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A contradictorian~
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A Common Story Part 3 WIP

A

A Common Story Part 3 WIP

I knew he would catch up to me soon. The shoes, while gorgeous and sturdy, were heeled and I could feel myself stumble. I had to make myself stop and take them off at the start of the steps, and ran up them into the ballroom. "Wait!" I was so tempted to. Grabbing at my skirts, so lovely but so heavy, I was racing through the ballroom. People got out of my way more out of surprise than politeness. Who would ever run away from a prince? If only they knew I was no princess. Then, perhaps, they might understand and would run away too. Right at the door, I had to look back. A glance over my shoulder and there he was. It was a moment to burn into my memories, his hand outstretched, the entire crowd looking at him then, almost as one, at me. A smile at the guard and it felt like a moment later, I was in the carriage, escaping. I could hear a clatter of hooves and carriage wheels behind me - my prince was giving chase. No, not my prince. A prince, chasing someone who was a one night

Burning

B

Burning

i can't face a blankness without a spark it's the spark of nonsense made into words some call it imagination i call it muse it begins as an itch, something unbearable and unknowable just a need to throw words onto a page because if i could be made of ink and paper i would feel more whole than i do made out of flesh and blood and bone the only thing i would fear is the non-metaphorical spark because rips and tears can be taped back together but ashes would be the end of me i'm not a phoenix rising, no reincarnation awaits my death and so i live in bone and flesh and blood pouring out my reality into these words a little piece of my soul to remain known when i have burned away.

A Common Story Part 2

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A Common Story Part 2

I expected the carriage to smell of pumpkin, and it may have smelt more like pumpkin pie had I the wit to pay attention. To absorb all the magic I was surrounded by, and I did appreciate the feel of satin on my skin for the first time since childhood. My shoes were also given some due, and I watched the light glisten and shine along them. They were opaque enough that my toes remained hidden, yet at the same time so flawless it was not hard to believe they were magical. My mother's shoes. The thought did dampen some of my excitement. However, upon reaching the castle nearly all thought did stop. It was a brilliant stone edifice with turrets a

return

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return

i want to remember how it feels to fly because there's a reason it's called "flights of fancy" i want to remember the feeling of my fingers moving fast keeping up with the words spilling from my mind onto a page this is my paintbrush and canvas other people can speak through images capturing a thousand words in a single brushstroke but i need a thousand letters just to say a simple message verbosity is my strong suit and concise is just another word to add to a growing list, a vocabulary made like a thesaurus with definitions changing with connotation sarcasm and wit and metaphor giving rise to the meaning of meaning and the wealth of words. i'm losing touch with myself so this is my message to her: this is home. This is heart. This is the part of you that nobody touches and nobody takes, this is opinion, emotion, rational deliberation and irrational devotion these are the words you would not speak aloud because out loud this is senseless. But on this page is meaning. In these

The Impact

T

The Impact

i'm so stressed i'm vibrating with tension ready to be plucked and release a high-pitched note this is not butterfly nerves but nausea holding back every word i cannot say words i don't even know what they are but they are stuck in some kind of distinctive ball shape or perhaps it is nothing more than these vitamins i consume in an attempt to delay the inevitable wondering is it worth it to wear a mask when we no longer look each other in the eyes there is no other way to tell if there is a smile we are apart and not together and yet together we stand as we are isolated no man is an island and so we are all glad that this is happening now that we have the technology to connect but this is so much less than what we could have. I crave the feeling of a hand holding mine, a hug surrounding me with warmth, holding so tight it is as though I can never escape nor do I wish to. We need no reminders of what I am writing about, not at this time, but yet posterity deems I should tell the

A Common Story

A

A Common Story

Many view me as an object of pity because I lost both my biological parents at a young age. First my mother when I was just a child, and then my father after I had entered my teen years. But he remarried a woman with two daughters of her own before he passed, so you see, I have never been on my own. And it would be wrong of me to complain for she maintains a roof over my head, food and clothes to keep me healthy and warm. My step-mother says I should do the chores to earn my keep; the laundry, the cooking, mending tears in my step-sister and step-mother's clothes. These are not difficult tasks and help to fill my days with useful work. I have friends too, the birds and mice who live in the house keep me company. My life may not be perfect but in my attic room, I can awaken to each new day with a song. ~*~*~ There has been a most marvelous announcement. The king of our land is holding a ball tonight and all eligible females have been invited. Everybody knows that the prince will

