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About Literature / Hobbyist Community Volunteer My teeth have teethMale/United States Groups :iconword-smiths: Word-Smiths
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Deviant for 8 Years
Core Member 'til Hell freezes over
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Newest Deviations

True Medium
poems like us
fare better
written in people
than in pixels or ink
for our true medium
is movement
and how it threads
memory through time
we're art, in the same
fluid and seventh sense
that we're stitched
between currents of life and need
where we wake
sleep and dream
wound between moor fog
and worlds of open sky
we're the reticent verse
of two midday moons
punched gently as cloud
through azure
an ornately penned
thread of words, pulled flat
reeled inward
hand over hand
inching closer, your draw
and deposit of breath
more deeply
in mixture with mine
our true medium is movement
as poems like us
aren't meant to survive
the spaces they stop to occupy
:iconblackbowfin:BlackBowfin 12 7
it slips in
through the cracked window
and casual gauze of microsleep
a future memory solidifies
its humanoid weight
onto the empty passenger seat
i keep driving, like always
as if this world
and all others like it
depend on every corner
to be rounded, just so
as if a single wrong pebble
caught in the treads
might hurtle the whole thing sunward
then i wake into familiar dream
just past the interchange
too late to exit
and i survey, from highway speeds
winter-bare forest preserves
clustered in crimescenes
drones buzzing about yellow tape
process and record
while the footprints leading away
erode in a whipping flat plains wind
and the hitchhiker they belong to
doesn't need me to stop
but merely blink, to let them in
their weight collecting beside me
reminds me
there's a reason
why our dead settle where they do
and why our living
appear to re-cut
the same circular trails to nowhere
it's because every earth
like or unlike this one
remembers those steps back into our feet
we think it's a ca
:iconblackbowfin:BlackBowfin 56 62
A Father's Days
fathers need more than one day
to combine Legion's voices
into a semblance
of the one they once had
to conduct its apology
to wives and to widows
of the world
for making them mothers
and fathers need more
than the remaining year
to unload the age
from their bodies
into not-wives and lovers
the comfort and recharge
that makes them the men
their children will soon forget
now i stare into a distant
and starless corner
your wrinkle in my reflection
i drop a stone in it
that's yet to hit bottom
and wonder how i'll be remembered
:iconblackbowfin:BlackBowfin 11 21
From Where the Sun Sits
there are no people left here
and i realize
how off-center from true
our clock spindles turn
how there's no division of time
even remotely, ever-enough
to convey a day
from where the sun sits
and i have to wonder
if beneficent stars
form their own networks
of social celestial tribes
joking that each cultivates
the next great innovator
while the other nurtures
a next wave of mass destruction
and to what they've seen
and all the times they've seen it
i ask, just how far behind the curve
our leanings toward genocide
position us
and their patient silence
hangs only warm light
between our void and our being
where its quiet answer finds us
there are no people left here
:iconblackbowfin:BlackBowfin 14 27
Times Like These
what we design in the dark
of times like these
is nothing so overt
as the endgame itself,
but instead, a guise to mask
the same old ways
and means of getting us there
and, perhaps, a deferment
of our own end
at further expense
of the invisible and voiceless
that have already
fueled our journey here
for the harvest happens
unannounced and constant
in overlapped
lavish fields of oblivion
razed in each second hand's
sweep between stops
in times like these
i'm reminded how
nothing can lure us,
panicked and fishtailing
from the timestream,
like fear
and how prayers sewn
to reseed rows
of plantation landscape
will never find
more fertile moments
than times like these
i'm reminded how justice resembles time
as a living current,
tracking not only
the where and why we break out
but where we return, to be let back in
and then adjusts its spears
to meet our own
:iconblackbowfin:BlackBowfin 16 25
Our Seadrawn Weight
follow my footprints
to the point where
silver moonlit surf
fills them in
and unpads them smooth
as the land stops
where the distant
darkly upright line
of my shape
steps on heels unpressed
by jetsam shift
toward a quiet kingdom's
call below
follow my movements
motored by music
sung several species ago
in dreams drowned, layers deep
within the countermove
to our subatomic sway
here is where we all return
our emergence- for gills
and our pointedly jointed limbs
for the fluid flail and whip
of the lampreys
