The Rain - Chapter TwoI woke up with a scream in my chest that I managed to swallow down. I dreamt of my home and the bruises and scars that I’d gotten over the years. When I woke, it was early in the morning, but voices still filled the house. The bedroom door was cracked open and I tip-toed my way to it. Seeing that the man wasn’t alone in the house, a woman stood in the living room with bags around her.More Like This
“I think you’re getting yourself into something you don’t want to, Jordan.” He just chuckled and smiled down at her.
“Sarah, I’ve made this decision on my own. If you don’t want to help me, than you don’t have to.” She stared at him for a moment and then sighed.
“Who wouldn’t help a guy like you?” She punched his arm jokingly and he laughed at her.
“So you’ll look at her then?” She nodded and looked toward my room. I opened the door, signaling for her to come in. “This is my sister,” he said w
Our DutyWe swallowed the path homeMore Like This
Because we were hungry,
Though starving is an ongoing
Story, an empty bag
Dancing in the streets,
Full of an unfastened voice
Walking through the house,
Wind unchained, heart admonished.
Heaven fills its eyes, crawls away,
That sleeping boat content to follow
The vacant waves, intervals
Of dying that we dare not interrupt,
And we watch the kind ear shrinking
From our charcoal docks; heaven
With a full stomach crawls away.
This is what we were put here for.
a hospital bird with soot in her lungsshe slept through a car crashMore Like This
that almost killed her.
through whitewhite walls,
where her lover dies.
nobody thought she'd make it,
but she woke up a few months later
with flowers in her hair
and ash in her airway;
trying to remember how to start all over,
but forgetting to remember how to live.
fall slipped from her open eyes
and winter crawled in for a long hibernation
to her the clouds looked sick
and pale like they might
let everything inside them out,
but she opened up wide instead,
spilling blood where there was none to be spilled.
her heart slipped down the street
and with unsteady hands
she stitched in a bird and cut off its wings.
for frost: we need not live in vigilwe don't have to split a forkMore Like This
in two (or ten or six); may then diverge
our Paths along the path
not finite, un-impossible? you
may have rule and road, miles and
sir. the Hoarfrost gathers great
on you, like winter on the words
you forged from wood and wakeful spurs
remainders); like ornaments
that decorate dull
in any other season.
you are boxed and labeled, kept
in the murky & foreclosed adjunct space
that borders the heart but never enters
a tease of a tease to touch
the lives of those who happen by
i've left minds more open and
know travels- even in the way
everyone travels- that will carry me
for miles until i sleep.
Soldiercigarette between his lips,More Like This
tar-induced lungs struggling to inflate –
struggling to make sense
of a war
where men are only equal
when they're dead.
Mabonthere are dead leavesMore Like This
sprouting from her amber spine,
reaching with child-fingers
to devour the sun.
her skin is freezing,
seeping winter through
the whiskey tongues
of godless boys
wish to decipher
the atlas of her thighs.
counting the sleepy fireflies
alight in her lungs- there is
wanderlust churning & warming
her frostbitten heartstrings.
swinging pendulum hips,
"I am the tease of autumn flames.
I breathe in mint sunsets,
& gasoline dreams."
rising from the riverit's one of the drowned days; those that dragMore Like This
like hooks through a river,
turning dead things
belly-up on your shores. listen.
i am listening. to name it lover,
this ripening ache stretched
between us; to know
what it is you carry. you
are a deep silence gardened
by ghosts; hanging
from the hinges of a sprawled
elsewhere. (they are here
still, pacing the long brim
of your memory around
to the long brim of mine.)
i too have been drowning.
if not by one stone,
then another. the autumn quiet
of the body
in bed. this language named skin,
beast, temple, home. underwater,
you open your mouth; amniotic
void of unspeaking, horizontal
trespass from dark to dark.
lover, i would kiss
your ghosts. the spinning prayer
of my mouth taking their poison
into mine. secrets
blooming there, blooming dark
like strangers. we sleep now. dream
ourselves against them, dancing. promise
the space of your breath worth more
than its abandoning, the static stain
that crawls you out to sea.
