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About Literature / Artist LaurenFemale/Australia Group :iconvirtualmoleskine: VirtualMoleskine
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Literature
i.
Within blue eyes
anemone and starfish
abound, and seaweed eyelashes
move leisurely with the tides.
At sunset they sparkle,
lined with golden sand
and swirling without a sure direction,
becoming cloudy as a storm brews.
Beware, anger flashes across the surface,
where riptides catch the unwary
ships and sailors, wrecked
and broken amongst its depths.
Only the brave venture in,
attracted by the untameable,
roaring waves and sharp wind.
Eyes stinging, they enter the battle.
Slowly they themselves become blue,
the cold clinging to their skin,
sucking out all their warmth.
Then white as stone,
lips cracked and filled with salt
that leaves a bitter aftertaste.
Yet, they couldn't feel more alive.
Its only when battered and bruised,
beating back her worst,
do they wear their triumphant smiles.
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Literature
Lay her in the Earth
Lay her in the Earth where the flowers dwell,
dancing stems in the wind
and her eye can watch the birds,
distant arrows pointing towards a sun
amongst diaphanous clouds.
She can hardly breathe with wonder,
wrapped in the loving embrace of roots,
their arms around her waist
and fingers in her hair as yours once were.
An easy smile rests on her face
that even the coming sunset cannot dim,
nor storms could wash away,
for although her form is impermanent
her spirit will always be.
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Literature
Untitled III
A ribbon of perfume floats upwards from the bowels of the surrounding flowers, reaching towards the sky. It struggles against their hold, and as it does so it knots my hair and unravels further the loose ends of my jumper. These too strain upwards, wanting to fly like the geese to the north.
I can see these similarities in myself, the compass in my blood pulling me away to somewhere unknown. When I stand still it gets worse, twitching beneath my skin in its demand for action.
But what does it want? Am I supposed to be like a spider who spins her web into the sky and jumps, wits in my throat as I soar and wonder where next I am to be deposited? Or am I supposed to be like a seagull, sitting at the rocky crevices and whistling to the ocean below?
My mind is constantly thinking of new scenarios that might appease my wanderlust, and for a while it does. You see you're right when you say I'm distracted whilst with you, but it's for a good reason: I'm using my imagination to travel
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Literature
Untitled II
Vanilla to my aniseed,
wafting over my steaming cup
and kissing my face. To this day
a shadow of your scent remains
not as the ghost of cigarette smoke,
but as a dusting of pollen,
evoking fond memories of summer
and dances in the evening.
We were out of breath, flustered and red
with sweat tearing into our eyes
and our hands slipping like awkward laughter.
Once our fingers entangled we laid amongst the grass,
smiles settling on our faces
almost like an afterthought.
With every passing wind our hands became drier
until our palms were glued together
like we already were in our hearts.
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Literature
Adumbrate
 i.
 Smudging lead flakes, pressed into the paper pulp; given new life, new breath. The page  
 heaves, its edges crinkling beneath my hand. It exhales, and I can see the spark in the  
 eyes of the portrait.
 ii.
 Skin, only skin deep; the scales slicked with sweat, the sun browned at midday, and the
 people sweltering below: they wait for the wings to melt, collapsing into trash.
 iii.
 Until he scratched his nose it was dust. I'd expected that when he'd shake his head and
 blink they'd fly, but freckles they were. Stained with the cracks and fractures sustained
 from being too pale for the sun.
 iv.
 Beneath the paper are the purple roots of chrysanthemums. Press too hard, and a sticky
 ichor drips from the edges, collecting in the hollow of the collarbone.
 v.
 The scent drew them. Hungry eyes and hearts, the blood on their hands barely dried.
 If only a
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Mature content
Army Destroyer :iconozzla:ozzla 3 4
Literature
My Grown Up Christmas List
Dust motes sparkle through the sunlight. Rather than colliding, they pair up and waltz until they settle. I can imagine them giggling, sipping champagne while they rest.
Sometimes the state of my sugar levels worries me.
From downstairs comes the snap of masking tape and the crackling of cardboard boxes. I should be contributing my muscle to the “bona fide” war effort. It is an odd choice of words, but my parents are well-meaning in their attempts to educate the general populace. Yet, we are always defeated.
There is warmth at my legs and a purr. I smile and drop my hand for her to muzzle. As always, teeth and gum scrape across my knuckles whenever she is vehement for my attention. She has been safe all these years; the small are always overlooked. My parents are giants: tall and opinionated. They wear their manifesto on their sleeves, and frequently passer-bys cringe, shrinking away.
“That's who they are... it's simply not right.”
I always he
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Literature
Whiteness, I remember
Twirling, you remind me of a jewellery box ballerina: elegant and poised. You are so steady, holding your position with precision. Even when flicked by the precarious fingers of children you always return to your position. Only statues could best such dedication.
Such beauty did not prepare me for its rumbling. The mountains shook like the bowels of a monster, and thoughts of ballerinas were replaced by bomber planes. I squinted for the tell-tale wings and listened for the whirling motor.
That time it was actually a natural disaster.
A torrent of snow, iced teeth and titanium claws shred trees. The bystanders are consumed while they looked at you, raising their ski masks in disbelief. No frightening colours tarnished such a homogeneous white, giving the false appearance of calm.
If I were more optimistic, or perhaps more poetic, it appeared as if you had warmly enveloped them in a white blanket.
My surroundings explode into chaos, arms and legs searching for loved ones. Here, further a
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Found poetry I by ozzla Found poetry I :iconozzla:ozzla 0 7
Literature
About a boy
Shining on wet leaves are equally wet cheeks. The edges are ripped, torn just like her hoarse voice, ragged nails and shredded hemline. Relentlessly she has been calling his name, her voice has been swallowed by the forest as has the sun by the murky river water.
Her hair clings to her face, sticky with sweat. It makes a dense veil, shielding her from what she knows she will see. While she runs desperately, she peels it away, nails scratching her face. The trees mock her, their crooked backs shaking with laughter; the swaying of their thick branches reminiscent of a death march, but her determination is louder. As long as her heart pounds in her temples and pulses in her hands, she will not relent.
Breathing hard, she looks upwards.
There, suspended ominously is the moon. She reminds herself that she is aware of what is happening, but her heart flutters like a bird against her ribcage. Despite holding her breath to remain strong, she shudders with rage. If only she were a bird to caree
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Literature
Hemispheres apart
Autumn paints the world in a muddy relief of oranges, yellows, and the lingering hope that is green. These leaves are like smoke, drifting without purpose from smouldering boughs. Singed, their arms are thin and brittle like bird's bones.
They shout into the Spring air, sloshing Victoria Bitter from their bottles. Speeding along the road it leaves a smouldering trail. Hotter than expected, their arms hang out windows, sunglasses perched atop noses.
Staring directly at the sun, one of the boys thinks how it is exactly like the butterscotch that dribbled down her chin. One of his jokes had caused her to laugh as she was eating.
“Boys are all the same!” She accuses him of doing it purposefully, though her eyes twinkle. Every dream she has of him, every morning the yearning to see him again grows stronger. At the airport they had only passed.
Or rather, they had collided.
“Hey, didn't anyone ever tell you not to run indoors?” He scowls, picking his sunglasses off th
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Literature
Cigarettes and stardust
Once brown, the strands have become bleached of colour by rough hands of the sun; dirtied grey by days of overall-clad hips and gloved hands. Day in, day out. There was not a thought that the prime of his life would be spent clearing withered puddles of rubbish.
Or his retirement for that matter.
He remembers screaming profanities and kicking so hard that they cracked bone, eyes wild. Yet these days, his voice is seldom used but in whispers and treads carefully, eyes calm. Only with time. With time it has also become no hard task to imagine invoking the sun to sear those who commit these depravities he sees every day. To see what the milky-skinned innocence of the suburbs gets up to branded into their skin.
Shaking his head, he grasps a crackling corpse, its plastic dirtied with disinterest. His imagination never used to be so vivid, so detailed and exact. Not even an imaginary friend in his own innocent youth.
Placing the rubbish into the plastic bag, his thoughts drift into memory.
M
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Literature
Constellation
The constellations are a map of every touch of our fingers, a memory of our embraces. The comets are the tears that have flowed down our skin, burning as they travel.
Through your atmosphere you see these and it ignites a curiosity that is rarely contained. It inspired your greatest with their telescopes, their eyes as keen as their intellect. All hours of the darkness they spent observing a mystery they could not explain.
So your telescopes became more powerful and you saw how nebulae pulse with our heart beat, their stunningly-hued spirals described as pixie dust.
Was there life out there, you asked. Your voices rose in unison, relishing the challenge and from no corner could your voices not be discerned.
Such brightness we saw. The way eyes twinkled and enthusiasm sparked passion in a way so familiar to us. We thought that we had finally found Creators. We have been so lonely these eons; constellations have faded, new ones lit.
Collectively we held our breaths when you tested for ou
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Literature
Undying tradition
Jogging, her ponytail bounces, twisting and twirling in the wind that teases it. Passing by, her feet pound the pavement, setting out a steady beat that my heart flip-flops to.
She smiles to herself, and my eyes drop instantly, my eyes burning with an after image of her face. It is hard to focus on setting gardenias into the garden bed. Even when my vision clears, I know how I must look with my oversized and clumsy hands, loose apron and lopsided hat.
A beetle to a firefly.
Regardless, I would offer these flowers as a bouquet. Raw and honest rather than dried and dying. Why is love treated as if it is a ritual killing, a sacrifice to guarantee one's devotion? Being so superficial, it can only shrivel under the relentless chase and dramatic airs.
Sliding down, I push my glasses up with a single finger, smudging dirt across the bridge of my nose. Even as her presence recedes I wither in my desperation to get it off, yet both my hands are sunburnt brown with dirt. The very same col
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Literature
A Cautionary Tale
Chiefly, the clear path
of restraint is less wicked -
faith in family.
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Literature
Jellyfish Dreams
Flashes of stinging white crackle across satin. If you stared at it for too long, wishing for stars, you would surely be driven mad. Only the omnipresent hum of vehicles grounds me while I am in transit, preventing exactly that.
Despite frightening posters of malicious stars, their light bleeding into blood being my earliest memory, I continue to peer out the window and search for the malicious stars. Once there was a time when you could just see them beside the faint halo of street lamps, ornate and cheerfully painted. Sometimes, even a globe would blow and in that little patch the stars would glow brighter.
When I heard that rumour there was no blood but my own. Biting my lip with anticipation, something had dribbled down my chin, and touching it to see what it was, there was red. Advertisements of the Afflicted reeled through my mind. Deranged eyes, wild hair, ashen skin, mouths opened in a perpetual scream. "Their danger to all is as real as the stars." I hyperventilated, th
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Journal
DeviantWriter Questionnaire


