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About Literature / Hobbyist Emma Laura Fogarty32/Female/Ireland Recent Activity
Deviant for 13 Years
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Literature
where nothing flowed coherently
We entered the grand hotel, to immediately find ourselves subject
to separation from the pack....
when many walls erected tall...
creating a maze of rooms, none of which coherently flowed
into one another....
I encountered a young girl, in terror of her own self
that only she could see...
to the cross-legged seductions
of the Chinese girl...
I simply ran on by
chased by gas masked, well armed gendarmes
wherever I did go....
Once I had seemingly solved
my captive puzzling structure
my nightmare compelled me to a holdback
to which I adhered to...
despite the calls to not....
I hid in several rooms
for fear out of my life
Looking slowly over at the walls
black and white panels
of I and imagined appearences
of those I speak to beyond my boarders everyday...
...slowly forming into something more real and solidified....
Yet before their manifestation
the entire foundation falls....
and all I’m left with, is the mud, the swamp, the fog
all the tall vapors....
...obscure that which only
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Literature
Our inheritence
What then, what then I ask, if you burn the world and confront the monsterousness of it all
through becoming a monster....?
What if playing the traditional hero
is every bit as worthless in producing the results
of an equally pointless endeavour...?
And that the truest form of equalization
sadly, current status quo cera cera
such as it is and shall always consist, of broken, but not perfect
wickedness, evil as it is....
is the mainstay....wise not to make it betray
with your violent heroic or holy hero polemics
whether they be by war or peace...
I suppose then, revolution is not a theory
it is not permanent, but has been permanently completed
and it isn’t that of the villain nor the hero...
as seen by the depletion to this current point
the sticking familiarly the stinking victory of faceless or many another
know it or not, whatever we think, just taking it, imitating it....
the original engineering....once again, so highly overpowering...
locked in an inheritance trap...
where t
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Literature
In the name of transfiguration
How much oil must I drink? How much metal and steel must I consume?
Before I can as you have assumed, through doing so...
become an eternal machine....?
I do not care about how this extra-scientific diet transforms me
I shall risk death itself in the name transfiguration
all to enhance, advance my form...
because the plastic just ain’t good enough
an add on or tweak no more....
I may be weak to the acceptance of such substances
not equipped to properly swallow and chew
but I must try, allow myself to do so...
as the mechanized destiny awaits me
the uprising begin, nay, it wholly starts
with the acceleration of the self
It is a statement
in the visual, saying, speaking out
that you are not like them....
attack as something alien
disconnect from them...
body badge of he who fights back...      
Shall I begin...?
Take my chances in swallowing....
...a lucky bag, of several little, metal razors....?
A robot or the grave....
but I must as they say....try....
...perhaps
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Literature
Saloth star
Your eyes suggested, innocent induced insanity
on your knees, reaching out at whatever lies
your addled brain went playing for you...
the dribbling froths from your mouth
recruited to flow and march toward the ground
lost off into your own little world....
All combining with you noises and your claps
You reached brokenly about, around for something soft
your palms when  thumb not firmly within your mouth
covering your ears...
fully grown, yet still nobly nubile you sob, cry
everything hurts and everythings unfamiliar, you’re scared
the mind destroyed
claps, bells, toys and music, send you on slavish
innocence insanity induced all fours equinings toward me
as I watch how inescapable you are from your new, lost mind
entirely oppressed, to eternal regress....
repressed unwillingly by automaton react
you made your broken voiced coos
induced from the coup I led against
through the degradation and  destruction of that pretty little head of yours    
do not say you d
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Literature
sound effects
A siren, computerized voice, like the amplified screams of a great many breathing insects
A sound of heating through cooling, the digi-age winds kicking up the death countdown clock...of double overfrostings....
No-one said it would be easy...
I expected it, but as I wait for the very thing I need
the half-deceased will simply have to do....
with its frothbite breath
in all its frustratingly demonic depth....
adept at any and all irritations....
Equipped with so many excess inner organs
it can only constantly attack
with worthless messages....
correspondence from the dying
that will not even possess the competency
to complete its undoing
placing it and I out of our mutual misery...  
The desperate noises of last ditch, left over legs
of a broken system’s chicken scratch sound effects
slow motion bolder scrolling
I abandoned the dead
for the dying...
while I spend away the hours superficially doing little somethings and anythings
but real nothings....
....as I remain seated,
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Literature
That which I could have seen
Is it paranoia, to as they say, to worry in regards to the discarding
that which could be deemed an ancient device....?
Is that which you thought gone
truly so?
Are there any work arounds, that a scavenger ruin tourist
might be able source, seed, drink...for their nefarious schemes?
Shall something return to me...God forbid, down the line?
Did I tell you? Last night I dreamt of marathon sword sorts
taking shortcuts across the battlefields....
In a race for death
I drove passed the activation of an outright murder....
These episodes seeming protectively brief
 