reasons to love a shy girli. men fear strong women,More Like This
but she's far from strong.
this wisp of a girl
doesn't even need a hurricane
to fall apart.
she'd glued and re-glued,
old bonds wearing thin,
but if you ask politely,
she'll let you touch her scars.
ii. her lips are fettered in rusted chains.
you'd need a crowbar to pry up
her whispered secrets.
you are not worthy to hear her voice
just as she is not worthy to give it to you.
she told me everything she knows,
and i shut it away,
kept it safe.
i tied the threads into double knots
just to make sure
they wouldn't curl away from me,
twisted up like a dead spider's legs.
iii. she is hewn from shadow,
woven from grains of sand.
you might think she'd flow,
breeze by on a sparrow's breath,
but she's never been good at
anything but sinking.
she is buried treasure, and all
the things you wish you could forget.
iv. you found her washed up on the shore,
drawing pictures of her flickering soul,
and knew she was too unsteady to love.
when you reached for her heart,
Imaginism - The Future Of Art Is Here NowWatch depthRADIUSMore Like This
In Toronto & on deviantART
No better living functioning evolving example of the new pattern in the creation, dissemination and education in the visual arts can be found than Imaginism Studios, the online brainchild of artists Bobby Chiu & Kei Acedera. Established in Toronto in 2005, the studio has specialized in pre-production character and concept design for film, TV, gaming, and publishing. As creators of some of the most wildly creative and whimsical images ever presented on deviantART, this artistic couple has built an international fan base independent of their contracted projects. They have understood and utilized the new technologies and “ecology” of the worldwide web arts community in wa
Help! I have a Mary Sue!More Like This
You know that you have a Mary Sue when she upsets the monochromatic color scheme of my Writer's Guides.
Brought to you by Super Editor
Mouse over blue text to see a note.
Internet communities often lash out at writers who create Mary Sues. Declaring the writing to be below their standards, they proceed to punish the creators. They mock the characters, verbally abuse the writers, and write hyperbolically about how much they wish the characters would die.
Bullying writers (who may be very young) is only going to make them afraid to write—and therefore improve—or share their work. Not only that, but it discourages other writers from speaking for fear of public mockery, and it may silence the voices that could someday become great.
If you've directly or indirectly suffered from the abuse of such individuals, let me first apologize on their behalf. I don't care if your story stinks so much that it can be smelled from fifty miles away; mocking you for it is
SurrealismWatch depthRADIUSMore Like This
orld War I (1914-1918) was a human catastrophe that devastated Western civilization and mocked the hope inherent in “modernism”. The sheer volume of the war’s slaughter was beyond belief. The horror of it all destroyed the trust in science, medicine and technology as the golden gateway to a harmonious and peaceful future for humanity. All that was thought to be good had been twisted to the evil purpose of a global war. A global sense of hopefulness was replaced with a global sense of fear and loathing.
untitled 14by Peterio
Salvador Dali autosodomizedby neofotistou
Rain Spellby temporary-peace
HushHis eyes are the first thing she sees.More Like This
They are red. A bloody crimson, glowing like hellfire in the middle of the dark mass that is he has materialized in, beckoning her closer.
She steps forward, uncertainty trembling on her lips as she reaches out a hand, fingers curling in on each other. The question tumbles forth easily: "Who are you?"
He smiles, his mouth the only other thing visible in an otherwise utterly black figure. "Anyone who you wish me to be. You merely need to give me the orders, and I shall obey."
His voice is otherworldly. It is as if a shadow had learned to speak - silky, smooth, dark and dangerous. She shivers at the sound of it, resisting the urge to hold herself as a chill settles into her very bones. His smile is that of a crescent moon, an upwards curve of a smirk as he watches her like a wolf observing a lamb. "Well, girl? What say you? You did summon me, did you not?"