How long have you been on DeviantArt?
A surprising four and a half years.
What does your username mean?
It's a combination of many names I identify with in some capacity.
Describe yourself in three words.
bloodless but inspired
Are you left or right handed?
The right hand, the right hand.
What was your first deviation?
Dead Trees in December, and it's interesting to note that the trees I wrote about are very much still next to my old apartment, alive and well.
What is your [favorite] type of art to create?
music
If you could instantly master a different art style, what would it be?
I appreciate my struggles to better myself in the few art styles I am fortunate enough to have a seemingly foundational grasp upon - to instantl
:iconCarmalain7:Carmalain7
:iconcarmalain7:Carmalain7 7 29
Journal
NaPoWriMo Week One - Prompts
And ... We're Off!
Welcome to the start of NaPoWriMo, the month long event where poets the world over put their pens to paper and fingers to the keyboard with the intent of producing 30 poems in 30 days!
To help with this endeavor, here are some prompts for any who wish to use them!
Feel free to use any, or all, you'd like and post your progress here!
Prompts
:bulletblack: Find the list of your watchers. Choose a deviant's name from it. Write a poem based off that name (not the person, just the name).
:bulletblack: Write a poem devoted to your favorite beverage.
:bulletblack: Visit the Daily Deviations page (https://www.deviantart.com/dailydeviations/). Write a poem based off of one of the DDs' titles.
:bulletblack: Make a list of your favorite words. Write a poem using 90% of them.
:bulletblack: Grab the nearest book. Flip to page 29 and choose ten words that catch your eye.
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Literature
haikuwrimo April 2015
*30*
ハンドルにピンクリボンを中国へ
handoru ni pinku ribon wo chuugoku e
A pink ribbon on the handle,
To China I go.
*29*
ラッゲージにこれそれあれを朝の微雨
ruggeji ni kore sore are wo asa no biu
To my luggage,
This, that and those-
Morning drizzle
*27*
雀たち枝で喋るや事故の道
suzume tachi eda de shaberu ya jiko no michi
The sparrows chat on the branches-
Accident on the road
*26*
お湯の中団子六つのワルツかな
oyu no naka dango muttsu no warutsu kana
In boiling water,
six dumplings
dancing waltz
*25*
前世纪に生まれた猫に西日かな
zenseki ni umareta neko ni nishib
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Literature
7.3 - Matins
Dirge
   The sound of my breathing,
a heaving of waves against a desolate rock -
       an island entire of itself -
churning the proud stone into an ocean of sand,
   punctuates the morning light
as she peers tentatively through
jagged crag shades half-lidded with
   broken eyelash window panes
           collecting house fly delusions
as they tap against a glass illusion of freedom
         
