Shop Mobile More Submit  Join Login
About Literature / Professional Core Member Mel Finefrock26/Female/United States Recent Activity
Deviant for 7 Years
4 Week Core Membership:
Given by an Anonymous Deviant
Statistics 512 Deviations 12,620 Comments 45,782 Pageviews

Newest Deviations

Begin Again
Racing drums,
Asia's heartbeat,
in a moonless Texas sky;
lotus tea blooms
until my cup is
:iconhopeburnsblue:hopeburnsblue 15 4
Sweet Serenity :iconhopeburnsblue:hopeburnsblue 10 11
And Yet
is a boulder
on my chest.
is my lungs
for each breath.
:iconhopeburnsblue:hopeburnsblue 12 7
We Could Be Timeless
My hope burned blue;
now we shine
rose gold.
:iconhopeburnsblue:hopeburnsblue 11 7
My sweet blue Burmese
snuggled on a hot pink throw
thinks she's camouflage.
:iconhopeburnsblue:hopeburnsblue 5 3
Olfactory Memory
At Target, my partner and I have gone from grocery shopping to testing fragrances of all things. I never knew what cologne you wore, just that the scent is practically your trademark. I unknowingly pick up a bottle of it and nearly pitch it down the aisle like a glass grenade before he grabs my hand and stops me, reminding me where we are with an unspoken, "you break it, you buy it. " I still run as if the fearful vile might detonate. No, I definitely don't want to buy it. I don't even ask him its name, which will be both a blessing and a curse.
I'm on a tough call at work. A customer who was angry at first now chatters pleasantly in my ear. I feel proud that I am the reason. I breathe in, bracing to explain a process to him, and suddenly smell your cologne as a stranger passes by my cubicle. My knees almost buckle. Of course it's not you. When you're a victim of stalking, you have to learn the trade, so naturally I've already looked you up in the system just to be sure. Still upse
:iconhopeburnsblue:hopeburnsblue 7 9
Open Letters
I. Abandonment
The love knot
threaded between our hearts
seems to have unraveled,
stretching taut
like a kinked muscle
or a guitar string
tuned sharp.
Miles and time zones
never mattered,
but existing together
in the same realm
grew difficult
when I was
two hours too far
into the future
and you no longer
understood our language
in my calls for help,
spoken and silent.
The rope stretches
farther than I can see,
and I admit I'm too afraid
to follow where it leads.
II. Denial
I never said
you had to choose sides;
I just didn't expect
for you to choose her,
to tell me
that one adult
shoving another
against a wall
was less than abuse--
a sisters' quarrel--
when you of all people
should know what it's like
to fear the next blow,
however unseeingly.
I can't accept it
or tiptoe around it
with polite conversation;
I will not be
fair-weather family.
III. Terrorism
I chose you.
I chose you,
and I thought you chose me.
But you chased me
with words you knew
would destroy me,
no matter
:iconhopeburnsblue:hopeburnsblue 8 7
Smoke Without Mirrors
Taking a drag
really isn't
a drag--
it's more like being
My aura expands
and contracts
until poison
becomes medicine
because sometimes I just
In smoke without mirrors,
I find myself grounded;
I am the stillness
but still myself.
spirals around me,
my calmness within
until I become
one with the darkness
instead of feeling
entrapped by it.
:iconhopeburnsblue:hopeburnsblue 8 15
Pink Salt
With our salty skin
in love's afterglow,
we take cleansing breaths
as our blushing bedside lamps
heave hygroscopic sighs.    
:iconhopeburnsblue:hopeburnsblue 8 3
The Difference
I was
lost in the storm,
but your heart of gold
opened my eyes
to silver linings.
You made the difference
between "I can't"
and "I can,"
between "you're not good enough"
and "stop doubting yourself,"
between "you're a burden"
and "help me carry mine."
And yet gold is humble,
without knowing its worth.
You smile like it's nothing,
but it means everything.
:iconhopeburnsblue:hopeburnsblue 12 13
Somehow, we survived
summer's sadness
by huddling in our fortress
until the ceasefire
of hardships dealt
and harsh words spoken
unto us.
It's coming on autumn now,
and hope,
blown in on the wind,
soothes our knotted throats
like the first taste of oolong.
We are mending
with the seasons,
clinging to each other
with love devoid of fear
and opening
to become our boldest selves.
:iconhopeburnsblue:hopeburnsblue 10 12
don't always come easily,
but I've been writing you
a letter that never ends
because, even though you're gone,
I still smell you
in the coffee shop
where we last talked,
at your choosing,
about anything
except goodbye.
You still weave memories
into melodies
of songs we shared,
chilling my arms
as if to offer
a celestial embrace.
We still meet
in my dreams.
You're always pissed
when I admit
I'm getting sick of life,
mostly out of worry
because even as hard as you fought,
you knew more than anyone
how that feels,
cancer or not,
and you don't want me to go there.
Every time, you play the track
from our last phone call
when you told me
you were proud.
And so our dialogue continues,
not in words,
but in passing moments.
I still hear you,
and I know
you can still hear me.
:iconhopeburnsblue:hopeburnsblue 8 5
Rhapsody :iconhopeburnsblue:hopeburnsblue 7 4 Urban Spelunking :iconhopeburnsblue:hopeburnsblue 9 6
The Poem Who Became a Story
On my birthday, there was a homeless gentleman at 7Eleven who approached my partner and me as we stopped in for a drink. His voice was underscored by a tone that, despite his labored speech, conveyed a tentative hope that we'd see the human being behind the ID card he presented to us.
"He wants to shake your hand," Jordan murmured discretely so I'd understand what was going on. He's always ready to play narrator if needed.
I nodded my recognition, smiled, and half in apology and half in explanation, passed a hand over my eyes to explain my blindness, and subsequent unresponsiveness to body language, to the man.
He brightened immediately, his words growing suddenly clear as I had an epiphany of my own. "Oh, you're blind! I'm deaf! How much sign do you know?"
"Not much," I replied bashfully. In truth, I'd just needed so much to communicate that I'd used my hands; and so it was that a barrier became understanding.
"Look at you smiling," he said, enfolding both my hands in his own and then
:iconhopeburnsblue:hopeburnsblue 9 11
Unplanned Activity
After a tough customer,
I change my call state
and sip first flush Darjeeling
to find my voice again
and let my little red thermos
blow off some steam.
:iconhopeburnsblue:hopeburnsblue 6 4