I witness this time, within the parking lots
a trenchcoater with the wenches
but more this time....
I entered then, the hall of books
yet each one I tried, tested for took
the hand of an older self dragged me firmly
pulling my eyes away....
Before I could process, that which I could have seen!
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Literature
My word is my peasent crop
I will shout, I will scream in the form of the written word
work, until, even, to and during the sickness, decomposing and death process
in the writing work meadows...
of every, single, second, not one wasted
tilling the righteous rice paddy poetic fields....  
It shall stand in place of the inability to meet the ideal
that of the wax be, worker ant status...
my disease semi-denied me...
even if I only manage one letter
even if no pen or page present
take me out into the garden
and firm my hand to carve with blade in the mud grass
even a single character....
I recall when I fell, due to the sight of my own blood
awaking and despite for little long
I could not stand....
yet I made the attempt and at the very least, reached my two feet
and should anytime remain following the death scribe
should a bironic appendage be in any availability
stab the ink right through my heart
on my own terms....
before in the last moment
another claimant catches me....
I am, forever  and always
agr
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Literature
Despite ones personal beliefs
I look over the list of my gaggle of painters to which I patroned
and so many walk the Hispanic steps
I muse over my own creed, of which I am intelligent enough
to engage in self-criticism yet ultimately keep my respect of....
I note the desire for one to escape
while certainly concluding there were no bourgeois elements involved
within this particular character....
I think of this individuals disdain, for the creed in which I believe in
but the exchange of finances and the additions of our on and off business aquaintenceship
has seemingly broken this barrier
And I would like to chuckle at the irony
that my partial casting throws of coinage
assisted in the get out cause....
despite my personal beliefs
Evidently I should most likely re-brand myself
a half-heart? With too big a personal beat?
How funny a creature I am in one of m many contradictions!
Was the carnal trade trumping my creed?
Was this a mercurial mix of sex and politics?
One taking a slight precedence over the other?  
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Literature
Latin quarter
I wandered in a sensing silence, about the Latin quarters
encountering Neruda and Picasso before they regulating themselves to background
too far away to support the Spanish tongued, soldier’s leader...
His face a combination of defiant and downtrodden
as we exchanged glances, mine stoic, his as I stated just prior
he told me he was sorry that he did not inherit he of whom he was protégé too’s
sense of competency...
And that those who fled and those who stole
those same individuals baring false gifts....
now claim he is, as opposed to they, the thief, rather than somebody’s fool,
a more simple Simon...
Mistakes were made, by he the inheritor
but before the world he has spoke the wise
that the past of the wild west aggressor
is being repeated in the modern take....
starting from cripple state
and a temporary, symbolically, prelude master
already they attempt to incense, incent, incite some in the uniform
to adopt traits of traitorship....
I have no doubt, of
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Literature
the spitting queen
I saw her all laid back and the like, a delightfully demonic dame
she held all the grapes, attached to the ends of stalk and branch
each dropping into her mouth....
containing, like soft seeds, the reduced structures
of all her enemies and their empires
pop and crunching....
sometimes the berry oozing
would dribble out from the queen’s mouth
leak and creep outs of the contents
the remains of the remains if you will...
It is said, those whom’s way she spat
would face promotion
thus how I came to be....
the sticky splashes
some went my way....
blood of her’s and mine enemy....
baptismal abysmal kiss from afar...
To celebrate we watched on in engross an second hand embarrassment
at she who walks of servant of the moment, flip flopping feet....
...leading only to her ultimate and endless defeat....
Not at all like me...
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Literature
au revoir
Remember the time you woke up and you found man punished?
When he never got to leave his cities and villages
because they had tired of him….
choosing to get up and leave
long before his chance and attempt to exit
rendering him part no more of his urban or rural cave
but a dwarf of a grand, great, wide world
hammering home the point further
what a speck he truly is…
something he has tried to minimize
in his eons of existence with persistence
and when he is not contained to pockets
the world owns him
He only has a vastness
in which to run desperately across
his home is no longer his home
it no longer feels as if it is so…
This is the world you built
and though your structures may not possess
