50% off for a limited time!

Get Core

Theme

Display Mature Content

Suppress AI Content

Get Help and Send Feedback

literature

self-image

Deviation Actions

mspadfoot2

Published: Jun 5, 2010

1.9K Views

Literature Text

can we trade
eyes,
lives,
just for a while;
i want to see myself
the way you do.

More by mspadfoot2

Literature

Downpour

soft grass between my toes, the sky splashes my face, the clouds frown a threatening gray and mud squelches under my flipflops as I shiver and the rain washes away my loneliness

Recommended Literature

Literature

Crazy?

Am I crazy? I think I am. Yup, definitely crazy. That's what I am. I must be crazy. Crazy. I have to be out of my mind. Because, I don't want to be like everyone else. I don't want to dress up. I don't want a relationship. I don't want to fall into fads. I don't want to listen to gossip. I don't want to be mean. I don't want to be super nice. I don't want to constantly be on my phone. I don't want to listen to your problems. I want to be myself. I want to wear miss-matched clothes. I want to be by myself. I want to like what I like. I want to hear silence. I want to be caring. I want to be calm. I want to deal with my

Literature

Hide and Seek.

Sometimes I wish That we could stumble upon each other, Find ourselves Alone in a crowd. We could have something Beautiful, Like rain falling during Sunshine. You could be my hero, And it'd be like we were kids again. We could sit on some rooftops, And chatter mindlessly amongst ourselves. We could play hide and seek. Vow to never grow up... And you would still be here with me. And maybe I wouldn't be sitting alone beneath this tree, Waiting anxiously For you to come and find me.

Literature

no one really knows

They gave him a single sheet of paper, one pencil. "Say your goodbyes," they said, "You'll be gone by tomorrow." He lay, curled on his hard thin mattress, facing the cement wall, and ignored them. Ignored the paper, ignored the warning. It was nearly midnight when he finally stood. The moon had risen outside, gleaming through the single window, silhouetting the bars. He sat up and looked at the paper that had remained untouched on the floor. Say your goodbyes, he thought, and picked up the pencil. It was an hour before he finally finished. The paper was covered - frantic scribbling filled every inch: dreams, confessions, hopes -

Suggested Collections

Poetry and Writing

Literature

Closer

too close to see, you are too close to me, an eclipsing gaze, all arms across us, i wouldn't leave, if i could go but you know this - you knew of love once you want to know again, you try to kiss me, as if drawing love out, and breathing love in, die again and again, you'd rather, than death you've almost known, too close for comfort

Literature

Not For Me, For You

not for me to feel - nothing as far as i can see, nothing close to me, my heart is deeper under, the black wells of forget, tears are the only stars i see, why do stars burn to live dreams are mute walls; sky is lost to a vapor moon - i drift, not forever is a veil i will wear to cover me from the absence of myself; i will hide behind the anonymity of trees, for you to feel left behind

Literature

She Dances With Fire

She dances with fire, a dragon in tow. Twirling with flames; graceful and slow She dances tonight, in a city of ash. Her feet leaving footprints, where the sand will splash. Quietly mourning, as time goes by; Where once she beheld a home in her eyes... Yet naught but the barest of bones remain, And so she dances, to soothe the pain.

poetry

Literature

The Bus Stop Dialogues

I. A young man at the bus stop turns to me and softly asks "Why aren't you wearing shoes?" He taps the faded leather of his suedo-skin and his eyes smile in a gentle lilt before his mouth does. I tell him that I like to feel the earth breathe. That textures keep my mind alive and ticking like a clock. I tell him that I'm trying to grow roots so my pale limbs can twist into a tree (the way L and I talked about it in therapy). I tell him that my soul is lonely and the ground is the only thing that's always there. I tell him that bare skin is sensitive and stroking it with every (twelfth) step is a soothing form of self-care

Literature

Schizophrenia

Voices whisper in your ear; Sweetest nothings, greatest fears. All your life your friend is there, Waiting with a tale to share. Threats are blown into the air, Ever present, meant to scare. Someone tails your every move; A hidden fiend, free to rove. Disembodied voices say: Never dare to disobey. Your friend arrives with a grin, A plan in mind, a great sin. Trembling grips your paling hand. Someone whispers their command. Terrified, you call to me, Hoping I can set you free. But as you point out your friend, Wishing that this all would end, My answer renews your fear: I see no one standing there.

Literature

Schizophrenia

Holding on to a thought has always been... difficult for me. They're so rarely interesting enough to hold my attention for more than a few seconds. Quite often, I'll tune out what someone is saying because something they said sparks a thought which leads to another thought which leads to another thought... No, I don't get distracted by shiny objects. I'm a human, not a magpie. I never really cared that I wasn't listening to what people were saying. My thoughts, as cascading as they are, were always more interesting than they were. Eventually, I did away with people entirely, living in my own stream of consciousness. Even now, it is difficul

Poetry

Literature

dear self,

1. tomorrow is not worth waiting for. sure, there will be sunshine (with a slight chance of rain) and sure, some kid will be smiling, and yes, life is still moving on, but it's not like anyone cares. 2. you just want someone to love you, misery and tears and all. maybe you could spend saturdays curled up under the covers, memorizing the patterns of breathing. maybe you could count the seconds but the problem is that there would never be enough, the problem is that there's nothing there to love. 3. no one is listening. 4. i'd write you a letter, but you'd never read it. i'm stuck screaming into my own heart, wonderin

Literature

confessions of lostwithoutyou.

i'm not a liar. but i never told you that you always looked best in black. i liked how your skin would fade to a paler shade of perfection and your perfect teeth would glint a little brighter. and i could pretend for an evening that you were my black and white dream come true. and with you there would be no shades of inbetweens and no grays for us to get lost in. i never told you but it's true.   + i was never able to tell you, but i hate the way you cook your 'specialty' eggs. you always laughed over your shoulder and told me that they are the best food i’ll ever eat, that i was blessed to get the chance to taste them melt

Literature

paint.

i told you that i liked boys who smoked cigarettes, because then i knew that they needed something. i told you that i liked roses without the thorns, because then they wouldnt hurt so much when they got picked. i told you that i liked it when you held my hands because i didnt feel quite so lonely, not quite. i told you that i'd love you 'til the stars exploded and the clouds devoured us- and you said nothing. you said nothing. *** (here's a little history.) in vietnam people hurt other people. people burned themselves- (i wish i was that brave.) they threw chemicals and hid in the ground and laughed when the others cried. its

Featured in Groups

This poem was a vomit that came out in about three seconds and I didn't edit it at all. It is a response to the feeling that everyone can see stuff in me that I can't: talent, beauty, intelligence, good qualities. So this is what came out.

: I would love to know how I might possibly increase the impact the words have. The piece is supposed to be short, but powerful. Any feedback on that would be great.