we know they've always been
all writhing and latched
to whatever remains of us
still decomposing
at the waterlogged center
of our seadrawn weight
here is where we choke and release
our own neck of tide
where we loll and bunch, transforming
in its heartfilled throat
until weary waters sink us
back to our source
now follow my darkly upright line
follow it flattened, fallen
to the bottom of our beginnings
:iconblackbowfin:BlackBowfin 18 23
Often Savage Space
the dead live beneath our skin
not underfoot, nor overhead
outlines of their lips
press against ours
from a forgotten blood
theirs are the many mouths
that speak our systems
into unsettled
and often savage
time loses its mastery here
when they forget to die
when our words forget how time works
and take their cadence
from the waves
of conquered horde inside us
the dead i am
never really know
what dead they were
before these layers of portal, of memory,
fused our amalgamation
into the future dead
and fused us to the dead
wandering memory's mouth,
knitting their dreams
back into us
we have never just been
never just lived
we've never broken open
what little of us
rattles in the shallow
we'll never be more
than what we've mourned
and never bothered to bury
:iconblackbowfin:BlackBowfin 24 28
What We Want
there is nothing simple about
what we want of this ghost
nor what it wants of us
our every word
ticks familiar nothings
along the rotary travel
of the context dial
and behind every note
of our skyward intentions
chirps the same
swirling nightful of insects
a mechanical enmeshment
of barbs strumming harpstrings
in prayers that somehow
its echo chamber might rename us
might not know us, might not realize
there's nothing
holding the strings taut
but myth and magnetic repulsion
i have a recurring dream
that i awake alone
in the backseat of a car
barreling down the highway
and from what i dream-remember
i'd already been driving it badly
before crawling into the backseat
for a rest, without stopping
there is nothing simple about
the ease with which
we forget
to stop
us saying we're already dead
merely mimics
what the echo chamber
has always named us
because war is all we've ever been
:iconblackbowfin:BlackBowfin 59 35
Netted Alive
we sometimes tunnel up from dream
back into these tissues,
these storied compartments
of built-in blind corners
and dead ends
this home is the stack
of disconnected rooms
we barricade ourselves into
when the fire starts at one end
chasing our dreams toward the other
it's where we're netted alive
in the chanceless weave of veins
we're born into,
netted alive, but weightless
in a new and strange room's light
and we often have no choice
but to live an entire life there
until its walls become the sun
and smoke blots the stars
from its ceiling
then, touching down
we steam against the unfamiliar splinters
of its floorboards,
in the last dwindling breath
of the only habitable space left
it's only here,
this low in the nowhere-else
and its fading ramp and lurch of pulse
that time pauses its workings long enough
to decrypt us to each other
for it knows we'll soon forget
the notes struck between rooms,
muting our piano's heart
with ghost limbs
we never cared to know the clock has
:iconblackbowfin:BlackBowfin 22 14
Maldiciones [Curses] - the Poem
there has always been the three of them
count no more, no less
three to pulse the earth along
in minutes, hours and breath
the first, the clueless path of man
driven below his waist
the second, who lulled him from the third
the one she soon displaced
the third then found their bodies locked
and so bound their spirits' chase
to circle earth and seafloors dark
re-seeking that embrace
the first to ever hunt love
but never truly know its taste
then pass from earth unreconciled
at the hand of second's rage
then second to swim through empty years
until the first's return
in a crushing ocean's weight of love
refused but still unlearned
the third, she lives within us
alongside the other two
the voice of quiet vengeance, cursed
to ever watch it all come true
the siren song echoes our names
and what it soon unlocks
draws our egos out to sea
and lures us toward the rocks
for what we feel that we deserve
awakened in its tones
calls us to drop what life we have
then ends a row of bones
:iconblackbowfin:BlackBowfin 13 3
Maldiciones [Curses] - the Story
He knew that if he did nothing, it would dissolve into a waiting game.  She would tell his wife or his wife would find out on her own. It was the waiting and inaction that he found unbearable.  Fracturing him into two people, each bearing a different, but equally unsustainable, weight of the same secret.
Richard knew the words. I’m sorry. I can’t do this. He knew that any defense would be easily disassembled.  And deep below the mechanics of his human-animal workings, he knew that he was wrong, both of him. Wrong here, wrong at home and ready, he hoped, to do the right thing.
