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Do you like reading? Do you like writing? Then this group is for you! We offer contests, prompts, articles and a whole lot of literature experience absolutely booming out the wazoo! Be sure to check out the rules before submitting! :heart:

:bulletred: There are no limitations on joining. Anybody is allowed to join and membership join requests are automatically accepted.

:bulletblue: We also accept comics and poetry in digital art format. However, we would prefer if you did not submit creative writing in journal format. (Unless it is a writing guide, which in that case it's perfectly fine.)

:bulletpurple: If you have a mature tag, it goes into the “Mature-ONLY" folder.

:bulletblack: Chapters or series: "Chaptered works." Single works of prose: "Prose."

:bulletgreen: If your work is denied, it's probably because it was submitted to the wrong folder.

**For the love of all things holy, if you don't know where it goes, don't be that person who randomly submits it to the fanfiction folder. What you submitted the deviation as corresponds with our folders!!**

:bulletpink: There is to be NO flaming of the art that is submitted to our galleries. Please be a nice person, it's the best thing to be. :heart:

:bulletpurple: Feel free to advertise your writing, contests and friends in comments down below! Just remember to keep it spam free. :heart:

Thank you for following the rules!

Group Info

Writing-Rampage is a group that allows you to participate in contests, discover unseen lit-artists, participate in prompts, features and a whole bundle of fun!
Founded 5 Years ago
Feb 14, 2010


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Journal Entry: Sat Jul 25, 2015, 12:00 AM

 Welcome to The Grooviest Lit in Town, where some of deviantART's very own writers are featured for their all radical, all gas, and all hangin' works and projects. From prose and poetry, to the depths of novels, soliloquies and articles - it's all here! So hang loose, get jazzed, and keep on being right outta sight. Love



1.enjoyable and excellent.


convos"I worry about our conversations."
Tiny Little SpidersNot so tiny Spider learning her place.
Not so tiny Spider, look at her face!
Not so tiny Spider, send forth your smaller ones.
Not so tiny Spider, while you relax and have some fun.
Tiny little spiders crawling up his arm,
Tiny little spiders, so many of you, like from a farm.
Tiny little spiders all over his neck.
You're invisible, so what the heck.
Tiny little spiders in and out his ear,
Tiny little spiders, have no fear.
Tiny little spiders, take his brain,
But from killing him please do refrain!
Tiny little spiders, what have you done?
Tiny little spiders, this was no fun.
Tiny little spiders, now she's dead.
Tiny little spiders, and it's all on my head.
Tiny little Spiders did nothing wrong.
Tiny little Spiders just sang her song.
One great big huge Spider made this mess.
One great big huge Spider still in her nest.
Please do not worry, dearest one.
Please do not worry, darling sun.
Please do not worry, sweetest prince.
This mess I myself shall fix.
Incy Wincy Spider climbed up th
Ginger Ale And LemonadeLemonade is sour yet sweet,
It varies day by day,
Ginger Ale is bubbly and tart,
Never going flat,
Mixing Ginger Ale and Lemonade...
Leads to a sensual taste,
Perfect in every way,
Took a while to figure it out,
I'm Lemonade,
You're Ginger Ale,
We're a helluva combination,  
But an amazing one at that  

You are my
Favorite color.
You are the
Sun light.
And everyday
You are somewhere.
I see you,
You coward!
I love it
When you're
The Female SuicideTwenty years of nursing
emergency room wounds
and my grandmother
puts down her fork, rubs
her brow and tells me
the female suicide
is a more methodical,
calculating beast.
A woman will close
the curtains, cleanse
their apartment of clutter
for the first time in months
and proceed to overdose
in the comfort of their
own hospitality.
A woman will do this
because she is aware
someone will have to
discover her like this.
Someone will have to
bury her like this.
My grandmother says this
because when my uncle speaks
paramedic about the male
he pronounced dead from
a house’s television antenna
he never mentions a burial.
Inside OutInside Out
April 24, 2013
I don't exactly wear my heart
on my sleeve, but I do, however,
wear my skin inside out
all the sinews exposed
like the gnarled roots
of a great bramble

On Trans*With split personas
Come awakened demons.
Or so you told me
As you took my life.
One must be older,
You say,
To know oneself
Within society’s standard.
This one she,
Rains kisses and
Showers, coy though tied,
Always dressed her best.
While brother he
Gives no fucks
About simple love.
His pants bear holes
To represent the quadruplets.
Ze and they hide cautiously
Behind sister she and brother he.
Tricky, witchy, though shy.
One cannot simply separate
The polygonal siblings
Of personal expression.
The fluidity calmly
Oversees the oceans
And the course of
Human nature in its
Most righteous form.
The waves foam and break,
And the sand rough will not 
Shake the fear and discomfort
When they are not she.
Bitlets 378When it rains, it pours, but
I've already poured myself
another drink.
psuedo i would fuck you for the beauty of two
bodies falling in love with hearts screaming
scene-scapes scrape nails across my skin like it's
a chalkboard and you're the artist but
i've seen you draw stick figures and i am so much more
you would fuck me for the sake of insanity and
among unsanitary wardrobes of forgotten costumes
you kiss me like a memory i never needed
the musty smell of regret brings back uneven stubble rasping
against my barricaded emotions of something between
disgust and desire
(we're both fucked because you have someone and i have ghosts
and we're so dysfunctional we're not even friends.)

