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About Literature / Hobbyist Senior Member Lauren24/Female/United States Groups :iconlitrecognition: LitRecognition
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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.

Helpful Stuff

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I do Critiques upon request, though I've been known to dish them out occasionally for no reason at all ;) Feel free to ask if you'd like me to look over something for you!

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All You need to know about DD's
Suggest one today! :D

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DailyLitDeviations has been having trouble garnering suggestions lately: why not help them out?

Using HTML on dA
On of the most helpful resources I've found. I refer back to it frequently :)

Using Font on dA
Because I'm a sucker for formatting :XD:

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Useful for features!

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

I Am A Swing Admin For DLR!

What's That Mean?

That means I keep an eye out for the best literature on dA (specifically prose). If you think you have a suggestion for me, read on!

What is DailyLitRecognition / LitRecognition?

DLR is a group dedicated to promoting the work of Literature artists on deviantArt.

By showcasing one featured DD per day, the Literature Gallery Moderators provide the community with a showcase of excellence in Literature. In contrast, we will be showcasing excellence with a series of literature pieces each day in a News Article to serve the community. We are a diverse group featuring 5 pieces of quality literature every day.

In such a large community many writers feel that their work goes unnoticed. DLR is here to help change that!

How do I suggest a DLR?

Please see the profile page for the general guidelines and a list of the other Admins you can suggest to. Please only suggest a piece to one Admin at a time to avoid any confusion.

Okay, but what if I have a suggestion for YOU, SilverInkblot?

Top right corner - send me a note! Here's the rundown:

:bulletblue: Please send no more than two suggestions at a time. This makes it easier for me to keep up.

:bulletblue: I can feature Prose or Poetry, though I try to focus more on Prose. We have lots of Poetry Admins who are very dedicated to their job and our Prose is sometimes lacking.

:bulletblue: Please include a thumb and a description of why you think this piece deserves to be featured. It doesn't have to be a full critique - a few sentences will do nicely!

:bulletblue: Yes, you can suggest yourself! If you deserve it, you deserve it! But please don't send me your entire gallery - remember I have to actually READ everything sent to me.

:bulletblue: All the Admins have a certain style they enjoy. I myself like reading flash fic and prosetry, so I'm more likely to feature things with those qualities. However, I WILL read and consider anything sent to me. I do have to ask though, that they are standalone pieces - not chapters. I can't accept fanfiction either.

For My Own Sanity

DD Stuff!





I'm trying to get into the habit of suggesting DD's - having the links on my page is easier than hunting them down everytime :XD: Links go to the respective DD guideline pages :D

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!




Artist | Hobbyist | Literature
United States

Autumn Brontide

I bleed ink. I have unusual taste in music. There is a Mario composed of sticky notes on my bedroom wall. I have a giant top hat. PlayStation is the best game console. I have discovered an obsession with making origami stars. I have been featured multiple times by DailyLitDeviations / DailyLitRecognition (and a DD! (or five!) :la:) and consider that the highest achievement of my life.


Stuff I do around dA:

:bulletred: I am the Founder ofDailyLitRecognition / LitRecognition. I'm responsible for Monday's article specifically, as well overseeing the various group functions and special events, and managing a team of 30+ people.

:bulletorange: Suggest DLR's every week, either directly or through the other admins. Please, by all means send me your literature suggestions! See below for guidelines.

:bulletyellow: Maintaining TheTitlePage.

:bulletgreen: Creating and selling bookmarks; feel free to request one!

:bulletblue: Suggest DD's on occasion, when I run across something particularly good :D

:bulletpurple: Weekly journals with lit. news and features :la:


Make a Difference 5 by 3wyl Night Owl Stamp + PLZ by Mirz123 Write. -stamp by Rivana Anyone Can Critique by Haters-Gonna-Hate-Me I was featured on DLD by caybeach Thank You For The... Stamp by Mirz123 Listening to the Rain by savagebinn homework stamp by sjthunder Reply Comments Stamp by Mirz123 I heart my Laptop by StamPorMole Typing Stamp by In-The-Machine DD Stamp by Drake1 Hot Chocolate Stamp by Kezzi-Rose Share your joy by Drake1 Being Nice Makes Me Happy Stmp by Mirz123

Technique and Emotion

Sat Apr 25, 2015, 7:17 PM

A Rant

My dad read a poem today, and asked me what I thought of it. I asked if he wanted me to answer honestly or kindly.

He didn't like that.

Called me a critic (as though that's an insult) hurting people's feelings (as though the poet were in the car with us).

Even before I earned an English degree, back in high school even, I could have told you that this wasn't a great poem. My dad's argument is that something with emotion or that makes you feel emotion is worthwhile. Setting aside vagueries like "emotion," my argument is that sentiment alone doesn't mean it's any good. The poem in question is completely end-stopped, no enjambment, no rhythm to speak of, nothing but perfect rhymes, shallow images - it's a longer than usual Hallmark card.

And I guess if I weren't an English major his opinion wouldn't grate on my nerves so much, but, since I am, and editing/critique is kinda WHAT I COULD REALLY HAVE A FUTURE DOING, it bothers me. 50 Shades has emotion too - that doesn't mean it isn't garbage writing.

Emotion without technique isn't a poem - it's a diary entry.