            (window? or ceiling?)
       A rhythmic tap-tap-taping
   that only a mother can love
           enough to smother.
I resign myself, a click track through tape hiss,
I had placed those shades to keep her curious
       mind from my windowside while I slept,
   but she still watches through veiled rays,
persistently peers out between the crux of my arm
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Literature
Peaches and Cream
Pour me a palette of autumn peach,
blend it in the basin of almond milk,
and let it fuse into my cheeks.
Stir memories of a rustic kiss,
a solemn wooden swing.
A gush of wind and its retreat.
An ounce of rain above my brow.
The sentiment of you and me –
the eyes of burning bronze.
An instant left to cling...
...the original blush
of peaches and cream.
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Literature
VI
    I.                 Today I am Vanilla tea
                               on balmy days when the air is still
                               fresh with the scent of cicadas
                               and mown grass baked in the sun
                               clippings stuck to your feet as you
:iconAvisWing:AvisWing
:iconaviswing:AvisWing 107 91
Literature
nomad
my tongue is a nomad
who runs away
with all the words
i could never say
:iconAochiro:Aochiro
:iconaochiro:Aochiro 13 5
Literature
Citron Sunrise
Dimples accompany her smile,
like children opening their first birthday present
or wise women reminiscing.
Morning fog, sighing over the hills,
calling a lost friend.
Soft, unrelenting voice,
tart like lemon cheesecake,
softened by cream ravines
and crumbling mountains.
Canary wings in flight,
yellow haze seducing fireflies,
taking us away to
beginning and end.
:iconWishingUnderThatStar:WishingUnderThatStar
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Literature
someday i will cut my hair
someday i will cut my hair,
let the dresser do her worst
will watch the ends go first, light
from holding all of the sun, hear the
sharpness of the shears, will feel
buoyant, and alright
and leave the dark waves behind --
                   someday i will bind my hands
                   with golden bands, will let a
                   man lace his fingers
                   through the spaces between mine,
                   palm to palm, squeezing tight
                   like a promise kept
                   but not yet, not yet -
                   for now i will spread my
    &
:iconSuddenlyAutumn:SuddenlyAutumn
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Literature
smother
her spine was dusk
 and unmade nests,
 but he tried to live there
 anyway;
he was neither nocturnal
 nor a dawn-believer,
 so he suffocated
 in the birdhouse of her ribs.
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Tag 175 by SilverInkblot Tag 175 :iconsilverinkblot:SilverInkblot 3 5
Literature
poet, breathe now.
                                                                           you
                                                                           are 
                                                                           the 
                                                   