The girl looks down at her hands. They are forever soiled, though it is invisible, and
Getty, Liberation of Masterpieces as Open ContentWatch depthRADIUSMore Like This
J. Paul Getty - The Liberation of Masterpieces as Open Content
The J. Paul Getty Museum has initiated an Open Content Program to share, freely and without restriction, as many of the Getty’s digital resources as possible.
A first sharing of 4,600 high-resolution images of the Museum’s collection, including many masterworks, has just been made available and all are free to use, modify, and publish for any purpose.
In a brilliant stroke, the Getty Museum has liberated one of the top collections of art in the world not just for access but for use. The museum is literally “beaming up” the great works in its collection as living resources within the arts themselves, for study, for sheer per
ashes to ashesi am the girl withMore Like This
more faith in myths than in
there are more dead bodies in this world than the living.
and if that doesn't frighten you, then i
don't know what would. i guess you could
say that graves are just the closets in which
we hide our skeletons in.
there are ghosts all around us.
and i think that maybe,
i'd rather take my chances down in
the underworld with them than up
here where the earth is slowly
all because of the living.
handle with carethere are 206 bones in theMore Like This
human body. it only takes one good
squeeze and your neck can snap as
easily as a twig.
once, when i was at the grocery
store, i came across a crate of
peaches. they were on sale because
every single one was bruised and it
made me think, "we're all just pieces of fruit
left to rot. as soon as we've been dropped on the
floor, no one wants to help us back up."
i've forgotten how to think in poetics.
three months ago i would have
compared people to roses. pretty little petals
that can be crushed with just
one little pinch and thorny stems that
whisper "don't touch me."
i think we're more like
together like suffocating sardines in tiny
wooden boxes decorated with red
paint announcing across the sides
"danger: this side up."
INFP (The Healer)INFP (The Healer)More Like This
We are the purest of souls
With the darkest minds
Fire burns in our hearts
Our words sharp as ice
We are the epitome of peace
Gracefully swaying with the breeze
Dancing in the air without a care
Guided by our whim and fancy
Chaos clings to our very core
Brewing inside a raging storm
Our inner realm is filled with depth
Shadows and light, peaks and trenches
Digging deeper into ourselves
Breaking apart every thought and feeling
The never-ending journey of self-discovery
Is something we’ll never finish, ideally.
PersistenceI have a black old sweaterMore Like This
some of you may know it
you've seen me wear it so many times,
too many... some might say.
it has a few holes
the sleeves are almost falling apart
there's a pink decolored spot
on the left side, near the stomach,
where bleach fell on it.
but it's my favorite sweater
and I still wear it very often
in fact I'm wearing it right now
while I write these lines
and though I don't attach myself to things
there are some that no matter how much you try
you can't completely replace
and you will always love
and you will always miss
after they're gone
Insights beyond the Doorsill - a continuumInception at the DoorMore Like This
There is a tall door to the wise for counsel:
When help is sought in silence it is opened;
when help is sought in person it is closed.
Often these guests shy to knock, walk away.
I see everyday people pace back & forth
the wrongdoer’s doorway across the way:
Click-clack, clack-click, click-clack, clack . . .
Addictions / Virtual World vs. Real Life
What of game addiction? that which can be anything,
and too much of that one particular thing, kills a man;
but better to die and relive happily in the virtual world
than die once on a controversial belief we'll live again.
Real Life or virtual it does not matter; both are games.
The Affected and Effected
Those who say they are not affected by anything
not only lie, but cannot possibly have an effect
on anyone else nor give inspiration or motivation.
