Shop Mobile More Submit  Join Login
About Artisan Crafts / Student SickuntodeathFemale/United Kingdom Recent Activity
Deviant for 4 Years
Needs Core Membership
Statistics 13 Deviations 11 Comments 1,606 Pageviews

Newest Deviations

Untitled by Sickuntodeath Untitled :iconsickuntodeath:Sickuntodeath 0 0 Anguish by Sickuntodeath Anguish :iconsickuntodeath:Sickuntodeath 2 0 Dissociative Identity Disorder VIII by Sickuntodeath Dissociative Identity Disorder VIII :iconsickuntodeath:Sickuntodeath 0 0 Dissociative Identity Disorder VII by Sickuntodeath Dissociative Identity Disorder VII :iconsickuntodeath:Sickuntodeath 1 0 Dissociative Identity Disorder VII by Sickuntodeath Dissociative Identity Disorder VII :iconsickuntodeath:Sickuntodeath 0 2 Dissociative Identity Disorder VI by Sickuntodeath Dissociative Identity Disorder VI :iconsickuntodeath:Sickuntodeath 0 0 Dissociative Identity Disorder V by Sickuntodeath Dissociative Identity Disorder V :iconsickuntodeath:Sickuntodeath 0 0 Dissociative Identity Disorder IV by Sickuntodeath Dissociative Identity Disorder IV :iconsickuntodeath:Sickuntodeath 2 0 Dissociative Identity Disorder III by Sickuntodeath Dissociative Identity Disorder III :iconsickuntodeath:Sickuntodeath 0 0 Dissociative Identity Disorder II by Sickuntodeath Dissociative Identity Disorder II :iconsickuntodeath:Sickuntodeath 1 0 Dissociative Identity Disorder by Sickuntodeath Dissociative Identity Disorder :iconsickuntodeath:Sickuntodeath 0 0 2012 Exhibition Owl by Sickuntodeath 2012 Exhibition Owl :iconsickuntodeath:Sickuntodeath 1 0 My 2012 by Sickuntodeath My 2012 :iconsickuntodeath:Sickuntodeath 0 0


In the soft patch of velcro
on the blue curtain--
a lightning bolt of thread,
one thousand spindles
of what were words once
but no longer.
The newspaper folded neatly on an empty seat reads
The poet comes out of the earth.
Act accordingly.
In the train toilet, someone has left
a crumpled rose of notepaper behind the tap.
Unfolding it reveals pencil markings.
Someone began a letter:
"Forgive me. I don't know your weaknesses,
and don't know what to avoid when writing to you."
They had then given up.
It's raining against my window.
I take a couple pills meant for pain.
I chew them right before I swallow
so the dry bitterness shoots over my tongue.
Sometimes relief doesn't come fast enough.
Sometimes you don't want it to.
"i wish i were an empty page
in a soft, yellow book.
it would be easy to mistake myself
for a few clouds implying mountains,
or the sound of an animal cooing at the edge
of a city.
i would pass for an absent object
that could only hav
:iconantonfrost:antonfrost 15 8
adolescence by laura-makabresku adolescence :iconlaura-makabresku:laura-makabresku 548 7
Paper Hearts and Tattoo Love Stories
She tattooed love in a foreign tongue
On her left wrist—
Just so others would ask what it meant.
She sank her teeth into its meaning,
hoping one day the brand would bleed
Its definition upon her skin.
Lingering there, a forgotten kiss.
Lip-stick stained collars,
Little bones wired are ready,
Folded like patterned paper.
origami hearts—
Sprinkled every which way.  
Sharing herself fully with no one,
She made sure to leave her mark,
On every heart that beat her way.
:icondearpoetry:DearPoetry 34 10
Like A Virus
My veins d
My       is        with
   brain    racked      havoc-
from all the words I have yet to say.
Like scrap paper in an o v e r f l o w i n g waist basket,
I choke
        on the verses
      in the back
of my throat.
The throat my ink stained fingers beg to purge.
:icondearpoetry:DearPoetry 4 2
She never wanted children.
She was cold.
With frostbitten fingers
numb to the touch,
She set herself on fire
just to  w a t c h  her skin burn.
:icondearpoetry:DearPoetry 8 0
Pretty as a picture on your myspace page.
Lift up your shirt, baby.
Raise your temperature
and trail those pretty
fingers down contours
at their finest, between
the stalls of that dirty
gas station bathroom.
:icondearpoetry:DearPoetry 2 1
He's the kind of boy
With calloused fingers
this boy trails poetry
down the length of spines.
[His whispers
smell like lemon drops,
and taste of sweet poison.]
He carries a tattered
notebook in one hand,
and an ink pen
in the pocket
closest to his heart.
[The paper romantic
who warms lonely
December nights.]
His dreams are bigger
than skylines.
Too much for just one.
:icondearpoetry:DearPoetry 12 3
These Tangled Webs
tiny spiders
   hang from my hair,
And you say,
what's been going on?
     you don't smile
like you use to.
             I miss that
    sparkle in your eyes
that made my heart
             thump  thump thump.
       I miss that well,
   the one we use to
kiss behind before you
          tossing in flowers
         instead of coins
because you never
    had those
shinny pennies
your every wish
      was always granted.
I've picked your favorite
        flowers every day
since you forgot m
:icondearpoetry:DearPoetry 3 0
Lucid Lover
Her eyes are made of roses,
and sharp as thorns.
Her kisses leave scars
that burn way past dreams
as the feeling of tiny,
powerful fingertips
linger against
heated cheeks.
:icondearpoetry:DearPoetry 4 0
I felt my skin itch
and tear under the pressure
of your slurred tongue,
slithering along
the curves of my
contorted spine.
[You left me  b r e a t h l e s s. ]
:icondearpoetry:DearPoetry 8 6
You wrapped
a silk scarf
around my
vocal chords,
soft and
I could not speak
as poetry contorted
in the back of my
throat, seeking
r e l e a s e.
:icondearpoetry:DearPoetry 6 0
B u r n
I'm not feeling it anymore,
But that cigarette between
your sugar lips has got me
thinking otherwise as my
lungs drink you in for the
second time tonight
while you spend your time
traveling my curves like
a rode map to your own
heart and counting our
murderous battle scars.
But even I know,
neither have won this
war—for my heart beats
six times slower than
it use to as your
fingerprints still cling
to my ribcage.
"I'm numb to your
touch, baby.  But
I still remember
what it feels like too…"
:icondearpoetry:DearPoetry 21 0
E m b r a c e
When you
embraced my
corrupting me
with your
I lost my
the moment
your nails
clawed labels
into my flesh.
[ You fucked me
   like you loved me. ]
:icondearpoetry:DearPoetry 10 5
She only ever wanted a real reason to scream, collecting her tears in jars and hiding them behind Poe and Hemingway; she secretly hoped for an ocean to call her own.  She would name it after an aged bird spirit, pain manifested in many a Gods image—believing our vast universe formed by the callused hands of artists.
"They must have a sick, twisted sense of humor."  she said, eyes on the moon.
And I asked her "Who?" curious, because I'd yet to figure her out.
"The Gods; they give dead stars the prettiest of names."
:icondearpoetry:DearPoetry 89 39
Stitched Lips
Her lips, soft like old paper
tastes of stardust and ink.
I'd kiss her a thousand times over,
just to savour the poetry resting
on her wasp tongue—
but, I'm kissing ghosts
with empty eyes, void, naked,
and vulnerable like sleeping
gargoyles in the mid-day sun.
[ I'll love her quietly, close-mouthed
              and tongueless,
        in the arms of stone angels. ]
:icondearpoetry:DearPoetry 29 4


No watchers yet.



No journal entries yet.



Artist | Student | Artisan Crafts
United Kingdom
Well, I'm a whovian, mildly addicted to the internet who enjoys making art out of books in her free time.
I volunteer a lot, helping with my local playscheme as well as a number of charities.
I hope to become a psychologist and to help eradicate the detrimental stereotypes and ideas that the public have about mental illness.


Add a Comment:
No comments have been added yet.