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Waitin And Hurtin

W

Waitin And Hurtin

My fingers hurt. Too much hurtin. Everything bleeds, but sometimes things bleed inward. Your eyes bleed inward. Your tongue bleeds inward. Sometimes you move too little, and the veins get lazy, so they bleed when you use them. Sometimes, the nature of existing hurts, but everyone does it regardless. Everyone keeps going despite the hurtin. And there's no excuse to complain since everyone else does it. I see others pass, and I wait for the bleeding to stop, one way or another. It takes a long time. It takes all the time there is. Maybe it wasn't me doing the bleeding. Maybe time did the bleeding for me. I'd like t

Brass Band

B

Brass Band

Give my song to play the reeds, in your heart we'll find the seeds. Gone to Yorkshire, gone to play, everyone's gone the other way. No one's given this old bird enough to speak another word. Rally in the maze of mud, you dig deep down, you'll find a bud. It grows into a plant of song you play it right, it plays out wrong. The garden drops your pillow peas, and strings your bedroom in the trees. The sky is falling, and it's dead. You stab the sky in shades of red. It cannot spell your mind in ache. It only takes a single flake. The ground has nothing more to say. Send the sky to pale grey. Parting words will soon depart, Hea

Modern Malaise Of The Perfect Man

M

Modern Malaise Of The Perfect Man

There is no want in front of you. There's nothing you could want to do. Your play is work and work is play, there are no limits on your day. No real threat of death alone, There are no sins you can atone. Explore desires when you can, the modern malaise of the perfect man. Society's a perfect strait, and if you bend, you might be late. Your life is free, yet you are dead. The cages come from your own head. You feel the urge inside your brain, the urge to finally go insane. There's no outlet for your plan, the modern malaise of the perfect man. Smash the windows, cry out loud, Your flaccid ego does you proud. No shape, no tho

End of Winter

E

End of Winter

For a moment, the Earth forgets that it is a cruel and desolate place, and on that day, human beings ventured outside again. They viewed the rust coating their tools, their tools that they exposed to the elements. They take stock of their broken machinery. they measure the divots in their sunken pathways, and they smile. They cry to the heavens in joy, these broken trinkets are merely trophies, trophies that prove we have survived another winter. Show me your broken things, and I will fix them in the sunlight. I will fix all of them with my sore, leathery arms, blowing away the sweat from my drenched brow. Now is the time to

Haiku Set 3

H

Haiku Set 3

Oranges are bad for your eyes. You should never use them as eye drops. I have a small bear. He looks like he is praying. Now he prays for me. My fans clog with dust. They make rattling noises. But they're still my fans. I own a safety razor. I use it to cut through orange peels. I am out of room. I need additional shelves for my DVDs. White rabbits look like q-tips, but they don't have the stick in the middle. My thumb is shaky. I suspect it's to do with genetics. Thanks, dad. Every chair I use squeaks when I sit down, but at least they don't collapse. My eyes are itchy. I should turn off both my fans, but I am stupi

The Monster's Breath

T

The Monster's Breath

Bark of monster's poisoned breath, sing a song of dance and death. Conjure eyes and children's cries, Fight between the fruit and flies. Shine a dark into the light, hide the dull in luster's sight. Part the grey in every way, find the statue in the clay. Giant calls across the land, cover ears with force of hand. Fingertips can hush the lips easier than damming drips. Cast the breath on all that breathes, Let them see what really seethes. Stick your pin in heart of sin and find that you have stabbed within.

Program

P

Program

A program from ancient times makes its way by floating from computer to computer. The machinery around it becomes newer and more advanced, but the program remains the same. A program floats from disk to disk, its purpose long since disappeared. Nobody knows what it does, but everyone is afraid of deleting it, so it stays. A program passes through time, unused, unaware, undetected. Its creator long since passed, its contemporary, ignorant. It is wedged between files, dreaming without moving parts. A program finds a quiet death. Huddled in a corner of a strange and unfamiliar machine, it feels pathways lighting up. It fee

Modern Evil

M

Modern Evil

They call themselves a medium, but not from what I see, their medium's unbalanced, so near catastrophe. They hide machinery under fluid grey and noise, It's to distract the children with the newest little toys. They traffick in the human mind, they shuffle you around, and have the nerve to brag their algorithm will astound. To feed their analytics, they'll interpret what you've said, and alter what you see, 'till the gun's against your head. When questioned on their ethics, they'll hide behind a screen, and try to use collective fault as means for keeping clean. They curate all your options and try to call it choice, then tell you

Candy Burns

C

Candy Burns

Candy burns, dincha know? Heated up to 300 degrees Keeps a fine red glow. It’ll melt you like snow, Through a layer of skin at least. Candy burns, dincha hear, Burned a guy’s fingertips, Happened downtown last year, Guy screamed for all to hear, Just took his eyes off a few drips. Candy burns, but you’ll eat it. You’ll suck on it all day, Until it’s gone, then repeat it. Repeat it, feed hunger, you’ll feed it. When all is lost, you’ll stay. Candy burns, dincha know? Dincha see the kids playing outside? It’s the good part of life. You grow, And you watch yourself slow, And igno