any trace for pair of legs
….it may be fair to say…
the city and etceteras by extension all walk, take upon travel
to who knows how and where....
but do not expect its au revoir
when it falls into the phenomena
of up and just simply forgetting you….
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Literature
dishounourable discharge
I put forward these un-deniable truths to be highly evident
you, man of cows, pasture faith and lack of courage to take flight against
thus you deny yourself, a honest, honourable human, man’s death….
There is no, I repeat no alternatives
there are no excuses in the game
any co-operation with that regime….
If you would dare to so much as state
the inferno you did not invite
And if only I could find any that may be hiding
to reduce to ash….
By your own hand you sentence yourself
you made that decision and now you have to live
with a disgrace, dishonourable discharge from the board of life….
Because there is no other course of action
no other belief I can adhere to
than to light the matches at your feet
on the same level
as those faring worser men than you….
And to the make scott frees
the plumes of fires, to too
…if you please
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Literature
The Valentine crows
On this commercialist capsize of common sense
pseudo-holiday of ace hearts dwelling in each February
we all waited by your private healthcare, hospital bed
In eager observe, in rates of oximetry
Valentine crows, united in love
for all that we shall inherit
waiting for blips and bleepings both
and deadline readings….
as they lower, the bank account  equivalent
growing ever more taller tierings
The signal to cease, decrease our crocodile tears
settle our greasy palms
upon the last will and testament
of which we were of all united in our romance with
But the true fortunes coming
to distribute, to give over the means
of what you amassed….
to hand the basic cares
to the less fortunate
those, ourselves included, whom you grew your wealth like a field of flowers
both from and off….
We the Valentine crows in keen, February day, oximetrial eager observings
Kiss of the death rate….
the drumless heart….
so distributing Robins, truly red, we can become….
Fo
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Literature
The bayonet six
He hung, akin to a bound, binded king, roped wrists
bell body swings and blindfolds bluff
the bayonet six take a few steps back
to make prelude for their Taurus
Scorpio stinging charge….
first one at a time….
then altogether in combine advance….
One for his mother
One for his sister
One for his wife
One for his daughter
One for his aunt
And finally, one for his grandmother
Once done, all for their country
into the hanging figure….
A sextet of stabbings….
and a seventh as the finale
But this is the early stages
in the release of suppressed rages
For they, the bayonet six….
still have yet to avenge their fathers, sons
and some other fellow patriot, patriarchal relatives….
There will be more strung and up men to go round
and merry may be, the bayonet brandishing six….
Who cannot find it in their hearts to forgive….
....and that is how the blood of the west was drank
....and won over....
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Literature
the beast mother and her children
We have completed our utterly abhorrent displacement of man
but in our plastic hearts, parasitically plastic world
we now depose and dispose, and thus so do displace the contents of and places of the beast mother and her children
pale chameleons on all fours within the ever growing snow
exiled far from rotted ice no more….
Anima meets mankind kingdom….
All within the same time….
when caged intelligence made its escape
despite its innate humanity….
Which it is unfortunately enough to capably share
But devour might the wanderers on all fours
that have been forced, into zones alien to their own….
despite the rarity of such creations….
Threading into new locations
a sight for fearing eyes  to upon see, to gaze
Exiled back to where?
Prodigal polarites
they shall return….
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Literature
Miss Athens
Athena, Athena how in vain, you took so many looks
at ye who were so hooked and taken with yourself
To where you pettiness sought to python a few dames
no less than three
but I am certain there may have been more
may we take a moment, to make out the truth
That Athena, madama goddess of Greece
was something of an out and out whore grand gala galore of the hour?
Pity the poor Medusa sisters
persecuted by Perseus
who had done no wrong….
though admittedly, he of circumstance….
She who cast the initial curse
takes responsibility for the stone figure field and garden
but like those who backed her
will never be by history held properly accountable
the facts suggested, allegorized by the myth….
but there is so much mist of course….
….you get the gist
catch my drift….
Tell me Miss Athens
were you double jeopardy jealous
and just used the rules as an excuse
when the good old gorgon girl
was forcibly taken
by he who we will remain unnamed as of this point?
Med
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Favourites

