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About Literature / Hobbyist Senior Member Lauren25/Female/United States Group :iconthetitlepage: TheTitlePage
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SilverInkblot's Silver Box

The Good Stuff

I have a big gallery. If you're going to read anything from me, make it something from this box.

SuperimposeHe doesn't look like a gymnast. He's all button down shirts and frazzled grey hair framing wire spectacles, a picture perfect professorial archetype down to the very tips of his frayed shoelaces. But he was a gymnast once, or so he tells us, and I believe him because he smiles like he knows something while he's chatting before class.
It's strange to see that image superimposed over the current one – the distinguished professor in pressed khaki slacks and a jacket, worn brown loafers exuding a faintly courteous manner (you can always tell them by their shoes), and a ring on the fourth finger of his left hand – versus the athletic kid who went to college for a semester and grew nine inches too tall to keep doing what he loved so he took up a tennis racquet instead. Gymnasts don't wear suit jackets; no steel mill worker has such manicured nails. But the images are all there, flickering just under the surface and bubbling up again when he's recounting stories about his days in Pi
Tangential AsymptotesI think about falling in math class.
The boy in front of me is writing diligently, noting each and every word as though he forgot it was all in the textbook. He has dark hair all tangled up in the back like a bramble of thornbushes and his green hoodie looks like it could use a good washing.
The professor is rattling on about asymptotes, about two lines that go on forever, getting closer and closer but never touching. He tells us about the Greek roots of the word; asymptotos, that it means "not falling together," and he scribbles nonsense equations on the board and hopes that we understand them better than he does because tenure is the only reason he's teaching this class.
As much as I hate math, I have to admit there's something beautiful about the concept. Something romantic and longing, something I can relate to in a sea of cold precision and dispassionate numbers.
I think about falling in math class. I think about fractals and their intricate patterns, turning equations into art. T
Some Lovers III died on a cold
day, numbed fingers flexing,
grasping at the last traces of embers  
withering in the grate.
I died holding your hand,
the hand I accidentally fractured
when I pushed you  too
harshly near an edge
and you flailed to find
a more elegant way
to fall and then
I heard the scaphoid crack –
but I didn't. I heard the cry
first and the pain came later
but you held my
hand anyway.
I died with my arms
held over my head,
pinned down to the sheets by your solid
mass, fingers entwined  
with yours until I
could no longer tell which bones
were my own. I baked
in the aftermath of the dying
heat and felt the blood
back into my fingers
before forgetting again
as you sighed into my neck.
I died on a cold
day, but I never felt
SurrogateI stopped using his full title
because it started sounding too formal,
and it’s hard to be standoffish with someone
who swaps albums and memories so generously,
who loves German chocolate but hates the smell of oranges,
who knows me by my boneless,
drowsy form on the couch and by my words.
And maybe one day he’ll ask
me to drop the title altogether and call him Brad,
but I won’t.
Because it sounds too much like dad,
and I’m afraid of slipping up.
He doesn't write poetry anymore.He doesn’t write poetry anymore,
even if he still collects it, reads it, saves it, treasures
faded verses from his wife the way connoisseurs
savor vinyl over metallic rainbows on disc.
I don’t mind not knowing, but I can’t stand not asking.
The record needle hits the groove wrong;
he stumbles over words that aren’t there,
rummaging for an answer he doesn’t really have.
He doesn’t write poetry anymore
and his confusion is strangely endearing.
But there’s a lyricism to his words that I love,
poetic lines inserted between the daily grind
of character names and who said what;
voiceless boys in white and draymen carting the dead to saltwater lakes,
elegiac undertones that haunt historians and forlorn painters.
He doesn’t write poetry anymore –
except when he does.
Stories of feelings with no names - Revision i.
The feeling you get the day after sending a letter, and you know there is no possible way that the recipient has received your message, let alone formulated time to write a reply. You still get just a little hopeful when you hear the mailman drive by. You rush out to the postbox a little too quickly and are disappointed by the pile of free coupons, bills, charity flyers, and a late Christmas card from your late Grandma Moses.
You lost your voice one day. You woke up to a hollow echo in the base your throat and knew you’d lost something special before you’d ever had a chance to say anything worthwhile. You checked under the bed and tried the lost and found, but couldn’t even ask if anyone had heard it lately.
A sudden awareness that occurs during funerals that you are going to die. You are dying right now – your cells are shedding like snakeskin and your hair is turning silver and every moment is one less than
Autumn was my first love.October, I follow you -
from the magic lights of New York
to moonshines in Georgia,
until the colors dissolve.
The anxious poetry of autumn
made a memory of me.
Here’s to things I take for granted:
September blues,
chasing airplanes,
country road thunderstorms.
Unspoken words, unwritten ideas.
October, I follow you;
I thought I saw you on the shore
where the river runs through gold
on the last boat leaving the city of a hundred spires -
or perhaps Pittsburgh
(it was the lights I guess).
Here’s to the things we leave behind:
sunbeams in November,
letters addressed to no one,
poems, wounds, dead birds.
I’ve got that summertime sadness.
Maybe you’re gonna come back;
we’re changing our ways, taking different roads
and loneliness knows me by name
but October, I follow you;
without you I’m a winter heart,
a love story you don’t want,
a November shade of grey hunting ghosts
in cities that sleep inside our heads.
You told me you lied the night you kiss
is the hush of the ocean,
the glossy paint on your car,
the gleam in your eyes.
It's the ruffle of parchment in the glove compartment
of your susurrating '57 Thunderbird
as we leave the last rumble of brontide behind
on a salt-crushed highway.
Traces of powdered sugar noses
and mint milkshake lips
were cold reminders
of warm nostalgic days
when summer could melt the tarmac
like my bones under your gaze.
Old SoulsDoc says I’m an old
soul, with my postcards
and letters, and waste-no-words
policy. Doc says old souls still make eye
contact instead of playing with iPhones,
mirrors that stare back, and tell
us who we are by knowing
who they are.
Doc tells me I’m an old
soul in a young body, taming
wild Internets and bringing my words
to heel like a triple score
in a game of Scrabble.
That I was born in the wrong
decade, that I was meant to punch
typewriter keys like a boxer,
that the twenty-first century
wasn’t made for old souls like mine.
Doc thinks I’m too old
to be twenty-three, constantly forgetting
the barriers of my few years.
Like that I never wrote about myself
until he gave me moments
worth writing down, and cared
about the person behind the words.
That I learned who I was by learning
who he was, and drew a timeline
of intersection points where each
node became a poem, and each poem
became a stepping stone.
Doc unearthed an old
soul in my notebook.
Old like a favori
Turn my words against me.I want my words to take
root in your stomach and grow
up your esophagus, the calyx
of your tongue brushing the edge
of your teeth until the words blossom
from your lips in a slow
explosion of elegance, jawline
trickled with nectar, charming
hummingbirds and honeybees
with the promise of butterfly kisses.

