The RoomThe room was small, built in the shape of a sphere. The walls, floor and ceiling were all painted a bright, blinding white, creating a cold and unfeeling setting. There was no visible discrepancy to the sphere's shape. There was nothing else in the room, and it was kept lit by an unidentifiable source of light. There were no windows, and the only door that led outside blended in seamlessly with the walls. There was no way to tell left from right, front from back. And in the middle of the sphere sat a man.The Room10 years ago in Horror More Like This
His raven black hair was long, dirty and fell to his shoulders in matted locks. He wore a plain white shirt, or at least a shirt that had once been white. Now it had been stained a dull brown-red by blood. He wore a pair of khaki trousers, torn and ripped almost to shreds, and his feet were bare. His nails were long, untrimmed and sharp. His arms were cuffed firmly behind his back, and no matter what he tried they would not come free. His eyes fixed themselves on the section of the sp
DDRUp left down rightDDR11 years ago in Songs & Lyrics More Like This
Got this dance down tight
Left right up down
Bring them in, pull the crowd
Make a dance, set the mood
Watch yourself OH! Too crude
Watch yourself, your getting booed
Aren't you that jam and butter food?
Hah! Quick to my feet
Recuperate after a fall, never retreat
Never back down, never accept defeat
The one game I can pwnzd you without speakin' l33t
Up beat, complete, so neat, you reek
I move so smooth, and I will prove
Who is king? Ya don't understand this is my thing
I'm too bold, I've won just fold
Listen to the man "Have you got a cold?"
Bam, I'm feeling the heat
The one that comes when the floor and feet meet
No pain no gain and got skill in this game
And when I'm done with my quarters there's one thing on the membrane
Note to selfLeather boots may let you through the mud with out getting dirt on you, but in the end when you take them off your feet are scarred from these glass slippers.Note to self6 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
Staples may keep your mouth shut, but your eyes are still open and you know what is happening. Without a voice you are nothing, a thumbnail.
You may be afraid of the dark, but it is the light that brings the most pain.
E se alguem te der um poema?E se alguem te der um poema?10 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
E se alguém te der um poema?
Conjunto de palavras raras e místicas
Com confluências e metafísicas
E que exprimam amor disfarçado de arte
Porque o amor não é uma arte
Mas um sentimento
E é no meio desse tormento
Que as palavras surgem nuas
E se tornam ternuras
Onde as lágrimas correm abruptas
E é nesse estranho engenho
Que roda sem timoneiro
Que perdemos a razão
E a única solução
é talvez escrever...sem hesitação
Porque te quero dar cor
E um poema com amor
Disfarçado de arte
Que não rimando com o coração
Mais fácil lá se aloja
Do que uma simples prova
De arte pela arte
A arte tem amor
O amor não tem razão
A razão tem alguém
A reger-nos a mão
Nesse caso o amor é livre como o ar
E é esse ar que respiro que te quero dar
Disfarçado de papel...de arte. de amor.
E se alguém te der um poema...
Posso ser eu?
A ArteA ArteA Arte7 years ago in Traditional Fixed Forms More Like This
LArt est long et le Temps est court.
- Charles Baudelaire
Noite adentro vai insone o poeta
Bem jovem, escrevendo sem motivo.
É um lugar triste, negro e vivo
Onde escreve à papel e caneta.
A loja de versos sem tabuleta
Não atraía a atenção de ninguém.
Machine.I do not die.Machine.9 years ago in Traditional Fixed Forms More Like This
I cannot feel.
I'll never hurt.
I'll never heal.
Forgive me when -
I break your heart?
Oil and gas;
Run through my veins -
Oil and gas...
Are my remains.
Will you -
Cry for me, when
I break your heart?
My mind is held
By mortal men
Pain that I...
Wish was my end.
Just try to -
Forget me when,
I break your heart.
How to Make Friends with an IntrovertHow to make friends with an introvert.How to Make Friends with an Introvert2 months ago in Free Verse More Like This
Please know that even though it is quiet.
Even if you don't like it.
Or you might think I am mad,
There's no need to feel bad.
You don't have to fill the silence
With pointless conversations.
Used as space fillers.
Where the words hang ominously in the air,
Expecting a response in return,
Sometimes we yearn
For a person who can enjoy the quiet times.
And know the just because not a single word was shared.
It was not the kind of silence that made you squirm,
But the occupied kind,
That we could share together.
That I can't go for hours
Surrounded by people,
Always having to come up with words for conversation.
I know it sounds silly,
But things like that party
You want to drag me out to.
Wear me out rather quickly.
Not that I don't appreciate your offer,
But it's just something that's sort of a bother
Verbalized words often times fail me.
Maybe that's why I don't do so good socially.
I trip over my tongue,
Where as s
nonexistent people"something's wrong."nonexistent people5 years ago in Flash Fiction & Vignettes More Like This
"what makes you say that?"
"your shirt is white."
"so, it's just white. there's nothing on it- no dirt, no ink, no blood."
"i guess you're right."
"then what's wrong?"
"i don't remember how to speak."
"you're talking right now."
"yeah. i'm running my mouth but i'm saying nothing. i'm thinking all these things, and can't say them. i'm sitting straight but everything's angled and i think i'm falling when i'm only standing still."
"i think you said that very well."
"then maybe i forgot how to see."
"maybe. i'm missing something. like it's on the tip of my nose but i won't cross my eyes to see it. "
"cross your eyes."
"i don't want my eyes to get stuck."
"look at me."
"what do you see?"
"your eyes are sad. you have a crooked mouth. your hands never touch flatly on your thighs. you look wrong, but beautiful. oh- sorry. i shouldn't say that."
"i don't think you're blind."