remember beauty

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remember beauty

i'm going crazy trying to repress this restlessness gripping my nerves so tightly my hands are trembling and turning white like my bones want to rip themselves out of my skin. tears cling to my eyelashes every time i close my eyes, so faint they cannot fall, but full enough to give a sheen to make my irises beautiful. my stomach and sides are squeezing themselves so tight they have crushed every last beautiful butterfly into an indistinguishable pulp while i'm trying to remember what beauty is. my throat grows clogged with everything i'd never say because i've no past misdeeds to admit to and that's left me feeling like i have no deeds at all. a cipher who cannot be deciphered, an afterthought of a memory of a moment when you smile at a stranger passing you by on the street, their face quickly becoming nothing more than a dream. that point in time when the business you pass by every day for years until it becomes a fixture as familiar as the face in the mirror posts closing signs

nothing begins

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nothing begins

i have a millions of dreams to come to naught a thousand details for a million places and people that exist only in my head, waiting ever so patient- ly like i will write them into existence. Evelyn waits to create a world for gods to live and wreck, while Adrian waits for love to open his eyes and the nameless one waits impatiently to lift his eyelids. She has her powers, her personality, and it is chomping at the bit to be shown because this will not be seen through her eyes. To have one's story not told by oneself, what greater tragedy and what greater normality exists? We exist even if nobody sees us. But does a story? A poem, a picture, does a piece of art remain standing long after the author stops writing, and the creator leaves it unfinished, in scraps to be thrown away and I do not wish to lose them. These are my children born not of my blood but of my ink, my time and my creativity. Older, younger, ageless, what are they waiting for? They wait for nothing to begin they

This is Her

T

This is Her

When I think of beauty born from pain and struggle beauty that was forged, not simply molded, a song born from a history lived instead of experienced, and scars long healed - I think of her and her story, a history written in a melody thrumming beneath her skin. She called me bold and so I dared to be. She called me muse and so I mused, philosophy born from thought and experience intertwined the banal and mundane become poetry in motion an economy of movement to make elegant ostentation She stands tall beneath my chin, towering over my character because mere physicality is meaningless unheard beneath her skin. This I write to capture the barest piece of the women in my life, a shaping of myself made of a collage of the bits and pieces of the best of them. I read the words they write of me, careful not to spill my tears upon the ink- the woman on the page so much more and so much less than I could ever hope to be and wish that I am. This is their legacy, my legacy, being born

remembering to breathe

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remembering to breathe

I'm trying to remember to write for myself because this is not just soul food but soul breathe This is that initial stretch after a long period cramped and stifled That shower to wash off dirt and grime long embedded leaving one feeling unclean and out of sorts. A look in the mirror and loving what one sees A ribcage expanding without pain or strain A deep breathe after a cold. I'm wondering why we find beauty in destruction; we stare at contained fires and think of warm light instead of insatiable wildfires. Pain become art that punches us visually, we lose our breathe and our soul reflects we are shaken to our core and it settles into an unfamiliar pattern. None like to be wrong and we know but do not know that the past was a different time born from a different mother and we forget what was known was not always known and yet at the same time, it was. Generations intermingle and nobody speaks while I'm trying to remember that to breathe is to change and cells slough away to
See all

A Common Story Part 3 WIP

A

A Common Story Part 3 WIP

I knew he would catch up to me soon. The shoes, while gorgeous and sturdy, were heeled and I could feel myself stumble. I had to make myself stop and take them off at the start of the steps, and ran up them into the ballroom. "Wait!" I was so tempted to. Grabbing at my skirts, so lovely but so heavy, I was racing through the ballroom. People got out of my way more out of surprise than politeness. Who would ever run away from a prince? If only they knew I was no princess. Then, perhaps, they might understand and would run away too. Right at the door, I had to look back. A glance over my shoulder and there he was. It was a moment to burn into my memories, his hand outstretched, the entire crowd looking at him then, almost as one, at me. A smile at the guard and it felt like a moment later, I was in the carriage, escaping. I could hear a clatter of hooves and carriage wheels behind me - my prince was giving chase. No, not my prince. A prince, chasing someone who was a one night

Burning

B

Burning

i can't face a blankness without a spark it's the spark of nonsense made into words some call it imagination i call it muse it begins as an itch, something unbearable and unknowable just a need to throw words onto a page because if i could be made of ink and paper i would feel more whole than i do made out of flesh and blood and bone the only thing i would fear is the non-metaphorical spark because rips and tears can be taped back together but ashes would be the end of me i'm not a phoenix rising, no reincarnation awaits my death and so i live in bone and flesh and blood pouring out my reality into these words a little piece of my soul to remain known when i have burned away.

