Imagine of Photografer by mprasodjo on DeviantArt

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Suggested Deviants

PrRailgun

Literature

To Remember

We carry a lot on our shoulders lugging around the past as we go. There are lingering echos heard far off in the shroud of time that so hurt. Is it easy to romanticize days of gentle peace, yet would not do. Ghosts are not real to you or I, but the past is a truth that is rude. We are human in the end. Forget if you please, but I will remember. All is destined for finality to wilt away on vines once alive.

Literature

Testament to a Past March

3.3.21 Water flow on, down a small stream to catch on a glimmer of cool light. Early morning, when the air is fresh, a breeze sweeps off the high lands above. This place is blessed to calm the mind. Each step closer to some unknown day, one better and without strife from reckless times. 3.4.21 Every now and again, under the shroud of night at some odd hour a single tear runs down my cheek. Without a thought, when the silence presses in it occurs unknown. Shallow breaths come soon, I wonder and spin, for why does a single morning tear appear at this time? 3.16.21 What am I? Just the twisted folds of some knotted chords that may be a soul? If I am to be gone, if I am to be lost before the end. Will I have been at all? At this moment, I sit and watch as dusk touches the sky. Only written words no more. Who am I?

Literature

Beyond the Fallen

Morning dove, oh, fly into spring with love must my mind trick me so, to never know? What is that thing we care not say nor dare never dream to be alone? Only bones of death fallen away do not see day break on heaven's mighty flame. All to take, yet never to give. Truly! Selfish blade stained with sorrow, a land burnt and fallow. Sadness for a peace now shallow, gone off on wings that sing forever, hope that brings tomorrow. Please, do visit when the dawn awakes again, and feathers bend back for home once more. Yes, that is my heart's lore, to watch with dreaming eyes as sorry lies burn and form. For what course will let me learn and grow into that destined want? So, show me more! Both dark and light, frightful and good, life and death! Oh, carry me, dove of love! Never could I see it all as I fall, yet I know I will try to fly alone.

RevankistProductions

Literature

Instead of Answers, Look for Questions

Life is neither fair nor unfair. It’s not the kind of thing “fairness” applies to. That would imply something, someone, anything were in charge, That there’s some kind of system or order to it all. No. Life simply is. Sometimes the good die young. Sometimes evil prevails. And sometimes, maybe most times, things happen without a reason. They simply are. We create meaning from suffering to give voice to our pain. There isn’t a thing of more terror than voiceless agony. So we believe in things like fate or destiny or God or karma To comfort ourselves like blankets and baubles to children. In the end, the anguish of a billion souls screams like Whispers in the infinite silence of the void. In the end, the torment of a billion lives shrieks like Shallow breaths in God’s ears. No one is listening. No one is out there. It’s just us. Whether you waste away in apathy, Or you shine on with all time’s glory, You cease just the same. All that you are, All that you’ve done, One day, Shall be no

Literature

Anxiety

It’s an eternal eye of the storm, with winds made out of doubt, An immortal hurricane, stalking, with absolutely no way out. The gales rip and tear, jaws of fear rending you from what you know. Endless voices born from the darkness of your soul start to grow ‘Til all that’s left is the cacophony of a thousand whispers, Killing you faster than the roar of a whirling twister. The mind is not left space or time to settle or center, Instead it’s the Devil’s echoes that enter. It can make you forget all the love you have known, And all of the joys you have ever grown, And replace it with the story of how you’re the villain And that the chance of winning is but one in a million. Life is no longer a journey or even the destination, It’s just a tick-ticking clock with no cessation, A magnifying glass with only fixation. That is what it is to live with anxiety. Not by following the what is, but by following the what ifs.

Literature

Grief

It’s knowing that you are all that remains. A desolate mindfulness, A derelict knowingness, A despondent persistence. It’s lying in the agony of the night and thinking: “I had everything.” Torment only you can understand. Languages you can’t speak with anyone else. Colors you can’t see with anyone else. It is the anguish of sublimation, the awareness That you must live in everything you’ve lost And what you’ve lost is everything. That is what it is to live in grief. It is the crater from your joy’s demise.