"i don't know. maybe i have fo
A Minha LiteraturaHiperbolicamente eu escrevia sobre o papel, transcrevendo a fúria da minha Alma.A Minha Literatura6 years ago in Philosophy & Perspectives More Like This
E assim se fazia a minha Literatura, recursos estilísticos? Sim e porque não?
Eu fingia, fingia escrevendo sobre o papel fingia a minha Realidade.
Eu contradizia-me porque nem tudo tem de ter sentido.
A alma nem sempre tem sentido.
Uns dias eu era Camões, outros era Pessoa na sua mais contraditória emoção.
Podia optar também por ser Florbela Espanca ou então Antero de Quental.
Eu podia ser quem eu quisesse no papel, eu não era Eu, talvez o fosse mas Nem eu sei.
Eu vivia das palavras, brincava com elas escrevia por escrever escrever era Viver!
Poesia? Rima? Sem Rima? Não me interessa desde que seja vinda de dentro, desde que seja genuinamente sentida, desde que seja feita com toda a grandiosa dimensão da nossa Alma.
The Dandelion Games - Prologue The messenger scurried along the narrow hallway and tipped his hat upward when it threatened to fall. The passage was ablaze with yellow light emanating from flower-shaped lanterns.The Dandelion Games - Prologue6 years ago in Mystery & Suspense More Like This
The walls were enveloped by a paper patterned with acute splashes of pink lines and soft-brown circles that overlapped the one before it. He gave a glance at it, but the urgency of the matter surged at him and guided him back to the path of focus.
The messenger ran past his destination but he instantly recognized the error. It was familiar among carriers. He turned back and popped his head in, and he caught sight of a man's hairy visage. He was in a black suit with a well-adorned bow tie that seemed too tight nor too lax. His leg propelled the scarlet chair to spin around. "What is it, Alphonse? Have a seat. You look horrid."
"Sir! Sir Remy." There were short intervals between one of Alphonse's heavy sighs. "Evangelica died. Nazir said her heartbeat just came
Running Out of TimeRunning Out of Time6 years ago in Horror More Like This
How long does it take to turn? I lay slumped against a wall, my hands bloody after pressing against the wound on my arm. My head is groggy from passing out and waking to the unrelenting noise. I can hear them in the next room, clawing at the door like animals. My minds a mess, Im ok, I can make it, why now? Why must I fall to them?
I look at some broken glass by my feet, Id contemplate suicide if I had the guts to do so. You could almost say its not their fault, like a wolf hunting for food. Theyre only doing what they know best, if they know anything. Sadly that involved my current situation.
Shut up you bastards! I shout to all of them, all of them outside the door and outside the building. Every last one. What the hell am I supposed to do now? The incessant moaning breaks through my thoughts. I pick up a shard of glass and pop it into the pocket of my jeans. Its still good for slicing, if I last that long. Might as well see what ro
ProjecaoSou um poeta triste;Projecao7 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
um homem doente;
débil, lúcido e carente:
um indeciso frustrado,
de uma frustração soberba
e vã, que desperta
a Hidra psicológica.
Liberto minhas personalidades
Arcaico e ContemporaneoARCAICO E CONTEMPORÂNEOArcaico e Contemporaneo8 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
De longe, triunfante, o suserano
Caminha ostentando suas riquezas
Seus passos com um toque leviano
Implícitas estão suas fraquezas
Mascaradas com seu ar de soberano
Pobre nobre com tamanha prepotência
Que julga a todos por sua inteligência
E que não teme a demonstrar a preferência
Àqueles de sua convivência
Tão grande é sua soberba e seu ego
Que não vê os humildes à espreita
E tão incerta é a sua colheita
Por render-se a um amor tão cego
Amor este de cunho tão miúdo
Que tem pouca relevância nos fatos
Menor ainda a importância no conteúdo
Uma vida inteira voltada para o status
Tão fúteis os seus motivos
Tão tola é a hereditariedade
Quando o que se deve manter vivo
É o amor de quem o ama de verdade.
(Daliana Medeiros Cavalcanti 14/04/2007)
dArama - ISSUE ONE - Love.dArama - ISSUE ONE - Love.6 years ago in Editorial More Like This
The dynamic between core staff, volunteer staff, and the community can at times be pure quality dArama.
It's worth noting that for years I've worked pretty hard to remain neutral on community politics. Today, I'm going to shatter that concept.
Needless to say, I am extremely politically aware of the inner workings of the deviantART community. I read *a lot* of journals, comments, forums, chat rooms. I have fake accounts. I spy.
But I don't spend my time talking politics, instead I focus internally at deviantART designing technologies and implementing understandings with core staff to address the issues I see pop up.
It's time to take a moment to be a bit more petty.
In the inner workings of our politics exists the soul of deviantART. What is this place? What was it meant to do? What does it do? What could we do better? And it's the politics that give insight into how well the greater plan is running.
There's $core staff who are employees or contractors and work 8+
Silent NachtPrivate Wilson woke with a start and automatically grabbed his rifle. He held it close to him, its icy cold touch keeping him alert. He dragged in another frozen breath, burning his already chilled lungs. He listened carefully to the still winter night. Something wasnt right. He put his safety cock on and ran along the trench, stooped over, being careful not to wake the few men that were able to sleep.Silent Nacht7 years ago in Historical More Like This
He ran up to the automatic gunners post where Private Millings was.
Whats going on? he whispered.
Private Millings shrugged. Nothing, absolutely nothing. Its unnatural
Private Wilson looked up at the sky. The moon was getting lower; the first rays of sunlight were just starting to peek through the broken branches of the torn forest around them. Private Wilson smiled.
Hey, Millings. Look
Private Millings looked up. What?
The sun is coming up. Its Christmas
Private Millings smiled and pushed his helme