:iconSammur-amat:Sammur-amat
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Literature
the hanging of an absurdist
alas poor roaches
of the tongue-splitting brigade
              arrived late      
                to the scene of flames
dry humping the body to death
not only untouchable now
                  but intangible
unafraid of the occasional laceration
                   because
                        what
                           can
(...wake it?)
maybe the lifelong reek of oppression
                       in the vicinity of cellars &
maybe the maggot-like sweat beads
   
    as the drain pipe flange digs into the forehead
    and wrist cuffs are about to explode./an att
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Red V by OlgaAthens Red V :iconolgaathens:OlgaAthens 811 116
Journal
Project Educate: Fight Artist's/Writer's Block
Artist/Writer's block is the worst nightmare for writers and artists! Because of this, many artists and writers quit! Writer's/Artist's block is usually only temporary, but it can be long too! Here are some ways to fight writer's/artist's block!
Find a place or situation that inspires you:
Yes, you've all probably heard this a lot of times, but it's true. Finding places that you like can inspire you to do more art/writing! That place doesn't have to be quiet, it can be a huge city bursting with life and sound! Places won't only inspire you, but so will situations. Taking a walk around your city or even you neighborhood can inspire you. Try going to special events that take places. See how people interact! Just like a place, these situations don't have to be happy or very community-like. Sometimes bad situations can inspire artist's/writer's to express their feelings through art or writing.
Pull up old ideas:
Artist's/Writer's usually throw the majorit
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Journal
Little thing called Talent
Little thing called Talent
"My name is Marc, my emotional life is sensitive and my purse is empty, but they say I have talent."
Marc Chagall

