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Daily Deviation
Daily Deviation
November 1, 2013
how to become a writer by =DrippingWords is a heart-breakingly beautiful poem that many can relate to, even in differing situations. The emotion is heavy, but fitting, and really hits home, giving this piece its utmost strengths.
Featured by DorianHarper
Suggested by sincebecomeswhy
Literature Text
have parents that separate
when you’re in high school;
a father filled with unused anger
and a mother too busy to care.
pretend it doesn’t hurt.
let your friends treat you
like dirt;
after all,
everything is your fault.
listen to their problems with a fake smile
all the while crying out because
everything hurts and no one can see.
press a knife to your skin,
but be too cowardly to
draw your own blood.
fall in love with people
who could never notice you,
because you’re
just. not. good.
enough.
chew on the multicolored
strands of your hair.
(you can’t stop running
from who you really are.)
carry around a notebook
and scrawl every thought in it
with unreadable handwriting.
s
t
a
c
k
filled notebooks in a corner
to be forgotten.
expel dust from your lungs as you
breathe in bitterness and regret.
don’t say a word when
your father yells at you,
tells you that you’re
not good enough.
believe him.
grab that knife again.
press
it
to
your
skin.
d r a g.
your soul pouring out
through your wrists.
do it again.
and again.
and again.
never stop.
tell yourself that no one
could ever really love you.
because it’s true.
pick up the shattered fragments
of your heart when you
don’t listen to yourself.
scatter the pieces of your soul
just so you can find them again.
run away from home,
telling yourself that
you’ll never go back
only
to return weeks later
because life is harder than it seems.
stare into empty eyes every morning.
curl around yourself, sobbing, in the shower.
sleep whenever you can
because
dreams are so much easier.
stop sleeping
because
dreams turn to nightmares.
and the nightmares
are your reality.
wake up crying
to stifle the tears.
no one can help.
make a bucket list of things
you’ll never do because
you can’t even make yourself
get out of bed each morning.
let your depression press
the pause button on your life.
listen.
because it laughs at you
as you watch the world go on
without you.
keep fitting your battle mask on,
every day,
because without it,
people will see that you care
too much.
when you’re in high school;
a father filled with unused anger
and a mother too busy to care.
pretend it doesn’t hurt.
let your friends treat you
like dirt;
after all,
everything is your fault.
listen to their problems with a fake smile
all the while crying out because
everything hurts and no one can see.
press a knife to your skin,
but be too cowardly to
draw your own blood.
fall in love with people
who could never notice you,
because you’re
just. not. good.
enough.
chew on the multicolored
strands of your hair.
(you can’t stop running
from who you really are.)
carry around a notebook
and scrawl every thought in it
with unreadable handwriting.
s
t
a
c
k
filled notebooks in a corner
to be forgotten.
expel dust from your lungs as you
breathe in bitterness and regret.
don’t say a word when
your father yells at you,
tells you that you’re
not good enough.
believe him.
grab that knife again.
press
it
to
your
skin.
d r a g.
your soul pouring out
through your wrists.
do it again.
and again.
and again.
never stop.
tell yourself that no one
could ever really love you.
because it’s true.
pick up the shattered fragments
of your heart when you
don’t listen to yourself.
scatter the pieces of your soul
just so you can find them again.
run away from home,
telling yourself that
you’ll never go back
only
to return weeks later
because life is harder than it seems.
stare into empty eyes every morning.
curl around yourself, sobbing, in the shower.
sleep whenever you can
because
dreams are so much easier.
stop sleeping
because
dreams turn to nightmares.
and the nightmares
are your reality.
wake up crying
to stifle the tears.
no one can help.
make a bucket list of things
you’ll never do because
you can’t even make yourself
get out of bed each morning.
let your depression press
the pause button on your life.
listen.
because it laughs at you
as you watch the world go on
without you.
keep fitting your battle mask on,
every day,
because without it,
people will see that you care
too much.
Literature
I Call Him Compulsion
Three. Four. Five. I like five; it feels complete. Okay, one more time. Six
Seven. Done.
"How long does it take to get a glass of water?" my husband calls from the living room.