Best of Favorites

Click here to read more remarkable literature.


JoyMay life whisper
joy through your veins
before lidding your eyes.
trulyall my luck seemed lost
replaced with hopelessness
"open your hand," he urged
bare, save for my wedding band
he smiled, "for better, for worse"

Driftwood DreamsHope, burning, blew
like driftwood across white beaches
as sunrise breached
the distant horizon line.
Life driftwood on white beaches,
sand sullied calm dreams.
The distant horizon line,
turbulent, wailed a mourning.
Sand sullied calm dreams
like a burden we couldn't shake.
Turbulent, wailing a mourning,
we loosed wishes to the sea.
Like a burden we couldn't shake,
sunrise breached as
we loosed wishes to the sea:
hope burning blue.


The Ozymandias Principle (Sandbox Jenga)Ginny always had a penchant for destroying things.
At the age of four, she was introduced to blocks (perhaps a devastating mistake on her preschool teacher’s part.) The brightly-colored wooden shapes held a certain fascination for her. While her classmates took a simple childish glee in building things up and knocking them down again, Ginny looked on their ways with disdain. She would carefully create an elaborate structure, and pull out all the key pieces until only a bare framework was left, shivering on the edge of collapse. Then she would tap on just one, or blow on it with her mouth, and the whole skeleton would come crumbling down.
Her parents often commented that if she had been born a decade or two earlier, she could have made a fortune by inventing Jenga. As it was, she was never very good at the game. She didn’t particularly like setting it all up- all she knew was that she had to build it before she could break it.
When she was seven, her Sunday school had a pi
The Great RaceI crack my knuckles and touch the ground, stretching my calves the way Olympic runners do before a race. The gravel spikes at my palms; my muscles burn from the stretching. Jogging in place, I breathe in short bursts that form into clouds in the chilly air.
Max paces back and forth next to me, holding a clipboard and waving his pen like a conductor. My body is so full of electricity from the anticipation that I want to slap him as hard as I can just for the sake of letting go of the tension. Instead, I crack my knuckles again, making Max cringe in a satisfying way.
Shaking it off, Max checks his watch before pushing his glasses to the top of his head. “Four minutes,” he says, reading off the clipboard. “The race starts at the fifth period bell. That way, you won’t meet any teachers in the hallways who are running late, but there might be some girls still rushing to class after lunch.” He looks up, scrunching his eyebrows together. “Although I really

The TravelerShe blew in on the last day of summer, arriving just as the wind began, clutching an artist’s portfolio and a hatbox. There was wonder and wisdom in her bright blue eyes, softened by time and crow’s-feet, and a perfect maple leaf the color of flame was caught in her unruly red hair… her perfume hinted of woodsmoke and oak tannins and the spice of faraway, foreign ports. I helped her carry her hatbox from the train station, and when she smiled at me, I knew everything was about to change.
We shared a cab to the little seaside town where we were both staying, there on the cusp of the world; it had long been one of my favorite places, my secret getaway. When life became too stagnant, the city sweltering in summer’s re-radiated heat, I spent a few days on the shore, staring out across the limitless horizon and dreaming of shanghaied sailors and full-bellied canvas tugging the great ships to the Orient, groaning hulls full of timber from forests that once seemed inex