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News Articles I've Written

The Visual Novel: Video Games as a Literary MediumWhat is it?

A visual novel is more or less exactly what it sounds like. It's a novel that can be played. While the form has been popular in Japan for decades, they have only recently reached Western audiences, thanks largely in part to the influx of anime, manga, and Japanese Role Playing Games (JRPGs) saturating the market. Consequently, many games of this type have anime influences in the design.
The visual novel is most easily compared to interactive fiction or the Choose Your Own Adventure series - at various points, the player is prompted to make some sort of choice that has the potential to affect the outcome of the game.  A typical game usually has at least three endings; a Bad, Neutral, and Good (also called the "Perfect" or "True" ending). However, this is not necessarily standard - most seem to fall somewhere between 4 and 10 unique endings. Often
Foreign Words the English Language NeedsOh hello. I’m finally getting around to making this news article that I said I might do, like, a month ago. Sorry, I’m not used to writing news articles. Bear with me.
Back in August, I started a series in my forums for cool foreign words. It went over extremely well and numerous people requested that I combine them into a handy-dandy news article for deviantART at large to enjoy. So, here you are: fifteen foreign words that the English language needs to steal appropriate.
Hiraeth (Welsh)
What it means: A feeling of longing associated with displacement, but not necessarily displacement from one’s original home. An intense yearning to be somewhere you are not. Hiraeth also expresses a sort of ache or longing for something of the past, somewhat similar to the notion of "golden" or "good old days," but with more ancient connotations.
Why it needs to be a thing in English: I speak as someone from a country
Untitled is just a synonym for lazy.Well, the color poem form I introduced to dA was a rousing success, but interest of late seems to have died down. So I'm back with a new form for you all, something exciting and new, something different, something that I will probably make into a contest once I get some points in the bank. You ready?
There's a group now - feel free to head over to TheTitlePage! We're still in set-up mode, so excuse the plainness for now.