A Common Story Part 2

A

A Common Story Part 2

I expected the carriage to smell of pumpkin, and it may have smelt more like pumpkin pie had I the wit to pay attention. To absorb all the magic I was surrounded by, and I did appreciate the feel of satin on my skin for the first time since childhood. My shoes were also given some due, and I watched the light glisten and shine along them. They were opaque enough that my toes remained hidden, yet at the same time so flawless it was not hard to believe they were magical. My mother's shoes. The thought did dampen some of my excitement. However, upon reaching the castle nearly all thought did stop. It was a brilliant stone edifice with turrets a

return

r

return

i want to remember how it feels to fly because there's a reason it's called "flights of fancy" i want to remember the feeling of my fingers moving fast keeping up with the words spilling from my mind onto a page this is my paintbrush and canvas other people can speak through images capturing a thousand words in a single brushstroke but i need a thousand letters just to say a simple message verbosity is my strong suit and concise is just another word to add to a growing list, a vocabulary made like a thesaurus with definitions changing with connotation sarcasm and wit and metaphor giving rise to the meaning of meaning and the wealth of words. i'm losing touch with myself so this is my message to her: this is home. This is heart. This is the part of you that nobody touches and nobody takes, this is opinion, emotion, rational deliberation and irrational devotion these are the words you would not speak aloud because out loud this is senseless. But on this page is meaning. In these

Millions

M

Millions

Let me a weave a fantasy out of the cadence in my words, the tone of my voice, a rhyme fixed to a rhythm fixed in a choice Let my words bring a dream of a world to life, Where immortality is a reality free from strife Every hurdle surpassed by pure grit, determination, a bold dash of wit that lets us flit and fly way into a daydream of golden days Made of perfect summer nights and brilliant winter days having adventures where hurt leads to growth and pain heals. Because reality doesn't. We awake from dreams and close books to happily ever afters finding that the mundane is wearying and So close to hopeless that they're synonyms Just as 'wise man' has become an oxymoron because there are no wise men nor wise women just men and women and people living amid a dying world screaming at us through wildfires and gunshots plastic-wrapped and choking. We leave our minds and enter tired bodies, tired eyes, tired burdens others have set upon others set upon themselves There is no fantasy

breathing out

b

breathing out

We cut down trees to make art and matchsticks trying to satisfy a hunger we mistake for lust like living is just a moment to moment appeasement before we go too fast, too slow, too much time is passing us by. More and more, we scream 'stop' but the phrase dangles from our throats like a fishing line burning into ellipses Like tongues flapping in a breeze matching flags flying half-mast in memory of the times we could hold back yet never did. We build bridges to burn without crossing them reminders that the other side is indeed greener because brown is all that surrounds our souls siphoning off water not to be a reservoir for the future generation but for our desire for regeneration of capital to breed more capital and money to come from money As though procreation is only for the penniless and impoverished children will remain mute against the injustices they are born into. Praise naught but the climbers the calluses on their palms a signal of their hard work without remembering

Where Dreams Belong

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Where Dreams Belong

I feel ticklish inside like a forgotten memory has become a feather and my nerves are tingling with a something that I can't quite describe. It's not butterflies in my stomach, nor goosebumps and hair raising; nor skin crawling or heart pounding or that sensation of a delayed sneeze. This is uncertainty, half of a memory, a vague uncertainty that doesn't quite result in a stone in the pit of my stomach. It's like a subtle vibration, a bass playing next to a wall with deep tones causing that pleasurable thrumming through my skin. But this is not quite pleasurable. A quiet irritation, an uncertain uncertainty, a kind of vibration making me

Glimpses

G

Glimpses

Bustle. Such a lively word, she thought as she bustled around. A soft, sure thud accompanied the movement of her wrist, a newly sharpened knife swiftly going through the cold onion. The unstained, wooden cupboards opened and closed as she collected oregano, thyme, basil, a bit of salt and pepper, and olive oil. Soon, the smell of the herbs would permeate the household, along with tomato and garlic. Spaghetti was such a lovely, simple dish, and thankfully easy to make vegetarian. Or was it vegan? The bustling slowed as she considered the ingredients. The only issue might come from eggs used to make the pasta, but she had some zucchini in the f

springtime

s

springtime

I go now with death to rest in peace a long time now in coming Short were the days and long nights to follow when winter comes unbidden Stretching the hours with quiet calm I awaited spring and now I wait no longer