Featured Works

LongingMissing you
is forsaking
the cooler side of the pillow
for the side that remembers
the impression of your cheek
and the soft smell of your hair.
It's reveling
in the butterfly thrill
of your gentle embrace,
but aching to close
the Rubin-vase distance
that separates us.
It's the difference between
the sound of your silver Corolla
as you pull to a stop
in my cul-de-sac
and the way it sounds
when you leave.
It's weaving "I love you"
into every word,
every touch,
every song,
short of actually saying it.
But the thing is,
I don't know
how much longer I can go
without saying it.
Miles to Go1
“Can you move your leg over the edge of your bed?”
Already it’s been roughly two weeks since my rail platform accident. Still I’m bedridden, still my left leg is all plaster and bandages, and already I’m growing dangerously thin by comparison to my usually slim build.
I concentrate all of my energy into moving my leg. That’s when the excruciating pain quite literally kicks in, taking the form of a spontaneous muscle spasm.
I don’t flash back completely, but my leg does. I feel terrified and am ashamed when I break down crying with childlike abandon. But Jessica doesn’t scold me the way the therapist in the hospital did. Her voice, colored by a hearty Michigan accent, contains realism and optimism in equal measure.
“That’s all I need from you today,” she says, placing one hand on my shoulder and one on my leg. “I just wanted to see where you’re at.”


Mel is probably one of the first names new writers on dA come across. Not only is she incredibly kind-hearted and approachable, but she is also a beautiful writer. She is always highlighting hidden gems she discovers in our little literary pool, all while spinning emotionally-charged poetry that spills with honesty.

... deserves the Sweetest Deviant Award for her good cheerful demeanor, coupled with an unwavering compassion. Through her powerful writing and her work on and off deviantART, she has been especially good at reaching out to people who struggle with illnesses or "disabilities" to act as a positive influence and offer unconditional kindness so necessary for their emotional well being.

... you are fascinating! I really enjoyed your photographs, and I've been trying to figure out what has caught your attention for each scene. I think I can 'understand' the ones where you have arranged objects the best (eg. Even the Broken Have a Song or Dare to Dream) because I see these as compositions that you have carefully manipulated with attention to balance and interaction between objects. It made me imagine you carefully setting the scene. I can see that some of your other photographs have been taken to show the contrast between light and dark and it gives me an idea of the kind of things that catch your attention. :D It's very interesting!

Mel is consistently inspiring me--she faces each and every day with a heavy, frightening burden but remains steadfast on her path and is always, always positive and willing to lend others a helping hand or a shoulder to lean on. Mel reminds me, every day, that I am greater than my struggles, and I appreciate and love her immensely for it. Heart

Words to Live By

"The moment that you feel that, just possibly, you're walking down the street naked, exposing too much of your heart and your mind and what exists on the inside, showing too much of yourself. That's the moment you may be starting to get it right."
--Neil Gaiman

"I have always believed that hope is that stubborn thing inside us that insists, despite all the evidence to the contrary, that something better awaits us so long as we have the courage to keep reaching, to keep working, to keep fighting."
--Barack Obama

"We don't read and write poetry because it's cute. We read and write poetry because we are members of the human race. And the human race is filled with passion. And medicine, law, business, engineering, these are noble pursuits and necessary to sustain life. But poetry, beauty, romance, love, these are what we stay alive for. To quote Whitman, 'Oh me! O life!... of the questions of these recurring; of the endless trains of the faithless... of cities filled with the foolish; what good amid these, O me, O life?' Answer. That you are here--that life exists, and identity; that the powerful play goes on and you may contribute a verse. That the powerful play goes on and you may contribute a verse. What will your verse be?"
--The Dead Poet Society


Mel Finefrock
Artist | Professional | Literature
United States
Once a book editor, now a claims adjuster, and an artist still, Mel feels privileged to have had a variety of experiences, all with her eyes closed and her mind and heart wide open. Mel has self-published a book entitled Patchwork Poetry, been featured in interviews with Plano Magazine and the BBC, written for popular blogs such as the Mighty and the Huffington Post, and was the source of inspiration behind Melissa Foster's bestselling novel, Touched by Love. She also enjoys singing and playing guitar, and just about any cup of tea is her cup of tea. Mel now resides in the Downtown Plano Arts District with her partner, Jordan.