Found Poetry Project - Titles as Art

One of my favorite things about the creative process is coming up with a good title. The title can make or break a piece; it can give context not provided in the piece itself, set a tone or mood, or just give that little extra something you can't put a name on.
You know I'm right. How many times have you stumbled into an ordinary piece with a beautifully creative title? And it's not something
Managing Your Inbox: Some Tips on StreamliningI'm not really an organized person. Yeah, sure, I like to TRY to be one, but most of my attempts to clean house don't stick. The one exception, however, is in my online life. I keep everything to do with the computer tabbed and organized and that includes my dA life.  
I posted a poll asking visitors what their inbox looked like on a typical day. As of this writing, of the 52 responses, 35 have full inboxes that is, somewhere between 200 and up to (or over) 1000 messages to sort through. So about 70% of the voters have quite a lot to page over.
I hear horror stories quite frequently from deviants who are overwhelmed by the sheer volume of things passing through their inbox. My personal inbox rarely reaches three digit numbers, and the few times it has, it's always been because something of mine has made the footer. While I can't promise that my personal methods will work for everyone, it n

For My Own Sanity

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Empty! :noes:

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Fun Stuff


Click to see what I'm reading! I love recommendations and chatting about books :la: I should start a book club sometime.

I make bookmarks for pretty much anyone who asks. Just give that flourish a click, and you'll find instructions on how to request your own!

Meme: Alternate SelfiesI've been bored around dA lately, so I decided to start a meme :lol:
I see those long Q&A lists floating around all the time, and they're boring. They all ask roughly the same questions over and over, so I don't tend to do many. But it got me thinking - how I can spice up a tired meme? What's another way to learn about a person? And this is the solution I found.
You can tell a lot about a person by what they write, but there are lots of other ways to get an idea of who they are. What they wear; what they read; what their room looks like; what posters they hang on their walls; what they keep in their bedside drawer. If you're like me, bored with answering the same questions, then feel free to jump in and show your watchers who you are in a different way :D
1. Post a selfie.
Yeah, this is still a pretty standard one, but it's nice to put a face to the words :P
2. Post a photo of your bed.
Your sleeping area says a surprising amount. For instance, mine says I don't like to make the be
Holographic ResonanceAll things will be in everything;
nor is it possible for them to be apart,
but all things have a portion of everything.
— Anaxagoras c. 500 bce


When a holographic plate is cut several times, each fragment contains the entire image. In other words, the whole can be found in every part and the notion of separation becomes impossible. Even the idea of separation is contained in the all.


To make a hologram, a laser light is split into two beams. The first beam bounces off the object and is reflected onto the holographic plate, or recording medium. A second projected beam creates an interference pattern that contains the information of the object spread throughout
Kafka's Joke Book
Regarded as one of the most influential writers of the 20th century, Franz Kafka is best known today as "that guy who wrote a story about some dude turning into a cockroach." Working with themes of alienation, the fantastic made mundane, and parent-child conflict, his works are populated with well meaning characters caught in the crossroads of tragedy, surrealism, and existentialism.
And yet, Kafka himself considered his works funny, supposedly laughing out loud among friends when reading and sharing his work. Indeed, when read in the right mindframe, the ironic circumstances and black comedy of Kafka's nightmarish worlds can and will provoke a chuckle of two, even as events continue spiraling out of control.
Thus, I will be presenting you today with Kafka's Joke Book, a McSweeny's article written by comic and stand-up comedian John McNamee, who you may know for his work, Pie.

Cooking a StoryToday I decided to make roasted carrot soup, which got me thinking that writing and cooking are particularly ripe for comparison. At first glance, both seem easy. Buy these ingredients and prepare them, and voila, dinner.  Come up with a plot, write it out, and voila, novel. Both cooking and writing seem like tasks than can be planned and executed through clarity of thinking, fidelity of execution, and sheer force of will. Maybe this apparent simplicity is why everyone you meet on an airplane is writing a book. (Why is it always people on airplanes? Maybe that’s the only place I talk to strangers.) Of course the reality is that there is a fair bit of magic to both good cooking and good writing.

As someone who has outlined two novels, and then written two totally different books than the ones I’d so carefully plotted, I can testify that simply writing down the jou




Artist | Hobbyist | Literature
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Autumn Brontide

I bleed ink. I have unusual taste in music. I have a giant top hat. I have been featured multiple times by DailyLitDeviations / DailyLitRecognition (and a DD! (or six!) :la:) and consider that the highest achievement of my life.



