Shop Mobile More Submit  Join Login
About Deviant Member Synesthi19/Female/United States Group :iconspreading-awareness: Spreading-Awareness
Because the world needs to know.
Recent Activity
Deviant for 2 Years
Needs Premium Membership
Statistics 225 Deviations 991 Comments 9,361 Pageviews

Newest Deviations



Poetry Book Scribble Icon OFFICIAL by DrippingWords

First off, this is my first critique, so the use of the stars was somewhat arbitrary. I'll try to be more specific in the body. Vision:...


My newest piece (But there will be screaming) refers to the reason that I've been gone lately. 

If you have questions/would like to talk, please message me.

It's going to be okay.



It's going to be okay...



They say Death is

an old man with a long black coat and
a curved, cold scythe and arthritis that rumbles
like alcoholic snoring before dawn.

like a ruby-throated nightmare with blood
teeth and eyes carved out against the black,
unvarnished furniture of space.

like a child creeping out of bed in the dark when
the floor is cold and sticky, the warm smell of urine on
fresh-cleaned bed sheets and oh god oh god panic thrust
against adults who wake up with voices like an asthmatic sunset.


I lie awake next to him at night and listen and

imagine what it would be like to hear
his breath catch just so
and stop.

rehearse a frantic phone call, gun-fire pleadings and
the no, no, no denial that will be gobbled up,
flushed down by an uncaring silence that will not yield as
I throw myself against the walls.



I’m what I have always been, but I guess for now


well enough.



A tear streaks across my face like a shooting star
and the night sky asks me

what are you thinking about?

what are you afraid of?

are you okay?


They say we all have to die, even

the little birds who just want to sing, to speckle orange and pink
and yellow that will fade long before (after) the adjacent sun.

the deer who creep so silently
through the woods that you can almost, almost
forget them.



I’m scared I’ll never find my way

home, back to where I came from, among dust and siblings
and away from time, from erosion of pieces.

to myself, only to be someone else’s wishes,
never understand my own.



I’m what I have always been, but I guess for now


well enough.



The stars streak across the sky like a tear-stained question mark
and I ask it

what are you thinking about?

what are you afraid of?

are you okay?
Conversations before Daybreak
You may have to read this one more than once.
Maybe I’m keeping a diary

11 W [(20x10) + (3x5)]

Wednesday is yellow (so is eleven) (but February is blue and purple)
I have learned that the snow tastes different in each place on campus
and people look at me as though I am broken
the snow melts and drips and my hands are cold, snowflakes die
in haphazard tragedy my thoughts leak out my eyes and when
I cry at night my legs get caught in yours as I try to run from your breathing
but some days I’m tired enough to realize that your existence is a lullaby

12 Thursday 2015 February

It’s Advising Day but no one advises me on anything
my backpack weighs too much and I sit in empty classrooms and
play games with a mechanical pencil  (out of lead) (empty) (empty)
I win the game by not going home, and I lose when people look at me
I wish I had words but oh look, I’m not here anymore
the plant in the bathroom curls and turns brown when I hold it

Superstition 15-2

Someone has misinformed you as to the purposes
of the brick-and-stick food place with the graffiti bathrooms
and one-shot dreams
I will not be a butterfly on display and you do not have
pins for eyes but sometimes I guess we all play games
with loaded dice and self-interpretation
let me ask you: who will make the rules
when they erase your name,  when you are not here anymore
oh look

14 + 2 =/ 15

I visited a graveyard today and said hello
to gravestones buried under snow and
made footprints where no one had been
since a time ago, before cold before ice
they say today is Valentines Day, this means
love but I do not love the crowds and
I do not love the red-pink-white and
I do not love the crushing loss of one-self-ness but
I guess I love you and so it will be okay let’s hold hand with our feet
also SAGA has lemonade sweet and sour are troubled siblings