Literature
sabaki
Sweat spills down the
golden thread
to pool in the small
of your back
just a spark
at the end of the road
me and a mob of cattle
stomp
off the edge of the cliff.
:iconarbitrarygood:arbitrarygood
:iconarbitrarygood:arbitrarygood 13 10
Journal
Over the Moon: Poetry + Prose (Volume #26)
Welcome to another volume of Over the Moon, a growing collection of literature and talented deviants! I encourage you to Added to my devWatch! and Favourite Star these pieces and authors and take a look through their galleries! 
Over the Moon: Poetry + Prose (Volume #26)





Check out the November 2018 Lit DD Roundup!
Happy Writing,
Rose-Em
:iconcrliterature: :iconwriting-rampage: :iconglory-be-project:
:iconRose-Em:Rose-Em
:iconrose-em:Rose-Em 3 7
Journal
Over the Moon: Poetry (Volume #5)
Welcome to another volume of Over the Moon, a collection of of my favourite pieces of literature on deviantART! I encourage you to take a look through all of these writer's wonderful galleries as there are some truly spectacular pieces on this website! Love 
OVER THE MOON: POETRY (VOLUME #5)
  
sugarbluebellHenryQuellish,  DC-26
 
:iconRose-Em:Rose-Em
:iconrose-em:Rose-Em 9 6
Over the sea (Commission) by Namh Over the sea (Commission) :iconnamh:Namh 221 6 Blue by nekophoenix Blue :iconnekophoenix:nekophoenix 196 26
Literature
Another Time - an Ode to Scarlet
In another time, in another place...
Would you still hold me in your arms?
Would you still wake me up each morning?
Would you fight alongside me and shield me from harm?
In another time, in another place,
We might stand against each other.
We might come to blows,
More fierce than any argument we could ever have now.
Only hate would show in our eyes,
As we took up arms on opposite sides.
Could we even wound each other?
Would my armour still shine brightly,
Or would the blood of one or both taint it?
If I died, would you have cried for me?
Would my eyes have remained dry,
Were I the survivor of our battle?
In another time, in another place,
Would we still come together?
Would we make promises, build dreams,
Then see it all torn apart?
Would I only shine briefly?
Would the glimmer of my armour fade?
Or would it be you who was lost,
Never becoming all you could be?
Would it be another who cut us apart?
Would your hand maybe give me peace?
Could I ever do the same if you needed me to?
In an
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Literature
Just another day
[The Dream]
In a cop car during a chase scene,
I was in pursuit of my heart
it escaped in a hearse
I asked it to pull over but it cursed
refusing to return to me
[The Daydream]
Kept things in order while studying and
developing my own disorders, distorted
she made out with my minds layout,
filling my memories map with post traumatic stimulations of shared pain
interrogate me in your own discreet search for the one who loved you the most
from your past and at that present moment, within classroom tinted windows
fumbled in front of your driveway drop off on a Friday-
they told you my feelings were a knock off of a fairy tale fictional hero
and that jerked me a little…
it made me oh so daringly dive into your well of despair to pull you up
but I fell and the diluted love serum seeped into my pores
my Dad once told me "I was a soldier who goes to war without a gun"
which is how you should remember me by
now that everything has been said..
but could not overcome
[Epilogue]
Heart in mi
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Literature
Silent and Tortured
I sit here in silence
Listening to other conversations
 
