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tairngir

To speak out......
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Literature

A poet's prayer

Patron of poets, pray bless me with words, fill me with rhyming and meaning and song. Hallow my tongue with a taste for fine verse. Give me a pen never ceasing to write. Patron of poets, the earth bore you up, that all who listened could hear when you spoke. Grant ears to hear me, though my lines are frail, maybe a heart to be touched by my hymn.                                         Amen.

All

682 deviations
Literature

A poet's prayer

Patron of poets, pray bless me with words, fill me with rhyming and meaning and song. Hallow my tongue with a taste for fine verse. Give me a pen never ceasing to write. Patron of poets, the earth bore you up, that all who listened could hear when you spoke. Grant ears to hear me, though my lines are frail, maybe a heart to be touched by my hymn.                                         Amen.

Featured

446 deviations
one

Sunrise and sunset

100 deviations
PARENTS-Positions have changed

People

151 deviations
Literature

compulsive liar.

once i asked you your favourite colour, and you said, "the brown of your eyes," so i put in one green contact and told everyone that i came out of the womb as a factory defect, half-priced, damaged goods. - sometimes i am from canada and sometimes i am from england and sometimes i am from spain. i've carefully tempered my accents and plotted out my stories with yellow and purple coloured pencils on index cards. my origin changes like the seasons. "why do you lie to everyone?" you ask. "why not?" i reply. - i wear nametags that read "alicia" and "liana" and "samantha," because i want to know how it feels to be someon

Poems of the spirit

7 deviations
Literature

Still sleeping

Could somebody teach me to dream again? I think I'm doing it wrong. My eyes can't seem to recall the movements involved with that phase of sleep... and it used to be so easy. I think? I faintly remember waking up everyday looking forward to such beautiful things... I'm almost certain I knew once, so naturally, to breathe in slow-vivid reveries. Pull them up from my gut and tuck them to my chin, a baby blue Burberry scarf wrapped around me... and I around it, snug slumbering in the warmest pockets of my brain. How cold has it become in that bed? It used to be so easy I think.... and I suppose I should be grateful for that.

Poems of the heart

8 deviations