"Sorry, I'm coming." I resist the urge to rinse the glass a few more times. Cleanliness is not a factorit's the numbers. The completion. The habit. I take a sip of my water and force myself to stop asking if I should just run the water one more time.
I join Sam in the living room and sit in my usual spot: the center recliner. He always lies on the couch to watch TV. It works.
He hits the play button, and we watch ten minutes of reality before the demon
Literature
Obsessive Compulsive Disorder
When I was little, it use to amaze me how colors were made. In art class I would sit and mix paint because blue and red didn't stay the same when they fell in love. Every single color found its match and danced beautifully as I swirled them together. Black and white were my favorites. I'd pour the creamy paint into a bowl and watch as black and white swirls, turned into grey swirls and owned the container holding it captive. Grey was amazing to me. Because black and white are nothing alike, and grey is in the middle. Black is dark and scary and demanding. And white is graceful, and trusting, and clean. Grey is nothing. Grey is bland. And safe
Literature
It Is In The Doing
I know what she thinks I do in the bathroom when I take a little too long,
when I'm a little too quiet.
After all, I'm a healthy teenager with access to the internet, what else could I be doing?
She knocks on the door and asks, "Hey, what are you doing?"
Smile, my dear reader.
Chuckle a little.
Sometimes she's right.
But sometimes... Sometimes I'm on the floor or pressed hard against the wall, my heart a little too fast, my breath a little too quick... my chest a little too tight as I try to keep the sound of steadily falling tears from echoing beyond the door. As I try to keep pretences to the outside world that I do not cry, that noth
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I'm sorry this is so long, but *intricately-ordinary told me to try, so I did. Blame her.
This is a very, very personal poem. I guess it's the truth that I've found so hard to say.
Sorry.
EDIT: Thank you so much to *homunculus888 for suggesting this and to ^star-blazer for featuring this! I never thought I would get a second DD, but I am honored and very excited.
This is a very, very personal poem. I guess it's the truth that I've found so hard to say.
Sorry.
EDIT: Thank you so much to *homunculus888 for suggesting this and to ^star-blazer for featuring this! I never thought I would get a second DD, but I am honored and very excited.
© 2013 - 2024 LionesseRampant
Comments571
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I feel like a better title for this would be, "How to Become a Depressive." Personally, as a writer, I can say that none of that abuse is necessary to become a writer, but this variation in our personal motivations is of little consequence to the piece, so that is all I'll say on it.
There was a lot of intrigue and depth to this poem; the physical structure of the words "stack" and "drag" supplements the words themselves to create imagery, but a lot of the other placement, in the form of line and stanza breaks, became confusing and, at times, jarring; they exist, however, side by side with places where the line breaks were excellently executed. In the first stanza, for example, the lines, "a father filled with unused anger / and a mother who's too / busy to care," highlight how an excellently well placed break (filled with unused anger /) is followed by a jarring and unnatural break (a mother who's too /). Similar breaks that jarred my attention were prevalent throughout ("don't say a word when /," or "tells you that you're /," "telling yourself that /," for example) but there were also several line breaks that create the appropriate emphasis that allows a powerful image ("press a knife to your skin, /," "and scrawl every thought in it / with unreadable handwriting. /," "grab that knife again. /," for example).
The images themselves are potent, but because topics and themes like the ones in this piece are hardly original, I, to be blunt, am not as moved as I could have been. Part of the problem is that I am given reasons to pity the character before I get to know who this character is. Shit happens and I get that, but I don't cry for every sad story I hear; if I did, I wouldn't be able to function as a human being. It is the writers job, therefore, to create the story that readers find compelling, and while a lot of deviantArt readers may find this compelling, they are easily able to hear the word "you" and apply it to themselves because they have lived through similar problems. As an artist, however, your goal should be to get sympathy from those of us who have never known the shit you have gone through. Since I have transitioned from originality to impact, I'll take this chance to address your ending; "and it hurts." is a simple summary of the entire poem, and doesn't have very much power. A paper cut hurts, as did stubbing my toe on the door this morning; something tells me this pain is much deeper, much more potent and powerful than the fleeting physical pain of stubbed toe. Capture that. Leave me with some great image that is going to haunt me for the rest of the day.