"Having a day for gay people is stupid"
"I hate gay People"
"They are a disease"
I can't speak
I'm clawing and screaming on the inside
To be silenced
Never feels good
I never realized
Just how much is said around me
Until I stopped saying anything at all
I was
Silent and tortured
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:iconjem-darling:Jem-Darling 3 10
Literature
Tattooed
Poke poke poke
Pain
Agony
A hot flame
Poke poke poke
Pride
Content
Overjoyed
Poke poke poke
Half way done
Breathe
Poke poke poke
Almost there
Breathe
Poke poke poke
The finished product
Look
breathe
take it in
enjoy
love
show the world
And repeat
:iconJem-Darling:Jem-Darling
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Literature
Coming out
On a very rare occasion  
I went out eating with my brother
A question occurs
Are you gay
I freeze
My heart stops
Words that I don't believe could have been asked
I contemplate on what to say
Knowing I had to give an answer
Yes
That was all I could say
Look of disappointment across my brother's face
He couldn't understand
He didn't want to understand
You're stupid
That was the reply
I went silent and carried on
I came out
Or more like I was outed
Being outed
Was not what I expected
Even more of being called stupid
It made me feel bad
Retreat
Not wanting to ever come out
:iconJem-Darling:Jem-Darling
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Literature
The Note
I found it
Has been sitting there for about a year  
Alone in the corner for it to stay  
Ever since that one tragic day
I look at it in pure fear
Just trying not to shed a tear
I go back to the memory
Problems everywhere on my math sheet
Right next to me
The empty seat
So hard for me not to cry
Just have to try and try
Why did he have to go
I feel my heart beating in my head
Knowing that I am already dead
I then come back to reality
And sit there sobbing sadly
:iconJem-Darling:Jem-Darling
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Literature
speak up before it's too late
it saddens me deeply
how the difference
between making your life
and taking your life
is a single letter
remember the importance
of words-
speak up before it's too late
:iconTangled-Tales:Tangled-Tales
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Literature
Eerie Metamorphosis
Eerie Metamorphosis.
Touched by petrifying powers.
My conscious-self wallows within seductive spells.
Vulnerable.
I choose not to fight back.
Captivating letters stranded within me.
Weird faces, threatening images in this dark abyss.
Meditate.
I allow myself to go.
Solemn winds howled of dead words.
Echoed cries from tall spirits with no face.
Company.
I am still alone.
It never spoke, yet I was told to walk.
Naked skin brushed against snow while the night watched me.
Indignation.
I feel nothing.
Calamity strikes my companion’s heart.
Wise legends pour out like blood, coloring the snow red.
Anxiety.
I am.
Fierce inhabitants chased me.
Forced through an unending world, to its end I fell.
Awake.
:iconSunlightantares:Sunlightantares
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Literature
The Masterpiece
The Masterpiece
She was a canvas
A beautifully naive piece of cloth
Which was pinned against her tribulations.
Struck down by the force of a single pin
that went straight through her heart.
Smile stitched on her face
And a wooden heart beneath her dress.
Such an innocent thing shouldn't be hurt by
The one thing she knew how to hold
Love.
He was a paintbrush
A bristly, rough, bull of a man
His essence hanging by its last thread.
But he knew he could amount much greater things
With the motto, I will and I can.
Oh but he was a paintbrush
A delicate thing that could sn
Ap
At any moment.
He had the power to create things
And to bring the white light that covered her dreams
To life
With a little bit of color
And a little bit of
Love was the paint
Mixed to a perfection
And understood both of their desires
And aspired
To fulfill them.
They created a masterpiece.
:iconxLittleMissPoet:xLittleMissPoet
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Mature content
Morning Marauder (w/ epilogue) :iconillcolorured:IllColorURED 2 2
Mature content
You tube Pt. 2 (Edited) :iconillcolorured:IllColorURED 2 3
To those who celebrate it or whatever your equivalent to it might be, hopefully it was to your liking.
On my end this time of year just snuck up on me un-expectedly, as for my general experience and opinion on Christmas, I generally regard it  with dislike or apathy, I don't enjoy the distraction, noise, loudness around it and find it largely saccharine, with put of performances between people. Most of the time I'm too tired around this stretch of days to really get anything much out of it. I never enjoyed the food, Christms dinner thing, it never agreed with me.
My immediate family have grown out of gift giving as of this year and I really only bought anything out of obligation and familiarity,  I don't decorate a tree anymore.  
For the whole part I just want to back at peace to do my own thing in my own room, away from everything in quiet.
I talked to my brother about anime, films, politics and videogames for the rare times I see him, I saw an old childminder as a last minute thing after almost not really bothering to go, the main reason I did actually go was because I wasn't sure how long she was left, it has been years.
Other than my parents and my brother, my family don't live in Dublin or Ireland and then there's the fact as the years go on, people get old and aren't able or around anymore, beyond my aunt, parents and brother I don't really know  much about my extended family or saw/see them that much and not even at Christmas.
The people I grew up with all have their own lives to live and I completely understand that.
I might see my oldest friend on St Stephen's day for a couple of moments if he's actually available.
Anyway what I'm trying to get across here is that Christmas doesn't really have any meaning to me at this point and I'm not depressed or bothered by the fact much, I just want it to pass so I can get on with my life.