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Mon Nov 16, 2015, 2:22 PM


Putting This OffdeviantART newbies, go over here for my welcome message:

Everyone else, buckle up for the feel trip. I haven't put up a personal journal in a while and some serious shit has been going down. Trigger warning for the saddest thing ever.
My third nephew, Carson, was born on September 11th with no issues. The next day, he began to have trouble breathing and was taken to the Arkansas Children's Hospital by helicopter. ACH is one of the best pediatric centers in the country, so if they say it's bad, it's bad.
The first night.
ACH put him on a ventilator to help him breathe. I don't know all the details, but I know his blood sugar dropped and then spiked way too high, then dropped again, and his blood pressure has had issues as well. There have been tremors and seizures. He was kept more or less in stasis on the ventilator for three days.
After the waiting period, doctors began to wean him off some of the support system to see what he could do on his own. He breathed
You may remember this journal entry from back in September. You may want to read it first for additional context.
Robin and Trey (my brother), have been more or less living at the hospital since September. Trey has been back and forth, but Robin has been there near constantly to be close to Carson. They keep everyone updated with things through Facebook. Yesterday, there was a big meeting with a lot of doctors. Today's Facebook post was not a good one.
The hospital has, more or less, given up. They don't believe Carson will ever get any better, and he can't stay in the hospital forever. They will be sending him home soon, essentially to die. Instead of summarizing, here is what Robin put up:
We had a big meeting at ACH yesterday. The attending, Carson's neurologist, 2 APNs, the social worker, the discharge planner, and a dr and a specialty nurse from the pal care team. Up until yesterday we were excited because we thought that Carson would be coming home bc

Carson was sent home on Friday - no one was sure he'd even make it there, never mind though the night. It's Sunday now, and little man is still here :) He's still having a lot of episodes, but manages to recover from about half of them on his own, without help from the oxygen mask or anything. He's also been coughing, which is great news given his breathing troubles. Last I heard, they were planning to take him outside and see about a little fresh air.

My family and I dropped by the hospital a few days before he left to see him, just in case we never got another chance. I got to hold him a bit, and we all took some pictures that turn out too elongated in this journal for me to post :/

In other news, I'll be starting work on the 22nd. It's in a warehouse for Dillard's, and I think I'll be gift wrapping and such. The place also hires a lot of the temps that are brought in, so there's a good chance it may turn into something more permanent.

Finally got Doc to get on with this book club thing. We had lunch last week and chatted about The Last Unicorn for a couple of hours. He's planning to teach the book, and I've analyzed the hell out of it, so I drew up a sort-of lesson plan :B He's been calling me most nights as well, and I keep him updated on Carson and whatever else is currently happening around me. Haven't read anything to him in ages though - send me some literature to read!

I feel like I haven't been terribly active around here lately, though I really want to be. I want to put another article together, but don't have anything to build around. Ping me if you have any ideas please :)

Previous articles:

Calm Down
Holographic Resonance
Cooking a Story
Kafka's Joke Book

Also, I sent out about 15 Christmas cards a few days ago! Consider that round one ;) LiliWrites, Aborro, DrippingWords, xlntwtch, Nichrysalis, violamoss, A-Shadow-Rose, MagicalJoey, LadyLincoln, introverted-ghost, haphazardmelody, RoamingShadow, and a few others should be keeping a lookout! Don't forget - if you'd like a card, just tell me! I love sending mail :D


my lungs are numb.i'm jealous of a dead painter
because i know that if michelangelo was alive
he'd paint you on the ceiling
with the other angels
and trap your body in marble
his eyes grazing over every inch
of your olive skin
to try to make his art
as beautiful as you
would he cry at night
when you went away and he
looked at the canvas or stone
and realized that not even his hands
could create something of your stature
and grace
i'm jealous of a dead painter
because if he and i were standing side by side
he would have the courage to ask
to paint you
and i would look down at my shoes
and write poems about you in my head
that i would never speak to you out loud
i'd say he would win your heart
but the three of us all know
it wouldn't even be
a competition.
amputeeyou are nothing but a cancerous appendage;
like a carcinogen rich cigarette you light my bones on fire,
pocking my skin in ashy scars
and choking me with your sick, selfish poison.
I am not your ashtray.
I made the mistake of ignoring the infection the first time,
letting it fester under my flesh like a
rash I couldn’t scratch, but not this time;
I won’t let this become terminal because I’m cutting you off—
I’d rather be one leg short than
knee deep in your corrosive waste.
  floorboardsthere's a cat that lives
in the floorboards of my room.
sometimes at night i hear it moving
(just the slightest little bit)
and i wonder if it's sleeping,
running in its dreams,
or it's awake with insomnia
(like me).
during the day when i'm away
i think to myself,
"is it hungry? is it cold?
should i put a warm towel out there?
is the rain stopping it
from being happy?"
and that's when i realize
i'm taking worse care of myself
than i do for a cat i never see,
only hear and feel
shifting its weight
under my feet.

