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About Literature / Professional Core Member Josh25/Male/United States Groups :iconsci-fi-future: Sci-Fi-Future
It'll be the future soon.
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Deviant for 9 Years
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Statistics 651 Deviations 4,174 Comments 34,144 Pageviews

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above those mountain towns
I think if we all lived that long,
we'd understand - like the half-life of
thorium-232, an embrace of erasure,
the clouds of strontium-90 in my atmosphere,
this addendum to distress;
without a breath of oxygen, a stop on our intransigent demise,
asking what, if we've forgotten, what -
is there left to burn, when we've purified ourselves and still
we look like broken little lights, feel like empty little lies -
and we will fill it with the emptiness of air,
the crowded mass of light against which I cannot paddle,
fill all the cracks with science, watch that mercury
sink right on down, right on down,
while we wait for all those higher things to drown
:iconcreativelycliche:creativelycliche 5 3
just statistics
the empty morning is different than we
might have expected, what with the integers
the degrees to which we measure -
exacting in its angle and decline,
you've lost me - but the diamond-cut
has dragged us along the nano-meters
of defined introspection, tight-rope atoms
and you;
asking me if this is how we found
our statistic insignificance or just our indiscretion,
we have elevated this paroxysm to divine,
the formula ended on the lines
of significant differential, and;;
:iconcreativelycliche:creativelycliche 7 3
definition: entropy
and I invented the perfect places
for you to go, buried in the lines
the walls of your scars and the riverbeds
we explored at twelve and nineteen;
you wished for simplicity of wealth and adulthood,
the frost lines on our teeth betraying us,
and we left it empty, etched into our faces
and our eyes, our hands left over like mall chinese
and this is us, thinking: may as well be simple now,
while the age betweens us embraces instability
and the grass has all patched out, all the perfect places
:iconcreativelycliche:creativelycliche 4 2
and I shielded my eyes,
and all these years went by,
with memories of why a burst
is not enough, and much worse
than small flames burning longer,
'too young to know it', yes -
and the earnest are most ready
to crash into what they love
but in the galaxies the brightest
stars burn shortest, crash across
the inter-states of physics and
spend their lives in sharp declines,
an ending in the darkness, candles
in the most relenting ways
:iconcreativelycliche:creativelycliche 8 0
lovely little lights
on the tip of spines along my insides,
flashing in morse code a wish for me to fly,
and I have asked them more than once
if this is the ending you came up with,
or just another bit of melting ice
along your lips, lent the shock
of knowledge without the burn of authenticity
as all this slipped out of our hands
(and you pulled it out and to the bone,
a screaming harpy with the claws to prove it)
and it became bitter like the touch of steel to skin.
the lights warm up where you split me open
competing with the stars for my attention;
and along the edges of these holes I'll write
"pieces can come together again."
:iconcreativelycliche:creativelycliche 8 0
brace yourself, it's going to be a big one.
you know that this is the end, though,
and even the thoughts of new beginnings
cannot fill the empty feeling of a story fully told,
not a word left unsaid -
carried inward from the storm
to fall into yourself and
embrace the coming-about,
stood in the rain and cried,
yes, this is the end, dear
standing not at a wall,
but on a cliff.
:iconcreativelycliche:creativelycliche 6 0
dappled sun on skin,
like continents shifting
the breath of wind finally
without a hint of snow, and
it seems like a future finally illuminated
a treasure finally unlocked;
a damsel saved me in my time of need
and woke me up, when all I thought I could do was sleep.
:iconcreativelycliche:creativelycliche 9 0
a brokered peace
a blasted wall of brick and stone
reaching across longer heights
and deeper seas -a voice along
the spines of the defeated,
the needless dead
scrawled on the palest of paper,
behind glass walls and power plays,
the drawing rooms of history,
illustrating our designs -
drawn in ink but framed in blood,
the fox is such a gentle soul,
when he is king
:iconcreativelycliche:creativelycliche 7 7
blasted morning,
the burns on both my hands are
freezing, the scars healed over
but remain like roman roads
on ancient countrysides,
cut in deeper than the promises
they came with.
:iconcreativelycliche:creativelycliche 5 1
martian weight
forget this introduction,
it is flawed, and in it it would seem
that the suns have not resolved,
the air has not become the atoms
that we said.
still frozen, this will creak upon us
and break the lines of our division
and derailments, the promises
stuck on stitches and bereaved,
we tumble down,
and what is left are towers
that we built wrong, the gravity
is even less than we had scryed,
the literal a little less than
we imagined.
:iconcreativelycliche:creativelycliche 5 0
the biggest small thing
a blessed part integral to me,
this small thing, it flows from mind to eye
and back before we blink, letting lists line my wrists
like scripture, read in the chapters and the books
of our interspersed beliefs,
the paragraphs built between us.
place me on the lowest pedestal,
the highest airs above us left to climb,
let us in, let us in,
the morning air once laced my lungs with frost,
but now - even the coldest air can't reach.
:iconcreativelycliche:creativelycliche 4 0
negative space
a breath of nitrogen to put the brain to sleep,
lines like errant strings laid along the floor,
tossed there without care for all things it doesn't cover,
the fact that it's not a rug but just a net,
caught in the air, atoms away -
and all the things it can't catch still falling through,
fingers caught on corners, it centers, it becomes.
atoms away -
and it passes right through.
:iconcreativelycliche:creativelycliche 4 0
five thousand years
and blessed be the integers that didn't see you die,
blinking on the DOS screens and on the backs of all
the multiply tables, prime and silent,
a forever fact even without our minds attached,
a crescent wrench for the RNA, the likely end of which
is shorter than the edge of a fingernail,
an instant in the chaos while we wait, wait, wait.
:iconcreativelycliche:creativelycliche 4 1
error-prone deviance,
it is left on the left side of your teeth,
sharp and worn in different seconds as the years go by,
and still define the absolute connection to the ground
and this highway's integrity is stolen and grey,
broke-down cracks bearing green like little fangs
along the outside of your fingers,
and bleed, bleed clear liquid water down into their veins -
electricity a fluke of our existence, turned us on
but no way to power down, the concrete pulls apart like
plate tectonics in a third grade science book -
and even burning out would be okay.
:iconcreativelycliche:creativelycliche 3 0
dressed, she looks out of the window
and thinks how this has been preserved,
an instant in the time continuum like
fruit in jell-o, worn into the fabric
of the space-time all around us,
and this is true:
the physicality of our existence leaves a mark,
affectation for affiliation with it, with you -
and does the sun admit when it is done,
when it is free of it's own gravity
how it has been changed by every shifting atom
in the sea of things that it allowed to breathe -
and snap snap, like a photograph with more perspective,
and she wonders: does the moment know as much as she -
can it, indeed, remember what she felt when it became too much
to be -
jell-o, colder - and leftover butterfly eddies
and the dark matter will notice
when it's gone.
:iconcreativelycliche:creativelycliche 4 2
course of the atlantic
black-stone and rough to the touch of fate
this is not a statement of understanding or belief,
and all the naked arms of those above us hang over,
shadows dappled on the corners of faces not intended
to fell the winter oaks, to breathe the air of cotton winds;
a cloth for all the purest stains of redemption
on the skin, barest empty while scandalized the indiscretion begins,
yes, the wall of words scrawled from collar to waist can be an edifice
to this believed disclosure, like a windless ocean, I can see for miles.
:iconcreativelycliche:creativelycliche 4 0