Witherway

Literature

Echo

Howls in the hollow, Ripple through the halls, Simulations of sounds, Bounce off the walls, It borrows a voice, To say what was said, Recycles a loop, Of thoughts in my head, Imagination imitations, Shadows silhouette for show, In the dim and dark down here, Where sunlight doesn’t go, A caves communication, Is based solely off our speech, So listening ain’t learning, while talking doesn’t teach, A caverns kind of company, Is not one guest around, But bats dwell the deep depths, Half buried underground, Actors and imposters, Reflect a mirror of yourself, Be it an honor or a horror… it came first from my mouth.

Literature

Bad Habits

I have some bad habits, In my frowned upon routine, If I’m bound to fall, well... I might as well just lean. I am rebellious and I’m reckless, Own a distracted absent mind, Have no perfect imperfections, Inside of me to find. I am stubborn and a pushover, I’m all the flaws you’re not, Fail to learn from my mistakes, and dear... I make a lot. I am paranoid and a pessimist, Who gives up before I try, In all honestly I am dishonest, The truth is that I lie. I am the trouble and a problem, The fault is all of mine, They say accidents happen, only... Mine are all the time, I’m not a lot for being worth it, Though I promise I’ll try to be, You always tell me that I’m enough, but... You deserve much more than me.

Literature

Dear Past Me

I live in your future, your home is my history, I'm who you are later, you're who I used to be, there are more mistakes to make, you will regret to do, and memories to be made, you should look forward to, obstacles once towered above, became a view down below, up here I found some answers, to questions you don't know, you'll be behind following, ill be ahead guiding the way, speaking all the words, you are yet to say, I look at you with empathy, trust me I understand, thank you for tripping, so I could come to stand, the wounds will wash away, scars once thought to stain, and I am oh so proud of you, for how far I came.

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PrRailgun

Literature

To Remember

We carry a lot on our shoulders lugging around the past as we go. There are lingering echos heard far off in the shroud of time that so hurt. Is it easy to romanticize days of gentle peace, yet would not do. Ghosts are not real to you or I, but the past is a truth that is rude. We are human in the end. Forget if you please, but I will remember. All is destined for finality to wilt away on vines once alive.

Literature

Testament to a Past March

3.3.21 Water flow on, down a small stream to catch on a glimmer of cool light. Early morning, when the air is fresh, a breeze sweeps off the high lands above. This place is blessed to calm the mind. Each step closer to some unknown day, one better and without strife from reckless times. 3.4.21 Every now and again, under the shroud of night at some odd hour a single tear runs down my cheek. Without a thought, when the silence presses in it occurs unknown. Shallow breaths come soon, I wonder and spin, for why does a single morning tear appear at this time? 3.16.21 What am I? Just the twisted folds of some knotted chords that may be a soul? If I am to be gone, if I am to be lost before the end. Will I have been at all? At this moment, I sit and watch as dusk touches the sky. Only written words no more. Who am I?

Literature

Beyond the Fallen

Morning dove, oh, fly into spring with love must my mind trick me so, to never know? What is that thing we care not say nor dare never dream to be alone? Only bones of death fallen away do not see day break on heaven's mighty flame. All to take, yet never to give. Truly! Selfish blade stained with sorrow, a land burnt and fallow. Sadness for a peace now shallow, gone off on wings that sing forever, hope that brings tomorrow. Please, do visit when the dawn awakes again, and feathers bend back for home once more. Yes, that is my heart's lore, to watch with dreaming eyes as sorry lies burn and form. For what course will let me learn and grow into that destined want? So, show me more! Both dark and light, frightful and good, life and death! Oh, carry me, dove of love! Never could I see it all as I fall, yet I know I will try to fly alone.