low    autumn thunderheads
streak grey coats dark with rain-
    donkey mare and foal
august's skeleton.Sunburnt freedom of July
we come tumbling in the auburn joy of boredom
down the spine of summer.
And spelled in the scabs on your knees
is the innocent insolence
scuffing the corners of your memory:
all hyperbole, grinning toothless bravery
swallowed in your father's coat,
whipping around corners and slipping
out of a chiaroscuro childhood.
  Immortal Theory6.
My brother believes
in reincarnation
as history repeats itself,
or at least that's what he slurred
on the anti-psychotics that made him
One little man didn't know
there existed a continent
between him and a spice trade,
so the world got bigger: or at least
that's how I imagined it,
coloring brown smiling Indians
dining with grim little pilgrims
in kindergarten.
By second grade I knew
Native Americans died of diseases like small pox,
pictures in the textbook of sad weathered faces
wrapped in government-issued blankets,
but it wasn't until I read a book about a teenager
from Spokane who lived on a reservation
that I asked: Was this the greatest country
Those blankets became sinister,
and by sixth grade I was suspended
for saying genocide.
In college,
they told me I was right but
the debt already had me.
Do you think of entropy?
The empath and the narcissist in an eternal battle
for the human spirit. Neither wins,
only greed, only chaos,
only t

.The jewelry box was
a knot of chains and pearls.
In the bottom drawer;
my parents birthstones
tangled together.
how to write better poetry.i.
drink down the words
of the greats in a wine glass.
hell, drink down the words
of teenagers struggling
to straighten out the
gas and brake pedals
of their pens.
drink it all,
carefully structured stanzas
and sloppy melting words
blind drunk.
make time for it
even if it's midnight
and all the world is humming
its sleep song.
dig up your soul
and shake down the dirt
over and over
until it becomes habit.
(and I know that might
sound like a pretty metaphor,
but it's easier said than done.)
do it when it hurts.
do it when that one person
you never thought you'd lose
leaves you nightcrawling. 
do it when you're so tired
you speak in natural riddles,
do it mentally at morning coffee
and grocery checkouts.
force it until it feels
like breathing.
after all, no one is born a poet;
we carve ourselves fresh,
make art from our own
find a springtime kid
with the kind of smile
that causes shipwrecks.
he will warn you to stay away,
but you will
  If Only You'd Been Asking the Right QuestionsI got a note from you today that just read
"Do you love me?"
And you gave me two boxes to spill out
The innermost secrets of my heart
And a check or a cross could break yours
I tried to smooth the creases out
But you had been folding that paper since first period
Fold, unfold, fold, unfold
Until my best friend leaned across to your table
And asked what you were playing with
Because she always paid more attention to you
Than she ever did the teacher                                            (as did I)
And maybe if you'd asked me in person
Or if she wasn't looking at me with
curious-hungry eyes and question-mark lips
Maybe if you'd given me a notebook
And scrawled those four words at the top
I would have enough space to tell you all the
Reasons and excuses I have for
[X] No

Coding by SimplySilent

Ping me if you want a Christmas card! 

5 deviants said Tell me if you're a U.S. resident, or international
1 deviant said If you've given me your address before, I probably still have it.
1 deviant said I'll let you know if I don't :lol:
No deviants said so I can buy the appropriate amount of stamps.


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Add a Comment:
Skipper-107 Featured By Owner 5 days ago  New Deviant Hobbyist Traditional Artist
Thanks for the Llama
SilverInkblot Featured By Owner 5 days ago  Hobbyist Writer
No problem :)
SandwichEverywhere Featured By Owner Nov 15, 2015  Hobbyist
oh myy ;v; thanks for the llama<3
SilverInkblot Featured By Owner Nov 15, 2015  Hobbyist Writer
No problem :)
SandwichEverywhere Featured By Owner Nov 15, 2015  Hobbyist
i really appreciate it >v<
Alleboo Featured By Owner Nov 9, 2015  New Deviant Hobbyist Traditional Artist
Yaaaay, thank you for my first llama!! Not really sure what it is, but it's it's cute and pretty exciting. Thanks <3
SilverInkblot Featured By Owner Nov 9, 2015  Hobbyist Writer
It's not really anything; just something deviants can give to each other :)
Alleboo Featured By Owner Nov 11, 2015  New Deviant Hobbyist Traditional Artist
Well thanks for the gift (:
Jompie Featured By Owner Nov 7, 2015
Thank you by Jompie
SilverInkblot Featured By Owner Nov 8, 2015  Hobbyist Writer
Whatever you're thanking me for, you're welcome :XD:
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