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Welcome to the sixth issue of Lit Linked! This is an article featuring ten literature pieces that have Linked to another deviation [or deviations].
Before I am 30Before I am 30,
I want to be free and independent;
I won't answer to anyone,
but my own conscience.
Before I am 30,
I want to live on my own;
Come home whenever late I want to,
without being scolded.
Before I am 30,
I will learn and grow a bit more;
although we never really stop to do that,
not while we're alive.
Before I am 30,
I am going to be me;
even if it's only for a short time,
and with nobody watching.
before I'm 30I want to dance in really high heels,
hear a new Modest Mouse cd,
write a poem like Sage Francis.
I want to be kissed by someone who means it –
need less medication
and no hospitals.
I want to read my work to someone who cries,
someone who laughs and someone who decides
to be a poet, even though they're still afraid.
I want to find the right words
to teach my daughter about love
and happiness and hope.
I want to be more practical most days
and more radical some days
and stand up to be counted
everyday.
Winter BluesA blanket fallen from the clouds
Covers the land as snow falls down,
So white, white as a wedding gown,
White, white as the burial shrouds.
The firs wear coats made of snow,
The solemn silence like mist soars
To mountain tops from valley floors,
Silence of graves does follow.
Lonely cart tracks slowly fade,
Now they only lead to nowhere,
Their origin is no longer there,
Soon they are but a white shade
A blanket fallen from the sky
Covers the peaceful land below
With the innocently white snow
Comes the cold that lets us die.
The Forest Is My PrisonWhen I was young, the forest was where I would go when I could take the outside world no longer. It was where I would go to escape from the hardships of everyday life. The air was always cool and crisp enough to blow away the dark thoughts that floated through my mind. The wildflowers that grew there were my inspiration, my friends in times of need. I would pick them, decorate my hair with them, wrap them in a handkerchief to take home and put in a vase. When they came to the ends of their lives I would press them into my little book. Their beauty was immortal. It was only after I had grown up that I came to realise that the forest was more
FriendlessThere's a little boy who walks to school,
Nobody knows his name.
No matter what he tries to do,
It is always the same.
He keeps up with all the trends,
He knows them inside out.
Each one he pulls off perfectly,
Even that selfie-photo pout.
Each week he brings a box of muffins,
Though nobody knows why.
He used to try and hand them out,
Now he doesn't even try.
He shares the muffins with the crows
and eats them one by one.
For consuming that much sugar,
He sure looks miserable when he's done.
He looks down at the empty box
and you see a little smile.
The crows fly off and he lies down;
They'll all be full for quite a while.
Who needs friends?
A good enemy is better than a best friend
A good enemy can't betray
A good enemy won't go away
A good enemy will be there at the end
A best friend will fail
A best friend tells you what to think
A best fiend pushes you to the brink
A best friend will bail
A good enemy pushes you forward
A good enemy tests your steel
A good enemy makes you real
A good enemy seeks no reward
A best friend makes demands
A best friend always judges
A best fiend holds grudges
A best friend won't withstand
With an enemy you know they hate you
With a friend you are not sure
To an enemy you can be true
When they run you through
It won't be from beh
Spirography and the Gift of PyrokenesisAlready I feel stiffened,
wrapped-round with my wedding-bangles—
circumscribed,
a horror amidst spirographs,
the ballpoint-pen circles that have transcended themselves
into curling picture frames or paper cages.
In my gown I have become a pillar;
I have not tasted curried air,
but already a river will still my tastebuds,
the mirror into which I shall be sunk, prow-like,
with the ship,
and the curling pen-lines
that drift in my eyes prepare the currents
that will wash over me and make of me nothing.
Shiva I would rather be—
if I could I would pour my flaming heart
over my ashen
Don't Anchor, Adorea keen sunlight anchors to the sea in your window
where a manner of rain wraps a fading flush of earth
with the crush of warm blushes. where you adore,
closer, where your skin is agitated, the distance of
your spine – in there, a wind is always blowing –
and the way a passion settles is never moored,
and with the way the passion moves
you flow glow how you glow
Department of MiraclesWe promised this ascension would be spontaneous,
and full of light.
have you seen your fatherhugging the cat, my mother asks
& I laugh because I have. the
cat hugs him back, wraps his paws
around my father's neck, rubs
his face against the bristle
of my father's greying beard. &
I imagine my father whispering
sweetly to him & the cat's
low rumble in reply. just yesterday
they were fighting, my father
threatening to drown him
in the lake, cradling a
bird with broken wings.
he loves them, every
bird & ground squirrel,
buries them & storms around
all day. but by night they are
embracing, my father & his cat,
making peace between themselves
too low for our ears. these
things I cannot hear, but see
& feel: my father's
endless well of lo
Music and Silence There is nothing quite so beautiful as watching shards of rain cut through the haze of the pollution that litters this air, washing away every intricate speck of smog and letting me see the nuances between the everyday and its replacement. Seeing the pearlescent droplets settled on my lashes, and through them, watching your distorted image shift in the singing wind, following the beat of the rain's pitter patter as you twist and sway, your arms waving like a flag in the wind.
I'm watching you but I don't see you because the rain is drowning my senses, leaving me spinning in circles trying to decide which way is up, and the music and silence
i write gimmicks, not poetrymy lotharian
heart beats
my skull
(a cranial
assassin)
to Yellow Plumto Yellow Plum (in blue
china bowl):
afternoon's slit of sun slips
between thick curtains
& woos you to ripeness.
it chooses you
not for flecks of honey-russet
held low in your seam of shadows,
nor your symmetry & swell;
but because
you slink in shade, sink
behind green pear & clementine
& cannot hide
from each spear of light
that ricochets
through--
even now
nested warm
against these lips
even now:
a tea-stain stone
hugging close
the trashbin floor.
I will be accepting suggestions for pieces to feature, but they must link to someone else's work as per #dALinkSystem's submission guidelines. It does not have to link to another literature deviation, they do not have to be a member of the group, nor does the piece have to be submitted to the group. ♥ If you have any questions, concerns or comments regarding #dALinkSystem, linking, or this article please send me, `IrrevocableFate, a note!
| More Journal Entries |
The Bottom Line
SUBMISSION GUIDELINES
Lit Linked: Volume VI
The Linkers Grand Ball Winners!
THE 2012 LINKERS GRAND BALL! *UPDATE*
Get Ready, Linkers!
Lit Linked: Volume V
HAPPY BIRTHDAY TO US!
Fancy Linking for Non Premium Members
A Quickie
And if you're browsing this list and encounter a site link that no longer works, let me know. 
Btw, anyone wanna be friends?