It's Your Sick WorldYou're bold, you're stupid, the blame game is your friend.It's Your Sick World2 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
Pointing fingers, shouting names,
none of them your own.
Swollen bellies, teenage bodies, where's the father,
why the bother?
Drugs replacing, mind is racing, colours facing, love escaping.
Designer brands determine friendships,
the popular ruining it all.
See the girl in the chair, dead in the centre,
judged, broken, offended, broken.
What do you do?
Judge, break, offend, BREAK!
Tear down the creative,
shatter the artistic.
This is your life,
walking a fake line.
Cherish it, or don't.
It's your sick world.
Does an Artist Have to Play the Popularity Game?You, as an artist, might think that exposure follows artistic success. But now I believe that artistic success follow exposure. Here is a short story illustrating this fickle process:Does an Artist Have to Play the Popularity Game?2 years ago in Reviews & Guides More Like This
Daviantart Michael creates art that borders on genius. After a while Michael comes down from his artistic "in the zone" mania (he loves the feeling, feels like he's high) and collapses asleep onto a pink sofa. Next morning (if ten o'clock is morning) he sips espresso and checks his inbox: 2, maybe 3 favs.
The caffeine hits Michael's bloodstream just as the disappointing realization sags over his head like a storm cloud. Why don't they see what I did here! Can't they see how this is really something?
Michael thinks about this the whole day. Then he realizes that success precedes exposure so he adds over 9000 groups to all his submissions and now receives a continuous flush of favs and comments as reliable as OLD FAITHFUL GEYSER, YELLOWSTONE PARK 82190, WY.
NO RETURN ADDRESS! (stamps are too e
The Desert RoseWith eyes the colour of the cloudless sky,The Desert Rose2 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
And hair like mighty dunes of sand,
She moves elusively and yet with such grace;
It is a dangerous sort of beauty.
Her eyes snap sharply into mine,
Whenever my gaze lingers a second too long.
Her stare traps mine own in place and so
I stay there frozen with fear... or is it awe?
I would love to tell myself
That such a flower is not meant for me,
But I would only be lying to myself
Because I love the thrill of the game.
I truly do admire her spirit,
Like the Great Pyramids it stands tall,
Against all odds,
Never bending an inch...
A fascination overwhelms me even now.
Can I even hope to keep up,
Or has the game already been won
By the Desert Rose?