through my veins in electric
tendrils,
and the pen betwixt my fingertips
shooting feelers through my brain,
and a single dying star
burning in the dawn-green
East.
The morning makes me restless
with the promise of the day
and the breath of open windows
and the smooth relief of
ink;
so in the morning, like a child
celebrating life
I turn my words in dances.
HemeraEndless glades of sand, immobile for millions of years, surrounded the large agglomerate of domes that was Hemera.
The sky, black for those who loved light even when it was time for darkness, revealed to the eyes of whom was more used to darkness and didn't refuse it, the huge sight of the Milky Way: a sprinkle of countless stars and worlds that offered his dim light to the city, otherwise lost in darkness.
Hemera was hidden in a circular overhang, an old scar of a large impact, set in a huge basaltic plain, among the beds of ancient rivers, where lava had rushed before, shaping the whole area. They were incredibly ancient, but they seemed
VicariousShe scribbled heartbeats in ink that was always the wrong color,
cursing herself; she knew she preferred lead.
Click, click - her pencil was always running dry, and
her erasers only left ugly smears where curled script or pristine white
used to be.
She died for her words to be something significant -
for her sentences to be clever,
her paragraphs to ring out truth over discrepancies.
She wanted to write life into the stories she told;
she wanted to live stories worth writing.
Just a little thing who hid behind humor like "joy" was her middle name,
The CanticleSuch measures are wonderfully taken---
to indulge this fleshless form.
And when your very breath touched
---the coolness of this soft, silky air---
---Your resonance---
awashed in this myriad of lights,
engulfed this incarnate ghost.
So breathless was I!
The serenity of your heart, in hues of gold,
murmured frantic thoughts
with your imminent demise.
manifesto 2011poetry:thumb164071443:
for want of a better word
should be the kiss
with just enough tongue
to make you want more
should be the sun
drying your bare skin
as you lay by the pool
should be the pill
you swallow to focus
on sixteen lines, not six thousand
should be the eyes
of a lover, boring into you
at the moment of mutual release
shoud be the faith
not the job or the hobby
as a band-aid does not make a surgeon
should be the truth
even if speculative about lovers
you will never actually meet or coit
should be the craft
learned then sublimated
to allow inspiration a channel
should be the page
not the caterwaulings
of a performance artis
Photography
Artwork
Suggestions are welcome and encouraged. Send in your suggestions
for feature either by noting them to `dreamsinstatic or posting
thumbs in the Friday Night Features Suggestions Forum Thread.
love 1
1
joy 2
2
wow 0
0
mad 0
0
sad 0
0
fear 0
0
neutral 0
0