Blindness / Misconceptions / Ignorance
Intoxicated marionette, servile to causti
Dreams of WarAll ye warriors and men come close, pay heedMore Like This
The war drums are ringing in the air tonight
The stage is set and fires lit
To rob of innocence forge onwards tonight
All ye warriors and men come close, pay heed
The lies are spun and told tonight
For glory and fame and wealth we seek
And war continues raging on tonight
All ye warriors and men come close, pay heed
The weapons are polished and crafted tonight
When victory thought and speaks of mead
And silence spears the air tonight
All ye woman and child come close, pay heed
The men have gone to battle tonight
Tears and agony and losses they bleed
For the danger lurks persistent tonight
All ye woman and child come close, pay heed
The tragedy plays on again tonight
The echoes present and absence of heat
And solitude pays visit to ye house tonight
All ye women and child come close, pay heed
If worries and fear grips ye heart tonight
A single letter, deceptions seed
And solace sleeps with ye again tonight
All ye corrupted and pigs come close,
Dripping RedHe was the perfect soldier, like a whiteMore Like This
pawn on an inky board. Innocent fray:
'Unstained', they named the better man
Who swore to find the other side of Day.
He followed every order graven in
Cold stone. He never broke the dusty chains
Of honor, twisting close around his heart;
The iron singing thunder in his veins.
He dreamed about Tomorrow, the other
side of day. Tear-streaked morning never came,
Rain-washed. The only dawn was drowned in blood
And ringed in coiled dragons: rising flame.
The tide of blood that stained horizons, weep-
ing, splattered gently on his brittle face,
He buried, dead, in rushing water deep.
His hands were clean, without a traitor stain.
His men lie around him, dead at whispered last,
The light of life drains out behind their eyes;
(The clanging horrors of his dreams, cracked glass,
Were false. Despair in icy silence reigns.)
The only color left to him is red,
To mock brave, innocent and silent white:
An afterglow of symmetry he once
Believed could end the sc
We are deadGraceful in all that she is, beauty that endures so much pain.More Like This
A land that has lost all it's majesty, burned by man that take it way.
So much pain so many tears rained down upon the land that's scathed by it's soon to be demise.
A mother and her cubs hold no fear though they ask 'why cheer when you clear a a path and rip through the land?'
Don't you feel their pain, hear their screams in the wind, see their blood spilled on the ground?
She cries and with her rain tears she passes light back to the foot hills, the white mountains, the plains and valleys.
How much longer can she take, we are not her owner, mother nature gives her best to protect all that is and ever will be.
We are the plague upon this land, the virus that keeps on spreading killing everything in our path no mater what is in the way.
She tells us every day 'soon your time will come too, for what man does to beast the world does to man.'
If the plants are dead, we can't breath.
If the animals are dead we can eat.
To some people.To some people, it’s called breathing.More Like This
To me, it’s called inhaling poison,
Which drenches my lungs and sinks into my bones
And melts into my mind.
To some people, it’s called anxiety.
To me, it’s called an unbearable shakiness in my soul
The nervousness preventing my from ever escaping
This disease in my heart.
To some people, it’s called living.
To me, it’s called never being able to run away.
Never being able to truly go, truly leave.
To me, it’s called being caught in a nightmare,
While struggling to dream.
Chasing a mystery with no solution.
Escaping your own sanity to reach more sanity,
Freeing yourself from your happiness to find more happiness.
To some people, it’s called life.
There’s no such thing.
Beautiful Today, you are beautiful.More Like This
Your parents tell you that you’re beautiful on every other day, too, but no one else ever does. The only time you matter to the world is at your shows. When you’re not beautiful, you’re nothing.
Today, though, you are shining. At least, you think you are, but you’re not feeling great. Your stomach hurts, just like it does before every pageant. Your dress is brand new, and you haven’t gotten used to the way it itches yet. You’re sure your wig is gorgeous, even though the hairspray smells bad.
Your teeth, though, are hurting the most. You know your flipper is a good one, but it doesn’t fit anymore.
The other girls are all beautiful too, crammed here in this
The Man with the Dark HairA/N: Just a quick note- the language in this story will be simplistic and sometimes repetitive due to Tino's mental condition. Also, it might be good to imagine him speaking with pauses between phrases. It'll make for a better image. Please enjoy!More Like This
"Tino," the dark-haired man directed my attention back to the language cards in front of us- cards I could read if only my mind worked properly. Nothing worked properly- not after the explosion.