RevankistProductions

Literature

Instead of Answers, Look for Questions

Life is neither fair nor unfair. It’s not the kind of thing “fairness” applies to. That would imply something, someone, anything were in charge, That there’s some kind of system or order to it all. No. Life simply is. Sometimes the good die young. Sometimes evil prevails. And sometimes, maybe most times, things happen without a reason. They simply are. We create meaning from suffering to give voice to our pain. There isn’t a thing of more terror than voiceless agony. So we believe in things like fate or destiny or God or karma To comfort ourselves like blankets and baubles to children. In the end, the anguish of a billion souls screams like Whispers in the infinite silence of the void. In the end, the torment of a billion lives shrieks like Shallow breaths in God’s ears. No one is listening. No one is out there. It’s just us. Whether you waste away in apathy, Or you shine on with all time’s glory, You cease just the same. All that you are, All that you’ve done, One day, Shall be no

Literature

Anxiety

It’s an eternal eye of the storm, with winds made out of doubt, An immortal hurricane, stalking, with absolutely no way out. The gales rip and tear, jaws of fear rending you from what you know. Endless voices born from the darkness of your soul start to grow ‘Til all that’s left is the cacophony of a thousand whispers, Killing you faster than the roar of a whirling twister. The mind is not left space or time to settle or center, Instead it’s the Devil’s echoes that enter. It can make you forget all the love you have known, And all of the joys you have ever grown, And replace it with the story of how you’re the villain And that the chance of winning is but one in a million. Life is no longer a journey or even the destination, It’s just a tick-ticking clock with no cessation, A magnifying glass with only fixation. That is what it is to live with anxiety. Not by following the what is, but by following the what ifs.

Literature

Grief

It’s knowing that you are all that remains. A desolate mindfulness, A derelict knowingness, A despondent persistence. It’s lying in the agony of the night and thinking: “I had everything.” Torment only you can understand. Languages you can’t speak with anyone else. Colors you can’t see with anyone else. It is the anguish of sublimation, the awareness That you must live in everything you’ve lost And what you’ve lost is everything. That is what it is to live in grief. It is the crater from your joy’s demise.

Witherway

Literature

Echo

Howls in the hollow, Ripple through the halls, Simulations of sounds, Bounce off the walls, It borrows a voice, To say what was said, Recycles a loop, Of thoughts in my head, Imagination imitations, Shadows silhouette for show, In the dim and dark down here, Where sunlight doesn’t go, A caves communication, Is based solely off our speech, So listening ain’t learning, while talking doesn’t teach, A caverns kind of company, Is not one guest around, But bats dwell the deep depths, Half buried underground, Actors and imposters, Reflect a mirror of yourself, Be it an honor or a horror… it came first from my mouth.

Literature

Bad Habits

I have some bad habits, In my frowned upon routine, If I’m bound to fall, well... I might as well just lean. I am rebellious and I’m reckless, Own a distracted absent mind, Have no perfect imperfections, Inside of me to find. I am stubborn and a pushover, I’m all the flaws you’re not, Fail to learn from my mistakes, and dear... I make a lot. I am paranoid and a pessimist, Who gives up before I try, In all honestly I am dishonest, The truth is that I lie. I am the trouble and a problem, The fault is all of mine, They say accidents happen, only... Mine are all the time, I’m not a lot for being worth it, Though I promise I’ll try to be, You always tell me that I’m enough, but... You deserve much more than me.

Literature

Dear Past Me

I live in your future, your home is my history, I'm who you are later, you're who I used to be, there are more mistakes to make, you will regret to do, and memories to be made, you should look forward to, obstacles once towered above, became a view down below, up here I found some answers, to questions you don't know, you'll be behind following, ill be ahead guiding the way, speaking all the words, you are yet to say, I look at you with empathy, trust me I understand, thank you for tripping, so I could come to stand, the wounds will wash away, scars once thought to stain, and I am oh so proud of you, for how far I came.

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Deviation Actions

To Remember

Testament to a Past March

Beyond the Fallen

Instead of Answers, Look for Questions

Anxiety

Grief

Echo

Bad Habits

Dear Past Me

To Remember

Testament to a Past March

Beyond the Fallen

Instead of Answers, Look for Questions

Anxiety

Grief

Echo

Bad Habits

Dear Past Me

Imagine of Photografer

Description

To Remember

Testament to a Past March

Beyond the Fallen

Instead of Answers, Look for Questions

Anxiety

Grief

Echo

Bad Habits

Dear Past Me