And now, on to your regularly scheduled content :)

I don't recall much of what I did this week, as my Saturday has driven everything else from my mind. Mom and I were already planning to go to Garvan Woodland Gardens - Dad surprised us by taking the day off and coming along. The first thing we saw leaving the lobby was the peacock.
Just look at that second photo - he's so close, it doesn't even look real - it looks like a drawing of a peacock :XD: Complete showoff - he was walking right up to people, posing, doing his peacock thing. Got some great pictures out of him :D
Lots of water running through the park, and plenty of waterfalls (most on the smaller side). The furthest point back also gives a nice overlook of the lake. Dad says he saw a copperhead snake slide under a rock near there - we tried to notify the front desk, but no one was picking up the phone. I hope he stayed there, cause you don't want to mess with that S.O.B. They aren't always aggressive, but they will bite if necessary, and they're venomous. It probably won't kill you, but it'll hurt like a bitch.
I spotted this cute little skink outside the entrance. I believe it's a broad-headed skink, and a young one at that. Didn't get a chance to pick him up - didn't even get to touch him :XD:
One of the bridges. I just thing the texture is cool :)

Oh, and I remember the other thing I did this week - I had my lunch with Doc :heart:

Notes to Self

:bulletblack: StyleOverSubstance needs ONE MORE Round Nine submission!

:bulletblack: I need a feature idea; I'd like to do something like Holographic Resonance again, but I haven't found a good article to build around. Help plz.

:bulletblack: I did an interview! tWR Interviews: Poetic Prose

:bulletblack: A number of people will be finding some mail in their boxes soon!


and that jacket was bloodied anywaynietzsche said that the snake
must shed its skin or die;
but i don't know how to be my own god.
i'm a printer error
fist slam stuck scraping on repeat.
as if a denim jacket could ever
be big enough to cover this up.
as if your lipstick could ever
be red enough to swallow this whole.
as if my throat could ever
be curved enough to leave this all
the aftermaththe temple of her body was torn open tonight,
desecrated and lit on fire. i swear, gods have burned
and felt less pain than i do as i write these words down,
because she’s crying in my bathroom right now and i have
to go and convince her that the handful of feathers
i have left in my palms could ever equal the wings he snipped
off of her tonight. she will never fly again. she will never
believe so wholly in herself again. her body is no longer
a temple, her body is a landmine, an open wound, a thousand
foot drop off of a bridge, a stranger to her. she will never
again be able to trust her body, to know her body.
this is not the first poem i’ve written about rape. but this is
the first poem i’ve written about rape when my hands
are shaking and i have a twenty second phone call still ringing
in my ears. it’s not about statistics anymore. i cannot
distance myself from the cold, hard facts by using pretty
metaphors about dissolving and beginning anymore
because a gi

voices made to shake the dustThere are a thousand and one voices in this room with me, all of them awake and lilting through my senses.
Catherine is soft, sheltered even; she reminds me of butter, half melted in the summertime. But Stephen, who sits across from her, is a crueler counterpart, uneven and harsh in his unfiltered utterances; he has bruised more than one voice in here.
George is a spiderweb, each word weaving into another until they lie stretched, reflecting the weight of the world. Beside him, Jodi is a hurricane; constant in her certainty, she is the ground below my feet.
John is a grandfather clock, proud and stately; whisperer of stories, he has soothed my soul more often than I recall. There is Wilbur also, dearest Wilbur, who I loved as a child but cannot manage to love now.
There are a thousand and one voices in here and if I were to tell you about them all, I would be here until time claimed my bones for dust. But I am not made for dust, so I can only tell you this: it is impossible for me to l
CEO vs The BoardMy mental illnesses are a board of directors
Overseeing my vast and complicated brain as if it were a company.
Anxiety is the guy who was hired to be creative,
To come up with all the what-ifs, the hypotheticals.
He's rarely right but they all think he's good to have around.
The CEO disagrees.
Bipolar is a scatterbrained woman who's always the last
To make up her mind
And most of time after she does, she changes it.
Often more than once.
She's an inconvenience but they all think she's good to have around.
The CEO disagrees.
PTSD has a photographic memory and she never forgets
An event, a word, a smell, a feeling
The most random thing will remind her of one of these
And she doesn't hesitate to bring them up at the most inopportune of times.
She's annoying and distracting but they all think she's good to have around.
The CEO disagrees.
Depression is the head of the board who feeds off the actions of all the others
Then twists them around and makes it all about him,
how it made him feel s

Coding by SimplySilent

Experiementing with recording though a phone app. 

3 deviants said More later :)
2 deviants said saltwaterlungs
No deviants said colbalt-rain
No deviants said 1nkl1ng


Add a Comment:
MusicInducedDaydream Featured By Owner 4 days ago  Professional General Artist
:blush: :heart: :heart:
Omg, thank you so much for the :+fav: and the feature for my poem "You can keep september..."

I am amazed by the sudden outpour of support for this poem :heart: Thank you so much for the support for my art!
SilverInkblot Featured By Owner 4 days ago  Hobbyist Writer
You're welcome! It's a lovely piece :D
herbodyismycoffin Featured By Owner 6 days ago   Writer
thank you for the favorite!
SilverInkblot Featured By Owner 5 days ago  Hobbyist Writer
MusicInducedDaydream Featured By Owner Apr 14, 2015  Professional General Artist
Thank you so much for the :+fav: on my poem "You Can Keep September..." :hug: 
SilverInkblot Featured By Owner Apr 17, 2015  Hobbyist Writer
Anytime :)
camelopardalisinblue Featured By Owner Apr 11, 2015  Hobbyist General Artist
I just stopped by to say thank you very much for the (not-so-) recent fav/s! I really appreciate the support and I'm glad you enjoyed my artwork. :) Hope you're having a great day!
SilverInkblot Featured By Owner Apr 11, 2015  Hobbyist Writer
You're welcome! And to you as well :D
BloodshotInk Featured By Owner Apr 10, 2015
Thanks for the fave :}
SilverInkblot Featured By Owner Apr 10, 2015  Hobbyist Writer
Anytime :D
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