The-Story-Spinner is a hobbyist artist from the United States who has been on DeviantART for one year. Her wonderfully diverse gallery is filled with digital art, photography, traditional art, and literature.
In between placesWhen people long for spring
they forget that
sterile cold
and clean white lines
don't simply morph
into lush green living things
When people long for spring
they forget all the things they could not bury
in stone hard ground
and the way death smells
when it thaws
When people pray for snow-melt
and dream of golden afternoons
in quiet fishing coves
They forget that
when you wake a sleeping river
You get a raging torrent
Gorged on torn trees
and blackened with stolen soil
Before you get a quiet brook
to soothe sore feet
When the burns penetrate deeper than the skin
and the damage hides under the surface
people want to forget that
The nerves heal first
and the first sign of life
is screaming pain
and the feel of fire all over again
Life does not divide itself up neatly. There are places in between hurt and healing
in between death and new life
and they are never nice to look at.
PinesThe pines bend over
Crooked
Dark against a satin sky
Old and wind-twisted
Weary of winter
of going on
They stretch in a sweet spring sun
Stretch, straighten, and start over
pale new needles poke
out of paper-crisp wrappings
tender and soft
having never seen a winter
Rain colors I crush the clumps of pigment between my fingers. They crumble at my touch like so much sand, but I know their magic. Even dry they smell of rain and damp earth.
I know we need rain, even though my uncles won’t say so in front of me. The grass is as brittle as straw. Where the pond should be, there is only a dry dip in the ground, crisscrossed with a spiderweb of cracks. The blades on the cornstalks curl into stiff dusty spikes, and I know, though no one tells me, that corn will not be good this year, and my daddy is worried. But most of all I see that drought has stolen the color from my world. Everything: people, fields, animals, and houses, all becomes the same cinnamon color of dry dust.
I know this well, yet I do something wasteful. Guiltily, I pour a trickle of water into the hollow of my hand to mix my paints. The colors are bright and fresh as if well watered. Of all the paints, I like blue bes
Growing UpGrowing up
is a contradiction in terms
to do it right
you must lose what makes you childish
and hold on for dear life
to everything that makes you childlike
sacrificing imagination for pragmatism
does not make you mature
it makes you hollow
Losing wonder to indifference
does make you an adult
it makes you apathetic and cynical
growing up isn't about burying the child inside you
hiding them so deep you can forget they exist
it is making them strong
strong enough to bear
the savage attack on who you are
that is living
and strong enough to protect others
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Skin by SimplySilent
