ShopDreamUp AI ArtDreamUp
Deviation Actions
Literature Text
Remember the place where we went to hide, where we went to find ourselves in darkened hallways, on empty rooftops. There, we were children who never wanted to grow up, who had grown up too fast: the children who had forgotten what it means to believe without seeing. Please, don't let me forget again.
Listen: it's breathing, I swear. It's watching as we whisper, as we drag
it out of hibernation with out flashlights and footsteps through hallways
untouched. We are missing, we have disappeared here, we are on the edge
of the world carving maps into the concrete. Paint stains the walls and
someone's screaming hand cries "minds were made to be blown". There is
glass n our shoes and our hearts beat too fast, but we are running and
we are laughing and we are feeling too alive for our little town. We are
flying back to the old world now, soaring over burnt grass and broken
swings, until we are on the other side of the hill, trying to catch our
breath. Later, we lie and say we were places we were not so our mothers
don't worry, but we dream of the echo of footsteps and our fear of the
dark and the smell of mystery and secrets and things we are not.
Remember the day she called us to tell us it had burned, not knowing what she was saying, not knowing what was lost. And then, when the flames had died and the walls had fell, we walked across the wasteland, the hill to our backs, ice in our shoes. I don't think we thought that it would ever be the last time. That night, the snow fell on ashes and our footsteps were forgotten in the dark.
Sometimes, when I close my eyes, I am back in those empty halls, climbing ladders and losing my way. The walls tells stories of the homeless, the crazy, the teenagers like us exploring the new world, becoming the people we want to be until the graffiti soaks into our skin and we're crawling back home, separating our souls from drugs and regrets, piecing ourselves back together. Sometimes, I close my eyes, and I can't remember what it's like.
Minds were made to be blown, they said, and now everything's been blown away.
Listen: it's breathing, I swear. It's watching as we whisper, as we drag
it out of hibernation with out flashlights and footsteps through hallways
untouched. We are missing, we have disappeared here, we are on the edge
of the world carving maps into the concrete. Paint stains the walls and
someone's screaming hand cries "minds were made to be blown". There is
glass n our shoes and our hearts beat too fast, but we are running and
we are laughing and we are feeling too alive for our little town. We are
flying back to the old world now, soaring over burnt grass and broken
swings, until we are on the other side of the hill, trying to catch our
breath. Later, we lie and say we were places we were not so our mothers
don't worry, but we dream of the echo of footsteps and our fear of the
dark and the smell of mystery and secrets and things we are not.
Remember the day she called us to tell us it had burned, not knowing what she was saying, not knowing what was lost. And then, when the flames had died and the walls had fell, we walked across the wasteland, the hill to our backs, ice in our shoes. I don't think we thought that it would ever be the last time. That night, the snow fell on ashes and our footsteps were forgotten in the dark.
Sometimes, when I close my eyes, I am back in those empty halls, climbing ladders and losing my way. The walls tells stories of the homeless, the crazy, the teenagers like us exploring the new world, becoming the people we want to be until the graffiti soaks into our skin and we're crawling back home, separating our souls from drugs and regrets, piecing ourselves back together. Sometimes, I close my eyes, and I can't remember what it's like.
Minds were made to be blown, they said, and now everything's been blown away.
Literature
Asylum
tick tock
"pill time"
hide it away like a good girl
all better all better
knife in a bedroom drawer
away away
everyone leave me alone
words words words
no meaning
red blood
wasn't me
blank faces
wasn't me
wasn't me
where am I
white walls
white floors
dark feelings once more
tick tock
tick tock
"pill time"
Literature
Asylum
It was dark. Very dark.
I opened my eyes: It was just as dark.
I sat bolt upright. Something moved. Maybe it was just air movement, but that rarely happened here. My room is 6 feet by 7 feet by 10 feet. This is where I live. A box. There is a single bed across the far side of the room with a thin sheet and blanket, which was currently wrapped around me. The walls are made of metal and stone so it was often cold. There is one wall, however, that looked onto the corridor. That wall is made of plastic. A thick plastic window that made me feel like an animal in a zoo.