red decisionsbeing fifteen is
a lot like being stuck
at a red with no one
at the intersection
except for you.
you know that if you
apply enough pressure
to the pedal underfoot,
you will propel
across the intersection
and carry onwards
but all your life,
(the brief flicker it has been)
they have told you
red means stop,
green means go, and you
need to wait your turn
like everyone else,
it is the way things work,
and you shouldn’t ask why.
you fear that,
when the light finally
switches over to green,
it will be too late
to do all of the things
you were waiting for
in the first place.
emerson + sophieemerson is, and always has been, the sort of person who cannot bring himself to admit his feelings out loud without awkwardness and embarrassment. in all the years that i have known him, he has never tried to leave a suicide note when he is lonely and ready to die; at first i thought that it was pure, unadulterated selfishness but i am not so sure. see, emerson is ready to die - always has been - and for the hundreds of times that he has attempted to meet death, in however small a way, i have never seen a note and maybe, just maybe, that's because he doesn't know how to write one. god knows i don't know how, and i'm in full command of my feelings; i can't imagine what it must be like for him to sit in a quiet corner with a pen held in his hand, not knowing what to say - i have always known what to say, even to a point of excess.
perhaps it's wrong to do so, what with knowing so little of her character and past, but i blame his mother. wholeheartedly, i blame his mother. i wan
Remember the RainI search for clarity upon clouded skies, lament tears amidst rain.
The sound of rain reminiscent of forlorn figures and cognitive dissonance...
Resilient, indifferent, unyeilding... constant, yet everchanging.
Each crystalline drop a dance of sentiments awaiting senseless oblivion.
Standing amongst the cold I conjure up memories...
Memories the likes of which time could never heal, only to be set free by my own doing.
Like the droplets on your windowpane, my spoken words will puddle; left to dissipate.
Still, they fall... as do I. But sometimes...
You can still catch me smiling in them.



marilynsometime in 1950,
marilyn monroe bares her backbones.
if I could describe her
I would describe how she bends over,
her spine curling like a twig does
before it breaks, her hips
cupped by another man’s waist.
at fourteen years old
I watch how the diamonds
swim in her curves,
and I tell my mother quietly
so my father does not hear
that her hair does not even move
in the wind.
my mother does not answer, only shrugs,
her shoulders angular under her shirt
and even quieter
I think my father keeps little cardboard cutouts
of marilyn, sometime in 1950 still.
I see tons of your poetry describing her
like she believed she was
the most beautiful woman in the world,
that she died with diamonds
still drowning in her curves,
but all I can think is
sometime somewhere,
marilyn eternally bares her backbones.
marilyn monroe died at thirty-six,
and your poetry is terrible.
I am real.
d-dayshe catches him like driftwood in water
licking his splinters like a fire does when
the flames are only just close enough to
touch the surface: a dragging taste-test.
she knows burns that just kill the surface
hurt more than anything else, but there
is something about the danger in it that
makes her carry him, the driftwood, past
the surface. and she wants to drown him
there, let her thighs drown him like she
drowns him in his own pillows, keeps him
captive like a kelpie does when she drags
another man to sea: drags, like a cigarette
drags, the smoke they spit back and forth
like children do with nasty words on a wet
schoolyard. drags, like his lips drag when
they drift to meet hers. if she were a kelpie
she would describe herself as agony, the
thing inside her moving back and forth like
violent waves on the clear day following a
storm, that make her think that no matter
what she will do, water will find splinters,
that they will both be in danger soon, so
she catches him like driftwoo