They had originally met kayaking in the Caribbean Sea and even after becoming more intimately acquainted, that’s how they continued to meet. Both would travel under the guise of a business trip and rent separate cabins in different nearby villas. Then they would meet on the water, as if by chance.
This time would be different. Richard would say his piece, she would
:iconblackbowfin:BlackBowfin 25 25
How Little Agony Stings - Trigger Warning
and when we're able to, we'll joke
that there are no local hospitals left
none without this anchor of ghostweight
tied to both its memory and ours
at 27 weeks, my hands find familiar places
one in yours
and one tense on the bedside rail
gripped like the balcony handrail
as its building collapses
and i let go, halfway down
in case we're dead enough already
to just sink softly into the ground
at 27 weeks,
we weren't supposed to be here
discussing her in third person, speculating
how life can only be helped along so much
until it has to find its own foothold
but we're back
on the dark side of the clock
and its bloodmoon tide
where birds become mere amassments of charge,
hope and heartbeat
breath to be taken elsewhere
and then just unbecome
and as we slip below the surface
of disbelief
it's here, just shy of bottom
that i realize
how little agony stings
in the numb of true defeat
how its venom overtakes with doubt
in a sedate haze of normalcy,
how it breaks your right to any expectation
:iconblackbowfin:BlackBowfin 16 24
Homelights Low
my resistance breathes
an emissive and
relatively constant warm
against the voltage
of your supply
a kind current, soft enough
to resemble alive
to welcome home
the sway of your hertz
in waves and spaces i frequent
and your exhaust
is quiet, like mine
homelights low
like away on vacation
but not
we're electric in blankets bunched
in pillows fallen,
in the scent of summer dust
burnt invisibly aloft
from the orange of autumn's coil
:iconblackbowfin:BlackBowfin 12 15
Storms Still Rolling
this waning day paints me
out of the room and window
of how i'll watch it end again
in trails of liquified light
its goldleaf edges and vapor stitchings
unravel in westward currents
until the last reds recede
advancing blue to black
to the abstract dreamglass mosaic
the whole sky becomes
viewed through overlapped canopy limbs
competing for space, but also for stasis
from there, between a pale plate of moon
and the cool damp of earwig trail,
the sky moves in ways
that groundwater chooses not to
in unmixed pressures, sculpted columns
cumulus warheads, electric and staged
to compete for space
never meant as spoil nor purpose
you can hear these distant storms
still rolling beneath our breath,
an electron-high buzz of potential
and underlow rumble of homes still burning
crashing down hillsides of valleys past
we're tethered by sound and memory
to this briefly infinite stop between stars,
storms watching storms struggle for space
and, only once broken, settle toward stasis
:iconblackbowfin:BlackBowfin 17 14
Patterns Remembered
we drift, steeped
in the black tea of space,
a sea just bitter-enough
that its bite soon becomes
the tiniest erosion
returning our continents home
these landbodies re-constellate
nested shapes formed true
by the rolling knead of primordial waters
working our minerals, shaping our shores
particles return to patterns remembered
in each moment's expanse
and blink of a lifetime,
her earthbound starmouth
whispers these words into mine-
you are a being of light
under cloud and earth or sea
whether dampened dark or ablaze,
we are the threat to unravel
that keeps it spinning
and careful fingers
steadying its spindle
we're beings of rhythm
in a valent orbit
of tragedy and joy
about an earth that breathes
and dreams as us
it lives and dies, both terra and star
we are all beings of light
:iconblackbowfin:BlackBowfin 20 17
You Never Fell
the upright nail i can sometimes be
waits for you
to love me back to life,
for your weight
to find its patient
and overgrown position
as you navigate a demolition of years
we'd often rather forget
find me in the arguments
trapped in discarded baseboards
under layers of paint
in the conversation of ghosts
gnawed into their grain
find my invisible needle
in the black thatch of night
when alone closes in and you realize
just how far from civilization
you had to go, to forget
you've never fallen from the tree
remember the future
half-buried in dreamceiling
lowering its calcified storyboard panels
of skull and iconry
and how they closed like armored wings
around a dead both of us
remember me back, in your ponderings
of how a well driven nail
can hold a man to a tree
or you to your word,
how it can ruin a walk through a field
and how its tetanus spin
can deconstruct a home and life
into landfill
:iconblackbowfin:BlackBowfin 23 15