Avatar courtesy of Heltinde
Literature author tag courtesy of lithium-cocoon
Profile picture courtesy of Jordan Nichols
Hi. My name is Mel. And I'm not a total airhead, I promise. I'm legally blind and use screenreading software, so sometimes I do silly things on this site, like writing in the wrong comment boxes. Yeah. That's a thing. More recently, dA seems to have added a feature that allows us to comment on each other's work without having opened it, so the little shortcut I made up that gets me to the comment page on your profiles hasn't been working, and I didn't know it 'til now. All told, if you received a thank you note from me on a Deviation of yours and it seemed like I didn't even pay attention at all to your artwork because of that, I sincerely apologize.

Now that we have that out of the way, hello to everyone and thank you to my new followers. If you have any questions about my blindness, I'm pretty much an open book. :D

Let's see ... what's been going on with me? Um. Admittedly a lot of painful shit. But here I am. Let's talk about the things that are going right. Not because I'm avoiding the bad feelings, but because they're so personal and so complicated and so totally going to drown me already if I don't fight against that current. Because hope burns blue and all that. I've started doing a little yoga in my spare time; I now have a turntable and have gotten into spinning vinyl; I'm doing more geocaching again with my partner, Jordan; I finally sit by a window at work and take 424 stairs down every day (we're working on the up part because I have a bum leg and it hurts); I've been reading like a fiend; and I've started publishing blogs again. I used to write for, but the Office of Disability Employment Policy did a restructure of its website recently and shut its blog down, so a lot of my writings were displaced. It's a little sad because D-Gov was one of my first and most consistent gigs, but this gave me an opportunity to awaken my creativity and also to get my name out there more now that I've published my own book. So I've rewritten them all and am working on finding homes for them. Here are a few:

Making Web Images Accessible to People Who Are Blind
I mainly wrote this for Web designers, but I think everyone can take away a little something. Describing your images is a small touch that makes blind people feel included.
I'm Blind & I Don't Mind if you Think I'm Inspiring
The title sounds, again, like I'm an airhead. But the article references my perspective on the hot topic of "inspiration porn," AKA the belief that finding people with disabilities to be inspirational is objectifying.

I think that's all she wrote. I just wanted to pop in and let y'all know I'm still alive. :P

  • Listening to: P!nk - Just Like Fire


Add a Comment:
Crystal-Magic13 Featured By Owner Mar 15, 2017  Hobbyist Writer
hopeburnsblue Featured By Owner 1 day ago  Professional Writer
I like! Thanks for sharing. :heart:
ithaswhatitisnt Featured By Owner Feb 13, 2017  Hobbyist Writer
Happy Valentine's Day, Mel! :tighthug: :heart: :iconloveyouplz: I'm sorry I haven't been super active lately, but I want you to know I love our friendship and thank you, for all the times you've been so supportive.  You're my hero. :heart: 
hopeburnsblue Featured By Owner Feb 20, 2017  Professional Writer
Thank you for the thoughtful note, Catherine. I feel the same way. Many thanks for your friendship and support. :love: :iconsweethugplz:
dreamsinstatic Featured By Owner Jan 18, 2017
Thanks for the :+fav:
hopeburnsblue Featured By Owner Jan 20, 2017  Professional Writer
Of course! Have a happy weekend. :)
Namco-NintendoFan-88 Featured By Owner Edited Aug 27, 2016  Student Traditional Artist
HAPPY belated 'n 26th BIRTHDAY, but once again, Melissa Raye Finefrock, a.k.a. "hopeburnsblue," dear pro literaturist, musician, singer, songwriter, composer, 'n guitarist gal! Hug
Singing Singing Singing Singing Dance! Dance! Boogie! Boogie! Party Airborne

Remember the two anime (Haruhi-chan 'n Mikuru) muro drawings I just made for you last year, dear literaturist 'n musician friend? :) (Smile) Heart
Good luck from yesterday, beautiful, and I hope you had a great b-day!
Also wishing you as a pro keep up the good work on all awesome literature writings, music 'n composing songs; I love 'em! ;) :heart:
Thumbs Up Pringles Have your cake and eat it too Yummy pie!

You can also subscribe to my YouTube channel:…

You can also follow me on Google+:… :googleplus:

Comments by:
Nelson C. [my real name],
12:55 A.M.
Los Angeles, CA ;) (Wink)
hopeburnsblue Featured By Owner Aug 28, 2016  Professional Writer
Thank you, Nelson! :D
kaikaku Featured By Owner Aug 25, 2016  Hobbyist General Artist
Happy birthdaaaaaaay!
hopeburnsblue Featured By Owner Aug 26, 2016  Professional Writer
Thank you! :iconheartglompplz:
Add a Comment: