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About Literature / Artist CeeFemale/United Kingdom Group :icondeviantliterature: DeviantLITERATURE
Loving Lit (Since Ages Ago)
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Deviant for 5 Years
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Statistics 218 Deviations 5,242 Comments 28,693 Pageviews


to thine own self
you look
so good in this light
that you could never risk the right to walk away
it's like you've never even had to face the day
the natural law of that organismic glow
it makes you a wretched thing, i know
you say, who needs it, in hell there are no shadows
since fire is just as bright as heaven's gate
as dying jaws, as their white shining, beckoning or reckoning
that you have open arms cut on those teeth
have hands all full of things worth giving
and giving is so good, so good, when you're gunning for the end
oh yes, in this light you look
in all directions with your shaded eyes
i see you, an amazing thing
the artificial artifact, forged man-made man
nothing so sickly as what you become under the sun
and you know that your beauty is illusory
that the most of you is hidden from your all
while the dregs that filter through
are just what you seem in fluorescence, blinds drawn
two hues or pitches removed from the real
like ultraviolet, the lobby or the drugstore or the garage
holds these
:iconmindlessthinker:MindlessThinker 7 2
i felt her first breath underneath my pores, a fresh wound with tiny hands, stitching all of my dark crevices shut.
“she’s beautiful,” the doctor said,
the branches of the veins in his eyes red from the length of my labor.
he wrapped her in a pink blanket, and before the first dewey tear drops of sadness unfolded for the first time on her skin, her eyes glided to mine.
i’d never felt love like hers before.
when our skin touched, a wisp of smoke was released from the fire that raged inside of her body. her eyelashes curled when she blinked, and her fingers grasped for my face like i was oxygen in her lungs.
i couldn’t bear the thought of putting her in a crib, i wanted our hearts to beat chest to chest.
she fell asleep instantly; and while her eyes shut, mine had just begun to feel the weight of being open.
:icondelirious-eyes:delirious-eyes 10 2
an ode
the clouds telegraph
their flashes of purple light
back and forth
and I watch you gazing at the storm,
turned away and radiant,
a sliver of moon.
in the dark you are
just a slim profile,
a narrow fish slipping
deft and marvelous
through the flashing light
and the thunderless rain
and I am just an aching cheekbone,
a ripple of longing,
a wakefulness for whom
the phenomenon
is not the near constant
but what the light does
when it touches your face.
:iconantonfrost:antonfrost 10 1
Since I haven't done a feature in a while
Some literary gems to check out:
:icontheemptychest:TheEmptyChest 4 10
When I was little, my aunt dreamed of daughters.
On the weekends, she would take me,
my dimples and my temper, show me flowers
blooming in her garden: the ground moist,
yellow pansies and sweet peas taller
than my four feet.
I collected garden toads, plucked one from the soil
then another, and she let me place them
in the old tub downstairs, its white walls inescapable.
I laid there quietly,
their little legs finning the water,
the press of ripples pruning my skin.
I was an empress in new clothes. All my subjects
loved me.
:iconvespera:vespera 96 45
I dream of wolves every night.
There are times when I simply watch them race through cold, shrouded forests. When I stretch out a trembling hand and silently beg one of them to place their muzzle against my fingers so that I may feel true strength with my own skin. When my heart pounds louder than a summer storm as they sprint together in one pack, their breaths stirring together in savage harmony. When I long to run alongside them, my soul more free than I could ever possibly imagine.
And then there are times where I am one of them. I can taste the crisp moonlight on my tongue as my paws kick up half-frozen mud; I can smell the fervor of the pack as we hunt, a scent so rich that the first time I experienced it, I felt as if I would go mad. I can hear everything from the exhaling of the wolf bounding beside me to the scrambling of a squirrel desperate to flee as it scampers up a tree fifteen feet away. The darkness of the night is just a pale curtain when I have the eyes of the
:iconlupus-astra:lupus-astra 226 37
How to Write a First Draft Without Perfectionism
Maybe you’ve heard that first drafts are supposed to suck, but what does that really mean? What does a sucky first draft look like? How do you allow yourself to suck? Why would you even want to allow yourself to write something that sucks in the first place?
Because otherwise, you’ll most likely be crippled by the writer’s arch nemesis: perfectionism.
Did you just cringe? We all experience it when we sit down to write, arrange everything just so, type a sentence or two (or a bit more if you’re lucky), and then it strikes—your inner editor. It smacks you across the face and demands that you fix that grammar mistake right now. 
Or worse, you’ve written multiple chapters of your epic novel when you suddenly get a great idea for a new direction to take the story that will make it so much better! But you can’t just keep writing as if you’d written in that awesome new idea from the beginning. No, your inner editor screams at
:iconilluminara:illuminara 337 131
How To Raise A Borderline
Don’t recognize your child’s needs,
or at the very least see them as
secondary to your own.
Ignore your child’s tears;
tell them to buck up.
Better yet,
tell them if they don’t stop crying
you’ll give them something to cry about.
That outta teach ’em.
Weigh them down with adult demands.
Expect them to cook dinner
at nine years old
because you’ll be home late.
Force them to grow up too fast,
or don’t allow them to grow up at all
because in a child’s dependent role
is where you can control them.
Don’t be consistent,
with anything.
Change your values like you change your sex partners.
Swear off drinking one day only to get a DUI the next.
And when you discipline
do so arbitrarily and explosively;
base it on your feelings rather than your child’s actions.
When they spill their drink on the floor
and look to you for a reaction,
don’t tell them, “It’s alright, honey, it was just an accident.”
Yell at th
:icontheemptychest:TheEmptyChest 190 117
Morning lemonade
Left caramelized sunshine
Melting on my lips.
:iconmiraslava:miraslava 99 63
       Fireflies are able to produce a chemical reaction within the lower section of their abdomens that emits a cold light. This form of light production, known as bioluminescence, is critical to courting potential mates, performing warning displays, and other forms of communication.
       We stumble around a smoky field cratered with rabbit holes, wading through the collective glow of thousands of fireflies. Cicadas trade gossip with the grasses that catch and tug the laces of our tired shoes by the light of the moon, a bonfire, and farther in the distance, the little rectangles of light escaping from the windows of the houses in town. Our breath rises in clouds as we wander the paths carved by a mower in the waist-high field, thrilled by the paranoid suspense of time and occasion. The air is empty besides our laughter and hushed speech, then awakened by an excited declaration: “Murder!”
:iconbleedingprophecies:BleedingProphecies 37 42
oh, it's just your usual midnight poetry gal
    A little cold sweat clings to her lower back and legs, which are exposed to delightfully cool 12:02AM bedroom air, atmosphere that had been brewed with a hint of remorsefulness and more than the recommended dose of insomnia.
    White tee shirt sticks to her chest and spine, pulling this way and that as she turns, curling into one position, tosses into another; soon, the fabric will become infuriating and she will rip it away from her fragile skin, though her mother tells her it is crude to sleep without clothes on. Her lips are chapped and dry, like her patience and personality.
She suddenly misses the weight of the blankets on her stomach. They are a gentle reminder to her that her abdomen holds too much fat and she's uncomfortable with that, but she's also uncomfortable with change.
    Night cloaks her lovingly. The storm outside beckons, and she goes to it willingly, as she shuts her dark purple eyelids and succumbs to the eventual dust of dreams
:iconunfaithfulstars:unfaithfulstars 98 59
waves and waves
room reddens in flush
light creaking, cream curtains parted gently
freckled shoulders, swept back hair
she floats on and on
I heavy my hands into the earth
and all its unthought parallels
into you, love, and sinking slowly
oh the rush, the sea
and drumbeat solos; oh the river dreams
unspoken, in minuet strides
across rippled granite and marbled sky
mouth so full of youth
lungs slipping out a drowning wail
:iconnawkaman:nawkaman 15 7
better left untitled
stardust has a voice
in cool plasm
we should listen
:iconspoems:spoems 6 5
on wind-tossed hair and crimson cheeks
hair tugged back, whizzed on the underside,
barely tickles my collarbone - my frozen pinecone
when i'm brave and my curtain when i tremble -
tossed, twisted, tangled. my thick dead grass catches
fire when i'm hiding from the sun (they call it
dirty blonde, but i'm squeaky clean and mousy brown).
small, round eyes made of sky - they are thunder when i
roar inside and cloudless when i'm terrified and they
glitter with a thousand stars at midnight. two pale
clouds hover in wedges near the bottoms. i've been
trapped behind fingerprints on glass for nearly thirteen winters.
thin-lipped, tall-lashed, cleft-chinned, dimple-grinned.
columella and earlobes creased. ocean train tracks,
two winters old, streaked over my teeth. when this summer
stampeded over spring, my nineteenth letter was s(h)tolen by
four metal loops(h) s(h)parring with my tongue - i'm now hindered
by hushes(h) and shiver(sh) and the terrified voi(sh) in my
head s(h)creaming at me: shutupshutupshutupshutup you
can't talk right
:iconpeaseblossoms:peaseblossoms 26 38
♥ "You must stay drunk on writing, so reality cannot destroy you." ♥


Poetry (sub 20 lines)
:bulletblack: brief poems of less than 20 lines
:bulletblack: can be freeform, rhyming, etc.
:bulletblack: feel free to send me examples of the theme to inspire me - art, music, other poems, etc.
Poetry (up to 100 lines)
:bulletblack: longer poems of up to and around 100 lines
:bulletblack: prefer freeform for this kind of poetry, but can also work with you to create exactly the flavour you want from it
:bulletblack: give me lots of resources to draw from for this theme that you have picked out - art, music, other literature, etc.
Prose (sub 500 words)
:bulletblue: short stories of less than 500 words
:bulletblue: can be in any style you want, but do take note of my own variety in my gallery
:bulletblue: please try to give as detailed a description of what you want as possible for me!
Prose (more than 1000 words)
:bulletblue: all longer prose including and above 1000 words
:bulletblue: please take note of the style of the longer pieces in my gallery, but do suggest a style you are particularly fond of and I can adapt
:bulletblue: giving me a clear idea of how you want it to end is vital for longer pieces
Translation (prose and poetry)
:bulletpink: I have a decent grasp of French, Spanish, Latin, and Icelandic
:bulletpink: for pieces to be translated into English
:bulletpink: commission price is variable, taking into account the length and complexity of the piece to be worked on - price mentioned is the starting point, or minimum price
Questions for Me
[tagged by tirasunil]

Q: What's the most adventurous thing you ever ate or drank?
Not entirely sure. Chicken heart, pigs trotters? Think I've had lamb brain before too.

Q: If you wrote and directed a TV series, what would it be about?
It would be mainly character driven, and probably quite dark. Inevitably something to do with murder.

Q: Fairy tale, nursery rhyme, or kids movie that freaked you out as a child?
Dr Seuss' The Pale Green Pants. Had nightmares for years. That and The Wrong Trousers (Wallace and Gromit). Apparently anthrapomorphised clothes are not my favourite thing.

Q: A piece you wish you wrote?
The Beautiful and the Damned by Fitzgerald. Or Lovesong of J. Alfred Prufrock by Eliot.

Q: That old favorite music artist you always end up going back to?
I have many, many of those. Totally depends on my mood.

Q: Favorite piece of non-fiction literature?
Into the Wild by John Krakauer.

Q: Your most trusty hangover cure?
Lots and lots of water, and vomiting.

Q: Most spontaneous day/night out? Did it start/finish well?
Flew out for a week to Bulgaria this summer, booked it 24hrs before leaving. A bit rocky with the friends I went with at first, but ended up a brilliant trip.

Q: What do you love most about dA?
The sense of community and acceptance.

Q: Are you where you saw yourself five years ago?
No, and I am so much better for that.


Artist | Literature
United Kingdom
DLRs: 2 {x} {x}
DDs: 3 {x} {x} {x}
DLDs: 3 {x} {x} {x}

Hi, there! :ahoy: You can call me Cee, if you like. I love poetry, prose, languages, music and the sea. :love:

If you ever want to get to know me better, drop me a note, and we can share social networking details! :happybounce:

It's a joy to see such a tight-knit community here on DeviantART, and I am eternally grateful to everyone who has supported me and really made me feel at home. I am especially honoured by those who take the time to :+fav: and even comment on my work. Every word you post about my pieces will help me to improve and show everyone who I am in a better manner.

And if you're looking for a literature artist to admire the work of, please take a look at my "friends" list. Those are some of the best writers I have met, talked to and critiqued as well as some truly lovely people. Do pay them a visit and read their work; they deserve it. Spread some :dalove:!

I look forward to hearing from you!



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Happy birthday! May it be a day of perfect weather and joyful bliss! One you'll enjoy to often offer reminisce.
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how do i start a donation pool?
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