15 = 15, 2

Today I checked on the canister
I put in the basement and someone looked
at me and said ‘what are you doing’
the way you’d add ‘you idiot’ and
I wanted to say ‘collecting radon in
activated charcoal canisters’ but instead I say
‘saving the world’ because maybe I’ll save you too
people write names on the walls but none of them are mine and I think
I can feel myself erase or maybe I’m just falling asleep

Yellow-seven pink one-red

I’ve been trying to sleep but
there are demons hiding in the corners
I hear people say ‘trust’ a lot but I don’t
because everything is broken shards and I am awake
I want to write my name on a wall
to see how long I will last and the plant
on my windowsill dies from too much water
and not enough sun and I’ve been trying to sleep
as I pull pins from my eyes and load them in an empty

Tuesday February 17th, 2015

I don’t feel colorful today and
as they plug in the electrodes I see
my brainwaves and remember all the times
everyone has called me brainless
I am here beneath the blankets on my bed, the dryness
of my throat may take my words but not my
voice someday you will have to
understand that I am still standing and when I cry at night
my existence is not a lullaby, but if I try
I can be a story I am still standing
even if I’m buried under the snow

or maybe I’m just losing my mind.
Maybe I'm keeping a diary
I wrote this for my college's student newspaper, as an experiment in stream-of-conscious diary keeping.
They say I’m careless.
I leave one of my boots unlaced
when I get dressed this morning.

The laces get coated in
snow and
thaw and freeze, stiff-spine
and brittle.

I can feel it catch on
the uneven ground, on
the chunks of ice,

on the way you stare
to tell me that
you hate me.

I want you to see
it, the way I drag through
the snow.

I am here I am
here I am here i
am here iamhere
i am


I can smell your thoughts
from here, spoilt milk
and apple cores and
rotten water in corpse-ridden
vases. I want to tell you

look at what you’re doing to yourself

but you wouldn’t care
if I made you.

There’s a Dining Commons
gone battlefield and
you think you can use
stares like pins
and I will be an insect
up on the wall.

You’ve rotted, silly. You hated
until worms. All you are
are splinters.

I can feel you break against
the bricks.

What have you done?


I want to find a palm-reader
and ask if it’s my fault.

I want to know if I am allowed
to laugh as it goes down.

Friendship. Ship. Ship.

The captain must go down
with the ship…who was

I don’t care about my hands,
I think I’ll laugh.

What have I done?


There have been worms. I
can smell you rotting.

Why are you so bent
on sinking in an
empty room?

How did you get
locked-in when you’re
the one who ran at the first

I thought you took
the lifeboat. I thought you
left me to drown.

How’d I get off alone?


I’d like to tell you

you don’t have to try this hard

but you wouldn’t hear me
if I tried.

I hope the water isn’t too cold.
Once upon a time, a house stood against the edge of the woods. Birds often flew around the house, and wild creatures would pick their way throughout the lawn without a care.

The house belonged to a couple, and a lovely couple they were. There was the father who was hard-working, and the mother who was strong and fearless, and one day they had a little girl. The little girl was beautiful and sensitive and kind, and grew up to be even more sensitive and kind as the years passed. Some days she was so sensitive that it seemed her heart would break.

But not everything was perfect in the little house, and this particular day the house stands empty and silent except for the sound of quiet crying. It’s not sobbing, for that would be a too rough and insensitive a sound for the girl. It was merely a periodic sniffle followed by some heavy breathing. The girl wipes her eyes on her sleeve and stares into a cup of over-steeped tea. She often spent her afternoons this way, and her neighbors and parents were very distraught over the change.

A knock startles her, and she looks towards the front door, contemplating answering it, wondering if was yet another kindly neighbor coming with something to help make her well. For all her neighbors were kindly, and often came to bring her things to make her happy and kind and sensitive once more.

Before the girl can make a decision, the doorknob turns and the door swings open. An old lady stands in the doorway, peering around the corner, an old-fashioned cloak around her shoulders and a shawl over her head. “Oh, there you are, dear. Is anyone else home?”