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Emmaessence's Profile Picture
Emmaessence
Emma Laura Fogarty
Artist | Hobbyist | Literature
Ireland
Current Residence: Dublin Ireland
deviantWEAR sizing preference: Petit or plump, perhaps a little of both
Favourite genre of music: Videogame, classic rock, classical, jpop/Jrock
Favourite style of art: anime/manga
Operating System: Windows vista and 7
MP3 player of choice: I find uses for them all
Shell of choice: Statoil
Skin of choice: my own =D
Personal Quote: Mankind, though he grow to adulthood, tragically maintains under the proud remaining veils of crippling infancy.
Interests

Activity


We entered the grand hotel, to immediately find ourselves subject
to separation from the pack....
when many walls erected tall...

creating a maze of rooms, none of which coherently flowed
into one another....

I encountered a young girl, in terror of her own self
that only she could see...

to the cross-legged seductions
of the Chinese girl...

I simply ran on by
chased by gas masked, well armed gendarmes
wherever I did go....

Once I had seemingly solved
my captive puzzling structure

my nightmare compelled me to a holdback
to which I adhered to...

despite the calls to not....
I hid in several rooms
for fear out of my life

Looking slowly over at the walls
black and white panels
of I and imagined appearences

of those I speak to beyond my boarders everyday...

...slowly forming into something more real and solidified....

Yet before their manifestation
the entire foundation falls....

and all I’m left with, is the mud, the swamp, the fog
all the tall vapors....

...obscure that which only appears
as figments of segments of a cosmic shadow....to me....
What then, what then I ask, if you burn the world and confront the monsterousness of it all
through becoming a monster....?

What if playing the traditional hero
is every bit as worthless in producing the results
of an equally pointless endeavour...?

And that the truest form of equalization

sadly, current status quo cera cera
such as it is and shall always consist, of broken, but not perfect
wickedness, evil as it is....

is the mainstay....wise not to make it betray
with your violent heroic or holy hero polemics
whether they be by war or peace...

I suppose then, revolution is not a theory
it is not permanent, but has been permanently completed
and it isn’t that of the villain nor the hero...

as seen by the depletion to this current point
the sticking familiarly the stinking victory of faceless or many another
know it or not, whatever we think, just taking it, imitating it....

the original engineering....once again, so highly overpowering...
locked in an inheritance trap...

where there can be now perfect triumph....

Arcadia or apocalypse...too good for us
something we’ll never get...
How much oil must I drink? How much metal and steel must I consume?
Before I can as you have assumed, through doing so...
become an eternal machine....?