Book of Letters: A1
Book of Letters: A1
"The root of tongues ends in a spent-out cancer
That but a name where maggots have their X."
-- Dylan Thomas, 'From Love's First Fever to Her Plague'.
@ 1998 [i think]
When i was a sailor,
Stood, [stood] at Nagasaki
Epicenter, near
[i think] on top of...
and felt Evil
touch [me]
Evil, there
in Nagasaki, did not
try to corrupt [me].
Evil, there
in Nagasaki,
cared for [me]
and tried, tried to open
[my heart]
Evil said,
"Feel this residue:
of suffering and human acts".
[my heart] cried!
Evil laughed,
then said
"Do not   let this   happen
[my heart]
said, "i'll try [my] very
@ 1988 [i think]
touched [me]
as a child:
Evil touched [me]
on a class field-trip.
touched [me]
[me] memory
is vague, and most likely
Evil can do
[that sort of thing].
this is me [memory]:
[i] stood
in front of a hill.
[i] looked
at the hill
and Evil looked
at [me].
This small, small
had a
number on
That number
Evil touched
:iconmaggotsx:MaggotsX 6 6
Crippled Bird

it's not my fault
dad's long instruction at his
father's fist    mum's bad legs and clubby feet
nor that she came home    four years old
to find she'd been left    her mother
and siblings gone   gone
             their weighty needs
                             are pinning
                                     me down
i've turned into this feral cat
they're  trying  to   skin  alive
i've had enough   got my suitcase packed
but she's hobbling fast
catches me at the door 
:iconfreyaintranslation:freyaintranslation 4 8
Deja Vu
These minutes are intangible
       strings of moments, all perfectly aligned
       no left, no right, just looking back and moving forward
And I think that I have lived this before
       the same moment of a different life
       along another timeline with its own endpoint
But we are all stardust, rotating through the heavens
       crushed between the ghosts of ourselves
       no left, no right, just parallel races to the finish
:iconlycaenyx:Lycaenyx 47 21
The house came cheap; I wasn’t surprised. It was getting on in years, not run down yet but probably requiring a little more attention than it did in its youth. And then, of course, there were the rumors.
Haunted, said some of the locals.
No such thing, argued others, but even they admitted that there had been a mysterious disappearance a couple decades ago, and the new owners hadn’t been able to keep a renter there for more than half a year since. The most recent tenants lasted barely a month before hightailing it out without a backwards glance.
“What form does this ‘haunting’ take?” I asked my cashier as I picked up some groceries.
“I’ve never seen it,” he admitted, “but I’ve heard it’s mostly things like flickering lights, things turning themselves on or off, that sort of stuff.”
“Faulty wiring,” said an older man standing behind me in the line, “mark my words. It was built long enough ago
:iconoreramar:Oreramar 31 36
not quite, but wings
 it is not quite winter
  yet it has been,
 in another sense
 for far too long
  since he left 
 the snow of those
 events never
  changed. the
 walked in bare feet,
  and found
 half a chrysalis 
 and now, with
  cold caterpillar
 feet still
 this winter
  butterfly wings
 have come
 at perhaps
  the wrong season
 but here we
 are with strange
  changes and
 dammit flapping
 for flying with
   cold feet
 is just the way
:iconsilvernium:silvernium 31 14
A Lonely Migration by phoenixleo A Lonely Migration :iconphoenixleo:phoenixleo 769 139
Siren Song
I want the crook of your shoulder
to bury myself in, breathe deep
until I feel anxiety uncoil inside of me,
melt in the waters of love so deep
fear couldn't step a foot inside without
sighing sweetly for that smell on your skin,
the one that does me in, damns me
and saves me all in the same breath,
I am blessed and never knew
the name of God except the one I thank
for crossing your path with mine,
that divine movement evident only
in the day I looked across the room,
met your eyes and cried, I found you.
:icontinkertype:tinkertype 41 14
Tasting Notes
I think I detect my dads left handed broken
in baseball glove; black leather
from 1944 when he was drafted by the Yankee farm team in upstate NY.
Playing summer baseball in the street, I’d press it to my nose,