Sometimes people in white overalls would come and look at me through the win
Literature
attic.
in the days we used umbrellas to block the sunlight instead of the rain and the nights we believed the falling darkness was the secret rabbit hole to wonderland, you were the beautifully dissonant chirps of the hyperventilating crickets beneath us, the hum of hidden stars in the dark and speeding cars on the far-away highway.
you were the pieces of a child's scribbled-upon sky, buried like precious treasure beneath the dirty dollhouses and muddled memories in the arctic-cold attic.
you were hologram hymns and dish towel dreams, hung out to dry on a clothes-pin line in the shuddering, sickened sunshine.
you were forever spilling your hypoma
Suggested Collections
Featured in Groups
I miss that place.
Blahblah the format is weird, but it was written in a block so I wasn't sure how to separate it. Suggestions?
Blahblah the format is weird, but it was written in a block so I wasn't sure how to separate it. Suggestions? © 2011 - 2024 sirenseranade11
Comments9
Join the community to add your comment. Already a deviant? Log In
Overall Vision Originality Technique ImpactCait! First of all, I am so terribly sorry for taking a million years to get around to writing this critique. I'd make excuses, but they really aren't relevant. Anyway, sorry! And now on to the critique!
<img src="e.deviantart.net/emoticons/b/b…" width="10" height="10" alt="
" title="Bullet; Green"/> Right away, the title is genius. An abandoned asylum providing asylum to children trying to find their way. It is a good title on its own, but once you have read through the poem and realize how layered it is, it becomes even better.<img src="e.deviantart.net/emoticons/b/b…" width="10" height="10" alt="
" title="Bullet; Green"/> The imagery is very strong. I believe this is one of your strongest abilities as a writer, conveying such images that are infused with such emotion. Paint stains the walls and/someone's screaming hand cries "minds were meant to be blown" and soaring over burnt grass and broken swings stood out for me in particular.<img src="e.deviantart.net/emoticons/b/b…" width="10" height="10" alt="
" title="Bullet; Green"/> great foreshadowing with the mention of burnt grass.<img src="e.deviantart.net/emoticons/b/b…" width="10" height="10" alt="
" title="Bullet; Green"/> fantastic, thoughtful word choice throughout. hide, empty, darkened, whisper, missing, disappeared, all create a certain shadowy mood that fits the setting.<img src="e.deviantart.net/emoticons/b/b…" width="10" height="10" alt="
" title="Bullet; Green"/> a wonderful job with emotion, as well, really illustrating the juxtapositions introduced in the first paragraph. Fear, shown through whispering, glass, screaming graffiti, and wild abandon and happiness in the running and laughing and soaring. <img src="e.deviantart.net/emoticons/b/b…" width="10" height="10" alt="
" title="Bullet; Green"/> the block of text works well to show how that particular section of the piece is a bit different, of a different importance.<img src="e.deviantart.net/emoticons/b/b…" width="10" height="10" alt="
" title="Bullet; Green"/> the third paragraph is the only part that feels off to me, the first sentence specifically. Considering the emotion of the previous paragraphs, and considering the information being imparted, it doesn't feel vivid enough, it doesn't pack enough punch. As a caveat to that however, the last line in this section is spectacularly melancholy.<img src="e.deviantart.net/emoticons/b/b…" width="10" height="10" alt="
" title="Bullet; Green"/> it could just be me but I think we thought that it would never be the last time is very awkward. Streamlining it to something like "I think we believed it would never end" might work better.<img src="e.deviantart.net/emoticons/b/b…" width="10" height="10" alt="
" title="Bullet; Green"/> The end returns to the tone and strength of the rest of the piece, and the last line closes everything off succinctly and powerfully. This was a really excellent and enjoyable read, Cait. I hope some of my comments were helpful! <img src="e.deviantart.net/emoticons/s/s…" width="15" height="15" alt="
" title=" (Smile)"/>