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Literature
spineless.
sometimes i put my hand
to my back and trace my spine
just to make sure its still there.
i will never grow up,
never be beautiful enough,
never pull that haze of
green smoke into or away
from my chest.
that is your home,
and i regret to say that
i have lost your eviction
notice.
im terribly sorry for the
way you still make me bleed
silent screams biting
their way over my tongue;
im terribly sorry,
but how the fuck can i
stop loving you when i cant
forget you long enough to look
in the mirror and see you in the
glass.
you tell me in no (un)certain words
that i am not anything to you,
and i just nod and smile,
just clutch my insides and cry
when you cant see me
because what the fuck else
is there to do.
i am not a bashful soul
i am not afraid to grab you
by the wrists and not let
go until you love me back
but if i had any less backbone
id be dead.
:iconohsostarryeyed:ohsostarryeyed
:iconohsostarryeyed:ohsostarryeyed 153 0
Literature
loud and close
i want to write you a letter -
you know the kind, the ones you see after a funeral,
the ones that say too much because no one knows the
difference between too much and not enough,
the ones that only surface because their authors
have solid confidence that their recipients will never see them.  
the thing is, that won't be happening.  
you won't die, and i know this because i am never wrong,
and when i set my mind on something, i'm not letting go.  
my point: this is your posthumous,
prehumous,
maybe just humous
letter from me to you, and i'd ask you what you think of it,
only i'm not sure if that's the protocol
(or proper etiquette) for such a letter.
you're not someone i expect to forget.  
my memory might be comparable to that of an elephant,
but an elephant's memory is entirely independent from
the beauty of its sad eyes and great ivories.  
what i mean is i don't forget beautiful things,
and beautiful things are impactful things, re
:iconohsostarryeyed:ohsostarryeyed
:iconohsostarryeyed:ohsostarryeyed 329 0
Literature
that 1950s kind of love
her family expected me to give a eulogy; what they do not remember is that they do not like me, they tell me that photography does not a profession make, they pucker their lips and narrow their eyes and wring their wrists because i married their daughter, their sister.  she was twenty, and as far as they cared, it was my fault that she was dead.
"martin?" the man dressed in black, which was every man, but this one wore a red tie and stood at the podium, stage-whispered.  that was the last time i heard my name.
it was her mother who helped me up the shallow stairs, lace handkerchief snuggling her nose raw.  "have you got your paper?" she asked me under a dull sob.  
"yes," i whispered back.  after the eulogy, that was the last time i spoke.
"her name was-- is anne.  she is twenty years old.  she is a sister to two, a daughter, a nurse.  she is my wife.  i love her.  she is dead. 
:iconohsostarryeyed:ohsostarryeyed
:iconohsostarryeyed:ohsostarryeyed 342 179
Literature
writing.
im not a writer
because i apologise for
what i write
im not a writer
because i hate the
craft and the
thorns it pricks into
wounds
sticky and healing
im not a writer
because i dont give a
fuck about your
apostrophes and periods,
full stops or
half stops or
broken wo  rds or
legs
im a writer
because i can look at
any fucking poem ive ever
pressed onto paper
and tell you exactly what
i felt
exactly what its about
exactly what colour my face
was turning like the earth
whether it be blue
or green or red or white
and you know what
youre going to like this
and you wont know why
or if you do i hope you know
its because i mean it
im not writing pretty words
for the sake of writing pretty words
i mean every fucking word i
write and you just love
the trainwrecks they make.
i am not a writer
because i dont give a damn
about what you think.
i am a writer
because i dont give a damn
about what i think either.
:iconohsostarryeyed:ohsostarryeyed
:iconohsostarryeyed:ohsostarryeyed 565 310
Literature
the last time i'll be honest
i have never loved
anything as perfectly
as i have loved you.
:iconohsostarryeyed:ohsostarryeyed
:iconohsostarryeyed:ohsostarryeyed 182 0
Literature
reasons not to ask me to leave
the way in which i want you is not quiet.  it is the constant tug at the hem of my skirt,
the begging child gobbling a litany with hungry little teeth and spewing thickly over every please-please-please.
the words are littering the floor and i sigh as i sweep them up into the dustbin to empty with a thump outside my window.
it is a nervous little owl, anxious hoots biting its beak and eyes
the size of egypt swallowing every piece of you they can find;
lustful eyes, pale like the moon in its overbearing white-moth slumber, worn in the shape of
oversized glasses with a horned rim.
it is the trumpeter swan's call, the winter-ivory paint thrown over its feathers.
it is obtrusive in its noise,
it is the treaded water enveloping every bone's curvature in my body,
it is my fingers on your arm, asking you to please call me bluebird.
it is the sketchpad in which i draw,
the old, dust-smelling book so rich in every beautiful thing under the sun between whose pages i press auburn leaves
:iconohsostarryeyed:ohsostarryeyed
:iconohsostarryeyed:ohsostarryeyed 108 25
xx 202 :iconmetindemiralay:metindemiralay 6,929 381 Maybe tomorrow.... :iconsachakalis:SachaKalis 3,270 202 u dont see things like i do :iconburcumbaygut:burcumbaygut 289 23 500t :iconcllozdemir:cllozdemir 86 12 blush :iconxthiscantgetworse:xthiscantgetworse 204 16 Nymph :iconapril182:april182 4,070 245
Literature
epiphany no. 458
i hate having sad showers.
the hot water seeping from the faucet becomes tears,
spilling so much misery onto aching shoulders.
it is so,
             so heavy
and just
sore.
like the raw-red skin breathed over by fire
because you are never warm and the wool sweater
round your neck doesn't remember how to
hold you;
like a day-old shoe bite lounging around your heels
when you insist on wearing those pumps another day
even if your feet bleed;
the first time in your childhood your mother isn't here to tuck you in.
sore like hearing only your echo when you scream-
a name, or some animalistic, frightened sound;
like the first night alone in your apartment, no body to press against yours,
to calm you down,
to keep you quiet.
just hours alone in the fragile bed, crying to your soul's content.
epiphany no. 458: humans are not the only ones with sad eyes.
:iconohsostarryeyed:ohsostarryeyed
:iconohsostarryeyed:ohsostarryeyed 350 102
Everlong :iconalmostcesar:AlmostCesar 136 10 sister :iconpretty-as-a-picture:Pretty-As-A-Picture 4,055 347

deviantID

sleepslikeanowl
Anna
United States

Activity


Umm...I'm so sorry about leaving this in the lurch guys. :/ I have so many sites that I manage...it's hard to focus whol-heartedly on all of them. Please check out my new (and improved!) works here; www.flickr.com/photos/annasomm…

Also; trial-by-fire.tumblr.com/
twitter.com/#!/annasommer

I hope to see all of you lovely people around. <3

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:iconcsali:
csali Featured By Owner Jun 1, 2010  Hobbyist Photographer
T h a n Q s o M u c h . . .:iconhypnotizeplz:
[link]
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:iconjessicabrookeee:
jessicabrookeee Featured By Owner Mar 20, 2010  Hobbyist Photographer
feature! [link]

:huggle:
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:iconsleepslikeanowl:
sleepslikeanowl Featured By Owner Mar 21, 2010
wow. thank you. :hug:
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:iconsteelhearted:
steelhearted Featured By Owner Feb 28, 2010
:hug:
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:iconalmostcesar:
AlmostCesar Featured By Owner Feb 24, 2010
Thanks! :halfliquid:
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