breathe it in-
feel comforted and wait for a fly ball.
I swear I smell tobacco
from my grandfathers camel non filters
as I buried my face into his brown woolen sweater, as he hugged me hello
stepping out of his car in 1960-
Driving all the way from New Jersey to see us.
And there it is.. ripe black raspberries from my cousins backyard.
Scraggily bushes along the fence.
Our thumbs and tongues stained blue and thorn bloody.
Finally and forever I am aware of the figs on my tongue
from that winter kiss standing in the kitchen-
my heart racing,
sweet caramelization, sweet caramelization, dammit.
Thank you God for all that. And wine.
So alive and breathing still.
The fullness.
Swallowing the December moon.
Copyright Linda R. O’Connell
:icongallindz:gallindz 10 17
the efficiency of silence
waves curl up, drying
as they fly, to be made wet again
in the mouth of what transpires
each wave gone rise
into the paper-birch
and shake its silent sentience.
i see now you are above me,
these chords are not the chords
of slow cicadas
and that all is your soliloquy
and secret; this earth will
keep it while the black-caps come
with eggshells in their mouths
and hide from every starving eye,
all trace of love, and vow.
:iconwouldwing:wouldwing 22 15
re: magnus spheres
i heard that god used to be a secularist
until some laconic leviathan sold
his name to the flock
and we used it to turn a long profit on
anonymous souls
                      "he - is nothing like you
                       and you - are nothing like i "
and i am a cold clockwork creature
arguing the entropy of microorganisms to bricks
unimpeachable ... no questions we would raise could ever
break the laws of physics
yet we untame the very membranes of this
codified existence
one day we'll comminute the moon
steep it in warm milk and feed it to our children when
artificial light dies and they can not bear to close
their eyes in the absolute dark
:iconthesquareroot:thesquareroot 6 6
thirty seven by and-speak thirty seven :iconand-speak:and-speak 92 15
the last radio on earth
         Reuben saw her coming like a distant thunderstorm. Her motorcycle kicked up a cloud of desert dust as she rode toward him, and unease burrowed into the pit of his stomach.
         Nobody travelled all the way out to his remote homestead unless they had business with him. And nobody had business with him unless he knew them.
         Reuben had never seen this girl in his life.
         He ran a hand across the holster on his hip, while the girl was still too far away to see him do it. At her pace, she had at least an hour left before she reached him, which left him with plenty of time to hide his water supply. He made sure it was out of sight before she reached his front entrance and waited, sitting cross-legged on the counter and trying to keep his hands away from his gun. Some people would have shot her on sight, but Reuben valued basic courtesy. He saw no point in killing he
:iconbornwiththesun:BornWithTheSun 40 46
(short stories) Soulshine
That superhero stuff is truly everywhere these days. My little brother was always a huge fan, buying all the toys, comic books, video games, etc. Those heroes wear crazy costumes, have insane powers and save millions of people in every arc of their story. But this world, our world, has no such superheroes. But it's not because of the lack of such powers or goofy costumes. It's because, in reality, power isn't everything. Even if it's a superpower.
My name is Evelyn Rook, and... I'm a superhero. Or at least I have everything I'd need in order to become one. I do have a special power. Although it's different than what you'd expect. I can't fly, run really fast, shoot laser beams out of my eyes, nor do I have any special shield or hammer. But my power is something others don't have. I can see souls. Not those dead ones, I'm not some kind of a witch, but the souls of those who are alive. 
Inside everyone's body is a little flame. Although, it's not always little. The flame grows and b
:iconhorriblewriter:HorribleWriter 69 43
Sunday Evening by Gloom82 Sunday Evening :icongloom82:Gloom82 375 29
early autumn wind
shakes the black-holed seed boxes
and nothing falls out
:iconcreightonwrites:creightonwrites 32 18