A Thought On Love

A

A Thought On Love

There is no greater purpose than realizing worth. Breathe life to every moment, and soak up all its mirth. You cannot give fulfillment without its value known, To give what you are lacking is to give it out on loan. Before you waste your heartache and sacrfice your health, Give love where it's most needed, If need be, love thyself.
See all

Waitin And Hurtin

W

Waitin And Hurtin

My fingers hurt. Too much hurtin. Everything bleeds, but sometimes things bleed inward. Your eyes bleed inward. Your tongue bleeds inward. Sometimes you move too little, and the veins get lazy, so they bleed when you use them. Sometimes, the nature of existing hurts, but everyone does it regardless. Everyone keeps going despite the hurtin. And there's no excuse to complain since everyone else does it. I see others pass, and I wait for the bleeding to stop, one way or another. It takes a long time. It takes all the time there is. Maybe it wasn't me doing the bleeding. Maybe time did the bleeding for me. I'd like t

Brass Band

B

Brass Band

Give my song to play the reeds, in your heart we'll find the seeds. Gone to Yorkshire, gone to play, everyone's gone the other way. No one's given this old bird enough to speak another word. Rally in the maze of mud, you dig deep down, you'll find a bud. It grows into a plant of song you play it right, it plays out wrong. The garden drops your pillow peas, and strings your bedroom in the trees. The sky is falling, and it's dead. You stab the sky in shades of red. It cannot spell your mind in ache. It only takes a single flake. The ground has nothing more to say. Send the sky to pale grey. Parting words will soon depart, Hea

Modern Malaise Of The Perfect Man

M

Modern Malaise Of The Perfect Man

There is no want in front of you. There's nothing you could want to do. Your play is work and work is play, there are no limits on your day. No real threat of death alone, There are no sins you can atone. Explore desires when you can, the modern malaise of the perfect man. Society's a perfect strait, and if you bend, you might be late. Your life is free, yet you are dead. The cages come from your own head. You feel the urge inside your brain, the urge to finally go insane. There's no outlet for your plan, the modern malaise of the perfect man. Smash the windows, cry out loud, Your flaccid ego does you proud. No shape, no tho

End of Winter

E

End of Winter

For a moment, the Earth forgets that it is a cruel and desolate place, and on that day, human beings ventured outside again. They viewed the rust coating their tools, their tools that they exposed to the elements. They take stock of their broken machinery. they measure the divots in their sunken pathways, and they smile. They cry to the heavens in joy, these broken trinkets are merely trophies, trophies that prove we have survived another winter. Show me your broken things, and I will fix them in the sunlight. I will fix all of them with my sore, leathery arms, blowing away the sweat from my drenched brow. Now is the time to

Haiku Set 3

H

Haiku Set 3

Oranges are bad for your eyes. You should never use them as eye drops. I have a small bear. He looks like he is praying. Now he prays for me. My fans clog with dust. They make rattling noises. But they're still my fans. I own a safety razor. I use it to cut through orange peels. I am out of room. I need additional shelves for my DVDs. White rabbits look like q-tips, but they don't have the stick in the middle. My thumb is shaky. I suspect it's to do with genetics. Thanks, dad. Every chair I use squeaks when I sit down, but at least they don't collapse. My eyes are itchy. I should turn off both my fans, but I am stupi

The Monster's Breath

T

The Monster's Breath

Bark of monster's poisoned breath, sing a song of dance and death. Conjure eyes and children's cries, Fight between the fruit and flies. Shine a dark into the light, hide the dull in luster's sight. Part the grey in every way, find the statue in the clay. Giant calls across the land, cover ears with force of hand. Fingertips can hush the lips easier than damming drips. Cast the breath on all that breathes, Let them see what really seethes. Stick your pin in heart of sin and find that you have stabbed within.

Program

P

Program

A program from ancient times makes its way by floating from computer to computer. The machinery around it becomes newer and more advanced, but the program remains the same. A program floats from disk to disk, its purpose long since disappeared. Nobody knows what it does, but everyone is afraid of deleting it, so it stays. A program passes through time, unused, unaware, undetected. Its creator long since passed, its contemporary, ignorant. It is wedged between files, dreaming without moving parts. A program finds a quiet death. Huddled in a corner of a strange and unfamiliar machine, it feels pathways lighting up. It fee

Modern Evil

M

Modern Evil

They call themselves a medium, but not from what I see, their medium's unbalanced, so near catastrophe. They hide machinery under fluid grey and noise, It's to distract the children with the newest little toys. They traffick in the human mind, they shuffle you around, and have the nerve to brag their algorithm will astound. To feed their analytics, they'll interpret what you've said, and alter what you see, 'till the gun's against your head. When questioned on their ethics, they'll hide behind a screen, and try to use collective fault as means for keeping clean. They curate all your options and try to call it choice, then tell you

Candy Burns

C

Candy Burns

Candy burns, dincha know? Heated up to 300 degrees Keeps a fine red glow. It’ll melt you like snow, Through a layer of skin at least. Candy burns, dincha hear, Burned a guy’s fingertips, Happened downtown last year, Guy screamed for all to hear, Just took his eyes off a few drips. Candy burns, but you’ll eat it. You’ll suck on it all day, Until it’s gone, then repeat it. Repeat it, feed hunger, you’ll feed it. When all is lost, you’ll stay. Candy burns, dincha know? Dincha see the kids playing outside? It’s the good part of life. You grow, And you watch yourself slow, And igno

A Thought On Love

A

A Thought On Love

There is no greater purpose than realizing worth. Breathe life to every moment, and soak up all its mirth. You cannot give fulfillment without its value known, To give what you are lacking is to give it out on loan. Before you waste your heartache and sacrfice your health, Give love where it's most needed, If need be, love thyself.