Daily Deviations

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Don't Give me a Reason to Sell My SoulDon't give me a reason to sell my soul, she should have said.
Instead, she just stared at the man on the screen in front of her, the man with his long, drooping skin, tired eyes, haggard face and balding head. He was hardly the admiral we had once known. She said "I don't have any desire to do it," and then quickly, "but I'll follow my orders, if you give them to me."
There was fright in her eyes. She gripped the edges of the captain's chair and bit her cheek, fighting off inevitable tears. But not here. She couldn't cry now. People relied on her to be strong. What people she wasn’t sure, but someone, somewhere, surely. She had to believe that.
"Those are your orders," the man said, sinking heavily into his chair. "I trust you'll carry them out."
She snapped off communications with ill-hid despair. Her blonde hair, thin and almost colorless, hung around her face like a fallen halo, fading with every sin. Her lips were tight, her cheeks drawn, and her eyes stared out of bru

Daily Deviation

Featured by neurotype

supernovae"Wouldn't it be great if we could watch a star explode?"
It was just like her to say that. The violence of another world's ending was, to her, poetic. If our own sun exploded, I think she'd open up her arms to embrace it.
"I don't know that I'd want to be that close," I said.
"That's the cool part. You wouldn't have to be." But she still didn't think we were close enough.
That was how we always ended up like this, sitting in a car, driving to nowhere, with nothing but the sound of the tires on the highway and the company of the stars above us. She couldn't sit still long enough to color in the details, so we never did. We just kept driving.
She leaned back in the passenger seat and kicked her feet up, staring at the ceiling of the car as if it wasn't there.
"When stars exploded a long time ago, they painted pictures of them and wondered if the gods were looking down on them. What do you think we'll do when we get to see one?"
"Take a picture."
She shot an expression at me that I

Daily Deviation

Suggested by hypermagical
Featured by BeccaJS

may as well buy another packcollapse, and breathe into the carpet:
sunday mornings are not
for falling apart, but damn
the amphorics, this
is not an atmosphere.
you fell in love like you always
wish you didn't, made all their
smiles replaceable, interchangeable,
fell asleep with shadows and kept
drinking, just letting yourself sleep
with blue pills
and tried not to scream.
(keep this image in your head:
fire and nectarines, a sudden jerk
of realization, inspiration
breaking your neck and leaving you forever
breaking bones is not so different
from breaking hearts - it's all about
the leverage, the angle, the mode
of attack
(and at least it wasn't personal; 
it can color in your own guilt
for starting lines and never ending