DD Suggestion Guidelines

Sun Aug 5, 2018, 8:48 PM
Greetings from BlackBowfin.  I'm now a Community Volunteer for the Literature side of DeviantArt.  Selecting written works to feature as Daily Deviations is a major component of that role.  While I do my best to search for standout work, there's no doubt that many quiet treasure nooks get overlooked.  I would greatly appreciate your assistance with scouting for and unearthing awesome deviations.  Below you'll find the general info/guidelines and, below that, my personal preferences.

General DeviantArt Daily Deviation FAQs Answered Here
Things like.......
What is a Daily Deviation?
Who selects Daily Deviations and how are they chosen?
How do I know who has received a Daily Deviation... and when?
What do I do when I disapprove of a Daily Deviation feature?

You can submit literature to any current lit CV, but please only suggest a work to one CV at a time.  Here's the current lineup:
BlackBowfin's guidelines
akrasiel's guidelines
BeccaJS' guidelines
squanpie's guidelines

How can I suggest a deviation to you?
Simply send me a note with a thumbnail of the piece with 'DD suggestion' as the subject line.  One or two sentences why you like the piece is helpful, but not necessary.

General Guidelines
:bulletblack: Deviants can’t receive a DD if they have had one in the last 6 months.
:bulletblack: Deviants who have been inactive for longer than a month are ineligible.
:bulletblack: Deviations that are part of a current contest are ineligible. You can suggest them after the contest has closed and the winners have been announced.
:bulletblack: If a deviation uses a preview pic or embedded image, it must be properly credited in the artist’s comments in order to be eligible.
:bulletblack: Self-suggestions are welcome. Promoting your work is a necessary skill for authors!

Personal Leanings
:bulletblack: My personal preferences lean toward poetry, but I will also gladly feature prose too.
:bulletblack: Sorry, but I am only able to feature works written in English.
:bulletblack: As far as fanfic goes, odds are that I don't follow its origins.  So, a work has to stand on its own without previous knowledge about its fandom.
:bulletblack: Technical quality is important, but so is the "heart and soul" of a written work.... that which lives and breathes beneath its words.
:bulletblack: I like writing that challenges my senses and preconceived notions.  I'm thrilled when I read something and, although it's nothing like I would normally write or seek out, it imprints an unshakable something of itself on me.

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My teeth have teeth
Artist | Hobbyist | Literature
United States
My influences are mostly stuck in 20th Century poetry: Cummings, Eliot, Roethke.... and if anyone's not read Audre Lorde, do it NOW (surprising and sad how it still reads like today's current events).

Favorite visual style of art: Art Nouveau vs Modern

About Me:

I'm a proud dad and husband and a bit of a work-aholic.

I was brought up in a very restrictive/conservative Christian denomination. I use art as a recovery device. :)

I quit writing for several years, but have returned to it thanks to dA.

Recurring themes (though maybe not directly referenced) - space, time, ghosts, reincarnation, religion, addiction, abuse, recovery, childhood, parenthood and the patterns and repeating cycles of all of the above.

I believe that good writing should actually take your breath away or at least throw it off track for a second.

Stizzamps and Flair


Add a Comment:
wouldwing Featured By Owner 9 hours ago  Hobbyist Writer
oh-k, so, I'm a backwater poet with a Daily Deviation to my name, all thanks to you... and as i see it i owe a great karmic debt to this entire community of awesome writers. i'll have to chalk it up next it to all my other karmic debts... can't thank you enough for such a gratuity Sir.
(1 Reply)
specialized666 Featured By Owner Aug 10, 2018  Professional General Artist
Hi, have an awesome day :happybounce:
(1 Reply)
beeswingblue Featured By Owner Aug 5, 2018   Writer
I'm honored. Thanks for the feature. :heart:
(1 Reply)
Malintra-Shadowmoon Featured By Owner Aug 4, 2018  Hobbyist General Artist
Hello Blackbowfin and welcome home!!

Thank you for joining the family of artists here at :icontheartistlounge:. We are eager to see your display of skill and talent and have it showcased in the Group! If you have any questions feel free to message us, and don't forget to check out the Group's rules.
Again, we say WELCOME HOME! Cheers and Applause - NaNoEmo Day 8 by Ridley126

TheArtistLounge's Team

(1 Reply)
Tinselfire Featured By Owner Aug 1, 2018
Why, I think congratulations are in order.

Most of the writers I currently know write their stories in picture descriptions, but will be more than happy to let you know if they decide otherwise.
(1 Reply)
salshep Featured By Owner Jul 28, 2018
Hey, congrats!
(1 Reply)
TheGalleryOfEve Featured By Owner Jul 28, 2018  Professional Digital Artist
Congratulations, and welcome to the CR Team!!! :iconflyingheartsplz::iconyaayplz::iconflyingheartsplz:
(1 Reply)
Yuukon Featured By Owner Jul 25, 2018   Photographer
Welcome to the team! :eager:
(1 Reply)
phoenixleo Featured By Owner Jul 25, 2018
Congratulations and welcome to the team! :ahoy:
(1 Reply)
JenFruzz Featured By Owner Jul 24, 2018  Hobbyist Photographer
Welcome to the team! :D
(1 Reply)
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