my grandmother, on __it is quiet.
how could you–she said, a voice
old with bitterness–how could you
allow yourself silence when there
were even Gods guilty of what
most men do, that claim they are
heavy on a high that only leaves
when they have their way with you?
she said,
women, they say, but it sounds
like any other word when it falls
from their lips. and she tells me
it is the only effect of manhood,
a disease that kills more women
than any other does,
that it has sometimes even made her sick,
that it doesn’t calm even when her body hits
her white wedding bed, when she widows
as it is christened by her dead husband.
when my body hits the ground again
I wonder what Zeus’s mother thought
of all the women he raped, that maybe
all men speak ancient greek when they
release their breath into your neck, that
maybe all men have empires sewn into
them, the destruction within the space
between their eyebrows a silent history
you have to trust like the recurring silence
that always
cease and desistWhen I was eight, my therapist would sit me down,
give me a handful of jellybeans and crayons,
and with the red lips chapped and smudged
into her teeth, she would ask me,
"if you were a room, what room would you be?"
when I was eight, I drew nothing: I only stared longer
with a crayon in one hand and a handful of jellybeans
in another, watched as her eyes dragged from my hands
to the paper, the blue disappearing as they constrict
as thin as my mother’s sowing needles
I used to stick in my fingers when I got bored.
if my therapist had asked me now
I would draw pews around me,
a dusty brown vacant enough to remind me
of church outside of sundays, the wood
scratched to boredom, a soft hum of worship
that only sounds like a chorus of dead voices.
if my therapist had asked me now
I would draw the judge a broken organ,
its keys catching its fingers with a soft crunching sound,
sounding like a mouse does when it’s stuck in a trap,
its sound reduced to a torso with an animal for a


longing for the countrysidei miss the countryside
where there are no sirens to
cut across the lazy
landscape and neighbors are
sometimes scarce to find,
and i can walk into the wood
without trespassing
because my uncle won't mind me
kissing the wisdom of rivers
or dancing with the trees.
lost magnoliasyour fuchsia skirt
in the wind like a lost
magnolia of may,
and when you smiled at me
i felt nothing but
for many mays i have lost

mother's daughterthe children's laughter annoys me
i think surely i was not that
much of a cretin,
but then i think back to my mother
always hushing me when i was a
i was always so excitable,
still am -
guess she couldn't relate to that experience
as if she couldn't remember being a child,
but even with this empathy
and realization
the annoyance still remains;
perhaps, i am more
my mother's daughter than i care
to admit.
wounded hearteat your vegetables,
kid, they'll
help you grow they said;
well, eat your words
i say
they may erode the bitterness
growing like cancer
in the open
wound that is your heart.


“Five exclamation marks, the sure sign of an insane mind.” 
― Terry PratchettReaper Man


I'm a prose admin for LitRecognition, so be sure to check out the rules of submission here if you know a piece of prose that needs some exposure!

Happy writing,


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Diamonds-Dont-Shine Featured By Owner 4 days ago  Hobbyist Writer
Hey why are my poems declined?:P
Naktarra Featured By Owner 2 days ago   Writer
If your poems were declined, it's likely they were submitted to the wrong folder. :)
shehrozeameen Featured By Owner Jul 18, 2015  Hobbyist Writer
A Writer's Arsenal (contest)Hey everybody :wave:
So... on behalf of :iconpoetrynprosewatchers: and myself... I'M HOSTING A CONTEST!!! :squee:
Just the "Ode to Joy" the vocal portion is important. The rest is for all symphony affectionados.
Point is, ladies and gentlemen, that I have - through the blessings of the Lepracauns of Ireland, the awesome power of Germany's strict regimentation, and the laziness brought about by my studies, hot Hamburg girls, curries, and from being at the last leg of my semester before I leave for Pakistan - managed to procure a certain amount of points for this contest.
Its called:
So basically, what is in a writer's arsenal? Is it poems? Is it prose? Is it both? Is there anything else which also important for a writer?
To me, I think that its both poems and prose (with specializations being either towards poems, or prose) but one more key element: What we read. And in that respect, what we read most

Contest being held by shehrozeameen and :iconpoetrynprosewatchers:…

Brief summary provided in link above.

So, as you are aware, or have read, about A Writer's Arsenal: 
There is a significant buzz about this contest. Oh, you didn't know, its in quite a lot of places actually:

There's also been promotions in the forums about it as well.
And so far, the participants are:
So, for those who are wondering about submission of entries (which is understandable)

Participants so far.
krazykez Featured By Owner Jul 15, 2015   General Artist
Literature only competition - an OCT if you will. Prizes to be won!

Who is willing to pay the price for their deepest desire?

Would you give up everything you Own? Sacrifice your friends and family?

Would you sacrifice your morals? Your Sanity?

...Your Soul?

There exists in the world, a man who can grant your deepest desires but even finding this man exacts a heavy price.

People go missing when the name "Rendell" is mentioned...

...You just never thought you'd be one of them!

Now one way or another you find yourself in an large, impressive stately home in the middle of nowhere at the request of your host - the man who identifies himself only as 'Rendell'.

The man who can make your wishes come true - for a price.

How far are you willing to go to make your dreams come true?

Can you pay the price Rendell is asking?

If you can't you're not getting out of the mansion alive... rendells-request-oct.deviantar…
SolidMars Featured By Owner Jun 12, 2015  Hobbyist General Artist
why are all the folders except fanfiction closed?
are you revamping the gallery or something?
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