Daily Deviation

Suggested by AyeAye12
Featured by inknalcohol

I am Become ObsoleteThe stars danced.
It was a wonder they even could, with no engine, no stellar drive, nothing but gravity and the ingenuity of man, that and the desire for great scientific achievements to be trivialized by profit. It didn't matter. The universe didn't care.
Here's the thing: it lasts a long time. We talk about a million years and think 'that is conceivable, in a kind of general sense', but we can't, not really, not when we lived maybe .0001 percent of that. A piece of plastic isn't permanent, and even the stars, a fixture in our lives if there ever was one, are temporary, fleeting.
I sat on the bench and watched the stars through my sunglasses, thinking. This was one of those hubris of man moments where you have to wonder if we have gone too far, if this, finally, is where the line was crossed and we'd all die for our naivety. But we weren't dead, not yet. When the Trinity test had finally boomed across the sky, it had left more of an impact on the psyche than on the scenery  - 'I

Daily Deviation

Featured by doughboycafe



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.: And the Days Grow Thin

Fri Mar 17, 2017, 1:47 PM
I think at some point I looked at my own stats on this website and thought, 'jesus christ, 600 deviations?'. I didn't get there meaning to. I used to do a lot in terms of culling poems out that I had decided either I didn't like or that hadn't 'done well', but I grew tired of that judgement. I will admit: while I enjoy writing poetry, and think that I have come to a mature place and even to some extent a recognizable style, I still don't think I am very good at poetry. As far as projects I have tried to launch with physical collections, I'm not sure if I just don't have the dedication or if it's an issue with quality or talent, but they always end up being pretty abysmal experiences. 

I'm not one of those people that announces hiatuses from websites. I've never announced one here, though my activity has waxed and waned. Despite liking this site, I have not formed new friendships here. I feel instead that I have felt the literature community as a whole wax in activity and community with particular folks - and seen it fade and quiet wen those personalities leave. It's an odd sensation, feeling like I have been a somewhat dull but steady presence on this site. It is not that I any longer feel ignored, with four Daily Deviations under my belt and a core of reasonably dedicated readers, even if I still consider myself fairly mid-list as far as writers go on the site.

I guess this journal is a couple of things to me: a thank you for the people who have read my work, who have seen 600 (or some fraction of that) deviations in their inbox, and read some of them; an apology that I have never been able to be the force of a personality here that I occasionally would have liked to be; and a brief examination of where I am, after almost nine years and 600 deviations on a website that managed both to challenge and coddle me in turns.

I wish my gallery was easier to dig through, but while I have made efforts to keep it manageable the truth is looking through it is something like digging through layers of archaeological sediment. It's just as difficult to define the context.

As always, yours,


  • Listening to: Cotton Eye Joe
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creativelycliche's Profile Picture
Artist | Professional | Literature
United States
Hello! I'm creativelycliche! In addition to the hundreds of poems and pieces of short fiction here, I am also the author of seven novels. I self-published a digital collection of poetry in 2011, another in 2016, and a book of short stories in 2010. Links to downloads/etc below. Writing is what I do. Thanks for coming by my page, and I hope there's something here you like!

And you, dear reader, who has stumbled upon my humble page in the vast hollows of the internet, I think you've got all the potential in the world to be who you want to be.

I wish you luck on all of today's endeavors. (and never give up the dream!)


Feel free to friend me: (I back-follow/friend/etc. in most cases - especially if you mention you're from dA!)
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(I can be a really quiet guy, but it isn't because I don't love and appreciate all of you! If you want to talk, feel free to send me a message - I'll do my best not to be lame!)

I can be found on a multitude of other sites and gaming platforms, usually as either creativelycliche, crativecliches, or my gamertag, a crazed rodent.

Literature tag by NotAGoddess

My Website:

Praise for =creativelycliche

<table class="f"><tbody><tr><td class="f grf-mirror" style="width: 386px; font-size: 9pt;">

creativelycliche [has] a fiercely intelligent mind which shows in his work. -Aerode

I certainly think [he] ha[s] a wonderful talent... perhaps one I am envious of :giggle:. -Nullibicity

One of my dA literary heroes - friendlyneighbor

(In a review of Selling the Sunrise)
"I thought that life had devoured my romantic streak but then this little book of poetry made me cry and I realized that my flame still burns."



HORIZONS cover by creativelycliche

My newest book of poetry, HORIZONS, is a book of conceptual glitch poetry focusing on the story of CRESSIDA, an artificial intelligence program, and it's journey through it's new plane of sentience. It is a story about love, rebirth, and of course, science fiction.

It can be purchased digitally at Amazon for $2.99
or physical copies can be ordered from Lulu for $6.99 plus shipping.


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ckp Featured By Owner 2 days ago
thanks for the fav - hymn

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HendrikHermans Featured By Owner Aug 10, 2017  Hobbyist Traditional Artist
Thanks for the fav
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Baby Groot thanks you for the llama :)
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HendrikHermans Featured By Owner Jul 24, 2017  Hobbyist Traditional Artist
Thanks for the fav
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