The girl shakes her head. Her parents were off to see a man who could try to make her well. “Who are you?”

“Me? Oh, just an old woman. Some would say I’m a witch. Some say I’m an angel. Depends on who’s doing the talking.” She closes the door gently behind her, her hands old and wrinkled. “But if you’re undecided, I guess you can call me Su.”

The girl nods and looks back into her tea. Su sits down at the table.

“Over-steeped your tea? Don’t worry, if you keep crying it will balance itself out eventually. Trust me,” she says, a smile crinkling her old, worn face. “I would know.”

The girl looks up with wet eyes. “What do you want? My parents aren’t here.”

“Oh, dear, I know that. That’s why I’ve come. You see, I live nearby and I can hear your crying every time they leave. I figured I’d stop by and see you. Now,” she reaches out for the girl’s hand. “What are you crying about?”

“It’s nothing,” the girl says, wiping at her eyes. She doesn’t want to cry in front of yet another kindly neighbor coming to help her feel better.

“Now, that’s what they all say, don’t they? Your friends, telling you that you have ‘nothing to cry about’?” The girl nods, for it seemed to her that perhaps someone had said such a thing, though she could not truly remember. “Well, that’s not very nice. I wouldn’t call those people friends, if I were you. Friends should be supportive, don’t you think? I don’t think you should be around them. They aren’t going to help you feel better. Don’t you think?”

The girl looks the old woman in her dark eye, believing more and more that one of her dear friends had been so unkind. “I suppose not…”

“That’s a love. Why don’t you and I become friends, dear? Believe me, I know all about it. I’ll never tell you not to cry.”

The girl considers the offer. “All right.”

“There, don’t you feel better?’ Su pats her hand gently. “Well, I have to go, but I’ll come back to visit when you’re alone again, okay?” She gets up from the table. “Bye, dear.”


The girl sits in her bedroom, looking out the window towards the creek. The creek’s all dried up, and she watches animals come and go, searching for water. She wonders if the rains will come, but it was often sunny in the little town in the woods.

“Hello, dear.” Su is standing in her doorway, her shawl wrapped around her.

“I was just thinking about you,” the girl whispers.

“Oh, I know,” the old woman comes and sits on the edge of the bed, patting the quilt next to her. “Are those friends of yours still giving you trouble?”

“They aren’t my friends,” the girl says seriously as she sits down. She remembers now, remembers the things that they said, and her kind heart fills with sadness.

Su smiles. “I agree. I’m sure that’s difficult, dear, but you’ll be much better off with a friend that understands you. And I do understand you.”

The girl nods. “I know.”

“Where are those parents of yours?” Su asks gently.

“They’re busy,” the girl responds. They were out again, to find a potion that could make her well. “But I don’t mind. I like it when the house is quiet.”

“Isn’t the silence peaceful?” The old woman gives the girl a careful look. “Don’t you just wish there was somewhere you could go where it was always peaceful?” The girl nods. “Of course you do.

“Do you remember how I said that people call me a witch? Now, I’m no witch, but I do make good offers. Well, perhaps I can be a nice witch, if you think about it. What would you say if I told you I could teach you how to always feel this peaceful? What would you say if I could promise that you’d never feel sad again?”

The girl turns to her, hopeful. “Can you teach me?”

“Of course, darling. But there’s something you have to do as well. It’s nothing much, just your part. And it has to be a secret. Can you promise me that?”

The girl nods. “Just tell me what to do.”

“Okay,” Su says, leaning in close. “I’ll tell you. And if you’ll do it, and you do it in three days, I promise that you’ll never suffer again.”


Su meets her briefly when her parents go out for the groceries the next day, getting bread from the baker and meat from the butcher. “Hello, darling, how goes it?”

The girl sits up at her desk. “Don’t worry, I’ll be done soon.”

Su smiles. “That’s a good girl. But you have plenty of time, so do it well. We want it to be your best work, right darling? Plenty of time.”

The girl frowns for a second. “Are you positive that this will work?”