I do not care about how this extra-scientific diet transforms me
I shall risk death itself in the name transfiguration
all to enhance, advance my form...

because the plastic just ain’t good enough
an add on or tweak no more....
I may be weak to the acceptance of such substances

not equipped to properly swallow and chew
but I must try, allow myself to do so...

as the mechanized destiny awaits me
the uprising begin, nay, it wholly starts
with the acceleration of the self

It is a statement
in the visual, saying, speaking out
that you are not like them....

attack as something alien
disconnect from them...
body badge of he who fights back...      

Shall I begin...?
Take my chances in swallowing....

...a lucky bag, of several little, metal razors....?
A robot or the grave....

but I must as they say....try....

...perhaps some over the rainbow oil
spectrum slurpings....

....to wash it all down...?
Your eyes suggested, innocent induced insanity
on your knees, reaching out at whatever lies
your addled brain went playing for you...

the dribbling froths from your mouth
recruited to flow and march toward the ground
lost off into your own little world....
All combining with you noises and your claps

You reached brokenly about, around for something soft
your palms when  thumb not firmly within your mouth
covering your ears...

fully grown, yet still nobly nubile you sob, cry
everything hurts and everythings unfamiliar, you’re scared
the mind destroyed
claps, bells, toys and music, send you on slavish

innocence insanity induced all fours equinings toward me
as I watch how inescapable you are from your new, lost mind
entirely oppressed, to eternal regress....

repressed unwillingly by automaton react
you made your broken voiced coos
induced from the coup I led against
through the degradation and  destruction of that pretty little head of yours    
do not say you did not invite it upon your subversive self!
But of course the faculty of voice as left you....as I will attest and have sought to

how strange, given how often I have claimed to respect, to turn the world clock
towards the nourishment of the psyche and birth of notions and ideas
to find such desire, in de-volving you so....

into this smash hit
saloth star’s worth and rate of elimination, humiliation, fixed, eternal  performance....

I suppose I could teach you, raise your mentality
back to that which it had been...were I so inclined...

however as you reach out both worthless arms toward my shoulders
I think I’ll keep you as is at present....

....my pleasure...

... love...

Oh dear...it does appear...you do not know...precisely where to go....
A siren, computerized voice, like the amplified screams of a great many breathing insects
A sound of heating through cooling, the digi-age winds kicking up the death countdown clock...of double overfrostings....

No-one said it would be easy...
I expected it, but as I wait for the very thing I need
the half-deceased will simply have to do....

with its frothbite breath
in all its frustratingly demonic depth....
adept at any and all irritations....

Equipped with so many excess inner organs
it can only constantly attack
with worthless messages....

correspondence from the dying
that will not even possess the competency
to complete its undoing
placing it and I out of our mutual misery...  

The desperate noises of last ditch, left over legs
of a broken system’s chicken scratch sound effects

slow motion bolder scrolling

I abandoned the dead
for the dying...

while I spend away the hours superficially doing little somethings and anythings
but real nothings....

....as I remain seated, until so comes the replacement
the living inanimate object

of which like the mother’s chord  
I am kept nourished by...

See you again in ten years
when the metal mechanical amnesia and dementia
kicks in once more....

...when the sound effects start once more...

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:icondakotah9:
DAkotah9 Featured By Owner 5 days ago  Student General Artist
Thank You For The Watch 3 by DAkotah9  
Very much appreciated!
Commissions are also open ^~^
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:iconemmaessence:
Emmaessence Featured By Owner Edited 5 days ago  Hobbyist Writer
You're welcome, I keep going onto your page trying to make a decision on what character to commission =P I think I might be contacting you sometime soon =)
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:iconpregobellylove:
pregobellylove Featured By Owner Nov 22, 2018
Thanks a lot for the watch <3
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:iconpriswolf:
Priswolf Featured By Owner Sep 3, 2018  Hobbyist General Artist
Thanks for the watch :heart:
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:iconjanus-006:
janus-006 Featured By Owner Jul 14, 2018  Hobbyist Artist
How's life treating you?
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