A Simple Character

Summer's End

S

Summer's End

You would not give enough So I poured myself into us Trying to make up a deficit I convinced myself I could not see. You sucked me dry as bone Drinking my very marrow And I welcomed it and called it compromise as I offered you my neck. Insatiable, you gorged Carved me out like oysters from shells I slithered down your throat, an aphrodisiac to your ego. And when there was no more us What came slinking away Was diminshed and dry as husks of corn shucked at summer's end.
Artist // Student // Literature
  • Jan 28
  • Canada
  • Deviant for 9 years
  • She / Her
Badges
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Whiskers: Submitted to the April Fools' Day category
Double Delicious Cake: But only half the calories! (2)Double Delicious Cake: But only half the calories! (2)Double Delicious Cake: But only half the calories! (2)Double Delicious Cake: But only half the calories! (2)Double Delicious Cake: But only half the calories! (2)
My Bio
Why do you cry, child,
Why are your tears so black?
What do you cry for,
What is it you lack?

Whatever wish you ask,
I'll grant it.
Whatever hope you hold,
I'll fulfill it.
Whatever dream you dream,
I'll make it come true.

For you see, child,
I am you.

A poem to go along with the picture by hgfdsasdfgh The picture is the ID =)

A high school Filipino Canadian female, and a violent bookworm, I enjoy arguing about the most inconsequential things. Fantasy fiction is my favourite genre, as well as romance and comedy. I have read many mangas, and watched a few animes. That's pretty much it?

That wonderful picture up there is by the magnificent :iconhgfdsasdfgh: :love: Thank you so much you marvelous friend!

Current Residence: On a planet on an arm of the spiral galaxy the Milky Way
Favourite genre of music: Usually upbeat, or ones whose message I like
Favourite style of art: Expressive, simple, or amazingly detailed and looks effortless
MP3 player of choice: One that I am unable to break.
Personal Quote: Live life to the fullest, because tomorrow may not arrive.

Favourite Movies
Almost any Disney movie, and a whole bunch of others.
Favourite TV Shows
BONES, Once Upon A Time, How I Met Your Mother
Favourite Bands / Musical Artists
NeverShoutNever, I Fight Dragons, Death Cab for Cutie, couple others
Favourite Books
Far, far too many to list.
Favourite Writers
Too many to list.
Tools of the Trade
Pen, paper, keyboard, my mind...
Other Interests
Reading, and writing of course ;)

It has been too long

It has been too long

I nearly had a heart attack because I forgot my password for this site. I have been utterly remiss in retaining my sanity through poetry, and I can hardly blame schoolwork. Maybe I need a bit more balance in my life? I've been lackluster and looking for something that I have always found in writing. It's not even that I've been through anything, it's just that writing is how I think. Does that even make sense, that my thoughts often assort themselves into those half-phrases I call poetry? I suppose if that were to make sense to anyone, it would be my fellow artists on deviantart. And yes, I am fancifully aligning myself with all artists: poet

So a coupla months have passed

So a coupla months have passed

I'm about a year, year and a bit from graduating uni! It's been fun there, but soon I'll have to leave those lovely confines and structured schedule to a job that may or may not be what I'm looking for. Quite frankly, my main goal is financial stability, so job hunting is gonna be fun~ In other news, I got a mention from the lovely ~StarlightShoals (https://www.deviantart.com/starlightshoals) and so, onto the tag: Loli/Shota: [x] You tilt your head when you’re confused. [x] You love sweets and cute things. [x] You are often confused and lost in conversations with your friends. [ ] You blush simply thinking of sexual things. [x] People often call you cute. [x] You car
Sometimes I just feel like typing. The motion and the noise soothes me, and I don't feel like having to back up my every sentence with a citation. I enjoy having evidence to back up my facts, but my writing isn't always factual. I write fiction, poet...

Comments 2.5K

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EiburineHobbyist Digital Artist

thanks for the favourite yay c:

Contradictory55Student Writer

But of course, I love your art! :D

kalmanbariHobbyist Traditional Artist
Happy birthday
Contradictory55Student Writer

Thank you!

Thank you, it is much appreciatied
Contradictory55Student Writer
My pleasure!
kalmanbariHobbyist Traditional Artist
Happy birthday!