I smiled to myself. I liked the dark-haired man. I'd always liked physics. And I liked explosions. If a railroad track ran from Helsinki to the Soviet Union, I had no trouble with blowing it up when nobody else was in sight. After all, what did we need connections to Leningrad for? I never hurt anybody, mind you.
"Please, Tino," he repeated as my digression tailed off, his dark eyes weary. I liked the dark-haired man, but he was always sad. I never understood his Finnish, though I could never really understand most of what people said, anyway. Stil
InsomniaStrange sounds on sleepless nightsMore Like This
Silver bells, tolling bright
Sing me something sad and slow
Slip into the undertow
Seeing sights that are not there
Seeing sunlight everywhere
Silent sleeper, not a peep
Surely, I just need some sleep
starspunobserving the romanticismMore Like This
of hooded cemetery kids,
smoking cigarettes pretending
they are not dead.
you were always so sure
about my uncertainty,
all my pick up lines
we built the heat
of the evening from the solidity
that two teens at the park
is the stuff of teen novels
(cliches dim on
our leaf-gold horizon)
your eyes darted
from the gray expanse
of the churchyard & wandered
i wanted to ask you
if i could follow. shove
the words aside &
remember that i came here alone.
i remember our innocence
in the static b e t w e e n
about how youth without you is th-
awing out the lines in my whittled-out eyes.
look to the hooded
wonder what we'd have been like
if we grew up as nothings,
like them. teenage
nothings with chiseled
marble in our
out of our parents' adulterated
lies and the excitement of alcohol.
i settle for a star.
it's almost as luminous
as the after
DisappearWishing to disappearMore Like This
never to existed in their mind
no reason to cheer
this is why I was designed
there's a cloud over me and its raining knives
all smiles are faked
no one hears his cry's
as he sits there shivers and shakes
doesn't even try to reach out because there's nothing there
only my own numb stare
no desire to fight the devils wrenches
would anyone notice if I could disappear
because Im starting to feel warm in these trenches
would they even shed a tear?
Sick of the acting
let me compost with the dirt
live????..... ill think Ill be passing
lets make sure this hurts
still wishing to disappear
lets seal this coffin with a drop of blood and a tear
I'm Not a WriterHave you ever seen stars?More Like This
No, literally, have you ever hit your head so hard
that for just a moment
flashes of bright white light would dance behind your eyelids?
Little sparks that don't burn your eyes,
despite looking like they might
It's actually a pretty intense moment
In a single split second that feels like an eternity,
your brain conjures up these magical little lights
Your head might hurt
But the image is rather beautiful <3
ScarsSee the sharpness of my tongue-nibMore Like This
As the metallic taste in my mouth draws out
A barking cough, forced out
By the dirty nicotine lining my lungs.
See the blade of stubbornness
That slices across my cheek bone;
An amalgamation of all the times you pushed me.
See the residue in my eyes,
The remnants of all those times you forced me
And I forced myself not to cry;
Those tears condensed into a thick blinding syrup
That colours all things red.
See the crinkle in my nose,
The wrinkles on my heart
As I remember how you didn't love me. (Don't love me).
See the burns on my psalms
And fingerprints singed off
By all the times you called me nothing.
See the manacles, the barnacles
The mutations and tumours.
See the invisible scars of the Battle of Us.
To Be ThinYour eyelashes fallMore Like This
on tablecloth cheekbones;
fine, white linen,
to an unsustainable point.
Your tears spill
and stain the cloth,
of grey, of grey,
spoiling that unattainable dream.