The Wreckage

T

The Wreckage

I’ll question your motives In the interest of the child Still living in the crumbling kingdom   Of my long broken heart I’ll fight for her   And her virtuous wonder Like nobody fought for me I still remember in detail The way the Earth crumbled Beneath my fragile frame   Lost in the disparity and the horror   Unfathomably alone in the thickness of night With demons much grander than I Tiny hands grasping desperately for salvation I crave your attention To feed this child in my chest For all her years of hunger But I can’t let you past these fragile walls   Because all I’ve known is war And when I say R

THE GAUNTLET! (CLOSED - JUDGING IN PROGRESS)

THE GAUNTLET! (CLOSED - JUDGING IN PROGRESS)

Welcome to THE GAUNTLET, the event where you find out how hard you can write before it kills you! The prompts are arranged according to brutality: they get more challenging with each previous one completed.  Last year, we had no fewer than seven people finish all nine prompts without loss of life or limb, which is downright UNACCEPTABLE. Therefore, we’ve decided to once again challenge you all to test your mettle with this series of weaponised prompts, so we can line you all up posthumously and see who is the nastiest, gnarliest, touch-as-nailsest SOB in town. In short, prepare to be smacked around by these heavy-calibre prompts until y

The Promise Made by Rosalind's Grave

T

The Promise Made by Rosalind's Grave

Whilst the tender breeze, autumn leaves aloft Left us to gather where none would be free From above, I heard your voice, soft Like a whisper, 'twas meant to be The promise made by Rosalind's grave A thousand dreams, by a thousand streams, rivers Of time which bind us, as it hears us shrivel In bidding our farewells, to see us wither Grey clouds, benign; neither rain flows nor drops "For thee, my soul, was destined and decreed" Gently, whispers beseech - aloft Their sadness, craving to be freed The promise made by Rosalind's grave Of woes forlorn, from a heart torn, and splintered Blissful reveries, now nightmares, to ponder Of where your sou

Man Among Steel(Warborn Short)

M

Man Among Steel(Warborn Short)

    Donny Sullivan is your average, run of the mill bandit. Raised from birth to be a top-notch scavenger, survivor, and combat enthusiast (Casual murderer), he knew better than any outsider how to survive in the wasteland.      He was dressed in a leathery, heavy jacket colored crimson along with jet black jeans coated in numerous holes. His belt resembled that of a rope, with half of the rope itself nearly torn to pieces. Dirt, grime, and unmentionables covered his clothing and skin. His black hair was messy and fell over mostly the left side.      Donny was doing what bandits do with the majority of their day; scrounging up the leftovers

Silent Night, Holy Night

S

Silent Night, Holy Night

Silent Night, Holy NightThe night of Puabi's (re)birth In the deep stillness  around, When few stars shine from above, And few souls may be found, Then the true meaning of love May be realized in hearts. On such a night as this, When they speak of a holy birth, They mean only a boy1; But what of a girl? For my heart is very sure That then, and now, A holy girl2 was born; Born to be loved. 1. Jesus 2.Puabi

Spotlight

The Human, Escape, Act 1, Page 1,2,3

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I've seen it: It's Coming -- Stay Tuned!
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[Place generic bio anecdote here.]

Favourite Visual Artist
Claude Monet
Favourite Movies
Oh crap, I just zoned out a moment. Can you repeat the question?
Favourite TV Shows
The Office, Arrested Development (I'm just as excited as you)
Favourite Bands / Musical Artists
Steely Dan (You haven't heard of them? Shocking.)
Favourite Books
Timequake, Howl, Life of Pi
Favourite Writers
Kurt Vonnegut, Allen Ginsberg, Hell if I know
Favourite Games
Tic tac toe
Favourite Gaming Platform
a sheet of paper
Tools of the Trade
if only I knew.
Other Interests
if I were interesting, that might be an issue.

Comments 98

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TheEvilOvelordsHobbyist General Artist
Thanks for joining our group! :D
May we be graced by your presence for a long time :meow:

Sakurai Amy
Founder of The Writer Gang
PalmflowerHobbyist General Artist
I can't get into the DA chatroom, can you help me?
I wish I could, I couldn't get onto it either.
PalmflowerHobbyist General Artist
dangPikachu Emote - Snap 
Deviant Chatrooms won't work for me anymore.
Huh. Like, none of them? Did you get an error message?
Thanks for the watch, buddy!