Eomticon: Butterfly
In general, talent means the skill that someone has quite naturally to do something that is hard, a high degree of ability that a person was born with. It's hard to argue that some people indeed have more of an inherited talent for arts than others. They are able to get to a certain level rather quickly and get a lot of praise along the way. However, relying on talent will only last for so long, there's a point to be reached when nothing but hard work gets you through.
butterflies
"Talent is so loaded a word, so full to the brim with meanings, that an artist might be wise
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deviantID

ozzla
Lauren
Artist | Literature
Australia
Writing is just one of things I do best spontaneously. It's like trying to plan a water fight - you know that it's going to grow out of control. But that's also the beauty of writing: to see what facet of the unknown it will lead you. Will you traverse the challenging terrains of Eastern forms? Will you dredge up those unsavoury emotions? Personally this element of unknown absolutely captivates me. I hope that my journey will inspire you to pave your own way in literature, through thick and thin, and that when you emerge from the other side you'll be amazed at how much you've grown.
Interests
Wow.

How long has it been? Seriously, I miss you guys *hugs*

I still drop into theWrittenRevolution to keep things running nicely, which, btw, you guys do awesomely :heart:

Right, now here's the obligatory sharing of day-to-day details :meow:

    :bulletorange: Societies are amazing. haha oh CSE camp for having the sleaziest award :XD:
    :bulletorange: I actually like 4 unit maths :O
    :bulletorange: This year reminded me that computing was hard... but also that when you conquer those online activities, nothing compares.

But boy, dat workload. I have to remember to treat myself with a massive binge of online dramas *cough* Faith *cough* and put some solid effort into finishing Bioshock. It sits there on the shelf, staring at me, but I'm like "I'm sorry I have to study" *dies*


Now without much ado, here is some flash fiction:
Can you hear me? Wheezing, skin flush and eyes bright, feet hungering for the pitter-pat of running, the relief of adrenaline ringing in my ears. I'm star bright, and I know I'll burn. I'll go from solid to gaseous, never stopping to gather myself because the world is at my fingertips. We'll collide, and our grains will become the same; I'll claim you, claim you as my fingerprint: the one and only.
  • Listening to: Girl on fire - Alicia Keys
  • Reading: -
  • Watching: -
  • Playing: -
  • Eating: Uni food XD
  • Drinking: Water

Journal History

Comments


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:iconjade-pandora:
Jade-Pandora Featured By Owner Aug 22, 2015
Gosh Lauren, thanks so much for adding me to your Watch.  I'm especially honored as to why you did this! :hug:
Reply
:iconozzla:
ozzla Featured By Owner Aug 26, 2015   Writer
You're welcome, and quoting Erika, "Jade is amazing, you won't regret it", and that's just the kind of stuff I like to read on the odd moments I'm on dA :tighthug:
Reply
:iconjade-pandora:
Jade-Pandora Featured By Owner Edited Aug 30, 2015
Oh and btw: 
        Thank-you-for-watch by KmyGraphic

You honor me so, and thank you for sharing that with me... Erika TheMaidenInBlack is more delicious than pancakes!
:love::iconpancakesplz:
Reply
:iconthemaideninblack:
TheMaidenInBlack Featured By Owner Sep 1, 2015
:eyes: I drool syrup all over.
Reply
(1 Reply)
:iconsammur-amat:
Sammur-amat Featured By Owner Jan 4, 2015   General Artist
Tag a quality deviant: You’re it! Quality doesn’t mean that you have a lot of followers, or a lot of messages. It means that you’re nice to other people, and you deserve to be happy. If you get this message, someone is telling you that they love you as you are, and they don’t care how much followers you have. Send this to 10 deviants who deserve it. If you break the chain, nothing will happen. But it’s just good to let someone know that you love them! Heart
Reply
:iconsuddenlyautumn:
SuddenlyAutumn Featured By Owner Sep 10, 2014
thank you so much for the favorite :heart:
Reply
:iconbreath-of-nefertari:
Breath-of-Nefertari Featured By Owner Sep 10, 2014
Thanks for the fave! :D
Reply
:iconspartan-locke:
spartan-locke Featured By Owner Sep 9, 2014   Traditional Artist
Happy Birthday!
Reply
:iconozzla:
ozzla Featured By Owner Sep 10, 2014   Writer
Thanks! :heart:
Reply
:icondragonfoxing:
Dragonfoxing Featured By Owner Sep 9, 2014
Many wishes of the birthday!
Reply
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