A Million SnowflakesA Million SnowflakesMore Like This
A snowflake falls to the ground
And slowly disappears
Like a metaphor for life
We start out full of innocence and hope
We are pure of thought
But slowly that changes
The scars mount up
And our confidence slowly dies
We are bullied and undermined
We don't quite fit in
So we dwell in the darkness
And our faith is slowly restored
Sometimes a snowflake falls on a lake
The lake is beautiful
It is made of a million snowflakes
We eventually realise we are not alone
There are millions of outsiders in the world
All searching for answers
The purity remains in our hearts
And gives us strength
We are beautiful like the lake
Made from a million snowflakes
Limericks are hard.If she were to make a mistakeMore Like This
They would never shake her awake
But if time was a thing
They'd all have their fling
And dance to the songs of their fate
The Boy Who Wouldnt EatIf you can flutterMore Like This
I have failed you,
for you were not forged
to be so insubstantial as that
You were writ
to be an epic fable
of endings ignored,
of outlasting your body
through the sheer will
of a writers starving heart
through a broken, bowed
but bravely abiding body
that fights the soul
to comprehend Beauty.
To the Music MakersTo the Music Makers,More Like This
Why must your words draw me in?
Why must your simple rhythms hypnotize?
Why can I not stay away from the sound?
You must know that I'm entranced by
not only your words,
but everything you do.
Your words make me sing,
your rhythms make me dance,
and your songs make me break.
I'm not speaking negatively, you must know.
For what you do
makes us who we are.
Without your self-expression,
we wouldn't have our clarity.
Without you, we'd be nothing.
So thank you
For all that you do.
Strangely Beautiful, Chapter 3This drive is beginning to kill me. Thirty hours in the drive, thirty minutes into my Mom's favorite country CD and sleep is failing me. We'd stopped a few hours ago to get roughly three hours of sleep. All of which David stayed awake talking to himself. As he's finally falling asleep, Mom turns down her music, and looks at me. I can see the worry in her eye as I turn away and look out my window. What are my problems to her? I'd gotten over her rash decision. But I haven't gotten over her choice of location. Why with family? Why with people that I have openly hated all my life? Why couldn't we just settle down somewhere in Florida and take the short drive to Georgia a week before Christmas?More Like This
"Violet, please. Talk to me." She pleads, place a hand on my shoulder.
"Eyes on the road. I don't wanna die before we get to my deathbed." I didn't realize how heavy my words were when I said them. I could see visible hurt on my Mother's face now.
"Don't you think you're over reacting? It's just fam
Twisted Up InsideWould you ever know the feeling,More Like This
Of being twisted, over and over.
Much like a string of high-tension cord;
Ready to snap at any moment.
You are barely controlling this swell of emotion.
Keeping it taut, lest it burst from the surface.
A plastic smile serves as your only defense;
Witty banter, to stave off a deeper inquiry.
You hide the signs of your sickness;
Quickly easing the pressure.
Whilst appearing to adjust the suit,
You move through the crowd like a fading wisp.
Rushed, sweating and just barely contained.
You duck into the shadows, so you might breathe again.
-Chen Yuan Wen, Broken World Series, 13th November 2013
Crow SongI am a crow—More Like This
for my full mouth
Grandmother Spider gifted me my black
and my embers, my mantle of smoke.
I am story-teller, wind-bound,
the voice over snow fields
to guide the cold dead to rest.
But winter stilled my spirit,
withered me into a being of sticks and branches,
no bird of prey but a cold and bitter wight
fleshless and picked clean by scavengers.
I build my stories again like late-winter bonfires,
breathe my smoke like rising thunderclouds
to fill my mouth again with carrion calls
and summon the fire to me again.
I contain all the cosmos,
blossom darkly above the white fields,
breathing deep the strength of my new wing-beats.
What a terrible thingSometimes life is painful,More Like This
not for a discernible reason.
Not for a route to something better
or a perversive remedy
for a wound long forgotten.
Sometimes we drown in it,
in the not yet,
the not quite,
the not at all.
Sometimes even our eyelashes
are too heavy,
and keeping our eyes open enough
to see the truth is asking too much,
and other times?
Other times the truth is
the bacteria binding in your blood
beneath your skin
- it's inside -
and it knows how to feed off of you.
it wriggles until at last -
it lets its forceful pair of hands
slip tenderly under your ribcage
to compress -
down on your lungs
until they are flat
and stick to themselves,
and leave you gasping;
oh, oh the truth.
What a terrible thing!