Su’s face clouds over. “Why? Have you broken your promise? Have you told someone?”

“No, no, of course not. I would never!”

“Of course you haven’t,” the old woman replies, her face smoothing out. “You would never. You promised. And of course it will work. Think of all of this, all the sadness…think of it like a curse. All you have to do is do your part, and the curse will be lifted. Isn’t that what you want?”

“Of course,” the girl responds. “More than anything. I want it to go away.”

Su strokes her hair. “And it shall. I promise.”


The next day, the old woman comes in the dead of night. “Dear, you have one more day. Are you ready? Do you have all the parts that you need to break the spell?”

“Yes, I do,” the girl whispers in response. “I have it all in the box underneath my bed.”

“Good girl. And it’s still a secret?”

“Of course.”

Su smiles in the darkness. “See you tomorrow, dearest.”


The girl and the old woman named Su sit on the edge of the bed.


The girl looks at the contents of the box and the sheet of paper. “Are you sure it will work?”

“Don’t you trust me?” Su whispers. “I’m the one who loved you. I’m the one who has looked after you. Not like your friends. Not like your parents, they don’t even care about you either, do they?”

The girl thinks about her parents, and seems to recall them being less kind, less honest and truthful and hardworking, her neighbors less kindly. “No, they don’t care. I trust you…. I only trust you.”

“Good. Now, are you ready?”

“Promise that it’ll stop?”

The old woman who is perhaps a witch smiles and draws her tattered shawl closer. “I promise. Now, the potion.”

“Okay.” The girl opens her mouth and swallows


The ambulance roars up the little driveway, scattering the little creatures, and the kindly neighbors looked over the fences with kindly concern as the stretcher hauls the girl out, her parents weeping in the doorway of the nice house on the edge of the woods.

Meanwhile, the old witch laughs from her house in the woods and waits for the sound of crying.
The Breaking of the Spell
I attempted to write a fairy tale and made this instead.

Okay then.
My newest piece (But there will be screaming) refers to the reason that I've been gone lately. 

If you have questions/would like to talk, please message me.

It's going to be okay.



It's going to be okay...



Synesthi's Profile Picture
United States
I am a Synesthete (the term for someone who has synesthesia) and enjoy writing (prose and poetry), long-distance running, and playing music. My username is another (less formal) term for someone with synesthesia.

AdCast - Ads from the Community


Add a Comment:
copper9lives Featured By Owner Nov 7, 2014  Hobbyist General Artist
:wave: Hello, and welcome to :iconpoetryparadise:!

We're happy to have you aboard! If you have any questions, comments, or suggestions, please :note: the group and your friendly neighborhood admins will get back to you ASAP.

Currently, we're hosting a monthly contest — check it out!

nightshade-keyblade Featured By Owner May 23, 2014  Hobbyist Writer
Synesthi Featured By Owner May 23, 2014
Edges-to-Everything Featured By Owner May 23, 2014
A very Happy Birthday to you! :nod:

- Michael
Synesthi Featured By Owner May 23, 2014
91816119 Featured By Owner May 23, 2014   Writer
Happy birthday, sweetie! Have a fantastic day, and a fantastic year. :heart:

Synesthi Featured By Owner May 23, 2014
hopeburnsblue Featured By Owner May 11, 2014  Hobbyist General Artist
Meghan, I found your lines in GITM, and now I must admit I'm not crying but I'm not *not crying ... lol. I found it so touching what you wrote about my voice, and the reiterations that I don't need my eyes to heal, or create art, or live a fulfilling life, definitely link up with your opening and closing remarks in the recording you sent me. This means a lot ... thank you so much. :iconheartglompplz:
Synesthi Featured By Owner May 11, 2014
I'm glad. And you're so welcome.

Edges-to-Everything Featured By Owner May 2, 2014
Hello! :handshake:

I'd love to get your feedback on the changes being made at Spreading-Awareness :nod: Thanks!

- Michael
Add a Comment: