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The Drowning Game

T

The Drowning Game

Is this where we drown, on the shores of our fleeting desires our contemptuous agonies our misguided truths that sputter and die retching on the sidelines without ever having played the game? Is this fleeting life worth a thousand thousands of days unmatched, each less and less worthy of the thousand before it, each sunset blending with sunrise on a canvas made by callused hands, hands that shaped mountains til they bled rivers and birthed monsters? The only way out is up and up and up. And each day we grow further from the means by which we fly.

Enough

E

Enough

This wasted heart is only strong so long as waves are counting time the swift in out in out and gone the staple of my healing mind A ruthless grievous heinous sin this self-inflicted give and take but oh so sweet a burn as this is worth each sting, each singing ache Like happy dreams that dance on edge and leave in mind a barrenness a slow decay of lasting will ability to reassess That nothing that you feel is real or things get better as you go You must resign yourself to fate all life and limb must undergo The stars see farther than we may so blinded by our woeful ire but we've seen ample agony and know it, now, this fail

Willow and Zephyr

W

Willow and Zephyr

Gentle Willow that I am does not compare to supple Summer's breeze, that unquiet Zephyr that chills the very core of me and raises every warmth to the surface of too, too longing flesh. Each bone and sinew woven like armor, draping shuddering verdure clinging like madness to the broken framework of frozen limbs, cracked and weakened, but these roots grow deep without sweet Zephyr's touch, the final barrier against such an onslaught as this – this berating of the senses, all soft lines and yielding forms, ever changing like swiftly-passing seasons tumbling one over another without the careful guidance of Nature'

Convergence

C

Convergence

There is a warmth in wanting this beauty of a mithridate, this endearing nostrum that fills the head with nonsense and the heart with honey, sickly sweet and rarely bitter, agonizingly pleasant in its infrequent quietude. The having renders humanity, imperfect forms living perfectly without the knowledge of mortality or the creep of the crepuscular under midday's sun or the bite of winter mist at the fringes of the eyes. All innocence, all hope, all knowing like there is nothing known but this. And here, in softness and in idleness, we lay our heads, our hands, our hearts bear for the night in the comfort of a world o

Willpower

W

Willpower

There is a kind of menace in the daylymonthlyyearly revolutions of a numbing tumbling space. The dim and shaded Moon can only see as far as its spectacles will allow. While Lady Sun basks in the glow of her own star stuff, shining to her billion billion sisters, accompanied and entertained by the endless dance of her infant planets, Moon — stony and sleek in its spot of sky, all shady lines and callous curves with a face ribbed with the wrinkles of a hundred thousand weary craters – has only pretty Earth. Ever facing, ever twirling, set on a path upon which childish Earth has come to rely. She does not see a happ

Suiting Scars

S

Suiting Scars

This loving mars these suiting scars that build a bridge of memory over ever-weaving skin. Interrupt the construct of ugly over ventricles, of agony in arteries. The blood is water underneath. It seethes and churns like boiled oil in the lungs, painting course cambric in the eyes, a veil of dampened requiem. No. I won't go back to it. That sullen reply, that feeble grounding, that sleeping lie, that misty reverie that calls awake the nervous system. That system which is nervous.
See all

The Drowning Game

T

The Drowning Game

Is this where we drown, on the shores of our fleeting desires our contemptuous agonies our misguided truths that sputter and die retching on the sidelines without ever having played the game? Is this fleeting life worth a thousand thousands of days unmatched, each less and less worthy of the thousand before it, each sunset blending with sunrise on a canvas made by callused hands, hands that shaped mountains til they bled rivers and birthed monsters? The only way out is up and up and up. And each day we grow further from the means by which we fly.

Enough

E

Enough

This wasted heart is only strong so long as waves are counting time the swift in out in out and gone the staple of my healing mind A ruthless grievous heinous sin this self-inflicted give and take but oh so sweet a burn as this is worth each sting, each singing ache Like happy dreams that dance on edge and leave in mind a barrenness a slow decay of lasting will ability to reassess That nothing that you feel is real or things get better as you go You must resign yourself to fate all life and limb must undergo The stars see farther than we may so blinded by our woeful ire but we've seen ample agony and know it, now, this fail

Convergence

C

Convergence

There is a warmth in wanting this beauty of a mithridate, this endearing nostrum that fills the head with nonsense and the heart with honey, sickly sweet and rarely bitter, agonizingly pleasant in its infrequent quietude. The having renders humanity, imperfect forms living perfectly without the knowledge of mortality or the creep of the crepuscular under midday's sun or the bite of winter mist at the fringes of the eyes. All innocence, all hope, all knowing like there is nothing known but this. And here, in softness and in idleness, we lay our heads, our hands, our hearts bear for the night in the comfort of a world o

Willpower

W

Willpower

There is a kind of menace in the daylymonthlyyearly revolutions of a numbing tumbling space. The dim and shaded Moon can only see as far as its spectacles will allow. While Lady Sun basks in the glow of her own star stuff, shining to her billion billion sisters, accompanied and entertained by the endless dance of her infant planets, Moon — stony and sleek in its spot of sky, all shady lines and callous curves with a face ribbed with the wrinkles of a hundred thousand weary craters – has only pretty Earth. Ever facing, ever twirling, set on a path upon which childish Earth has come to rely. She does not see a happ

Suiting Scars

S

Suiting Scars

This loving mars these suiting scars that build a bridge of memory over ever-weaving skin. Interrupt the construct of ugly over ventricles, of agony in arteries. The blood is water underneath. It seethes and churns like boiled oil in the lungs, painting course cambric in the eyes, a veil of dampened requiem. No. I won't go back to it. That sullen reply, that feeble grounding, that sleeping lie, that misty reverie that calls awake the nervous system. That system which is nervous.

Spotlight

Hard Day's Work 1

2Comments
Artist
Badges
Llama: Llamas are awesome! (6)
My Bio
Current Residence: California
Favourite genre of music: everything but hip hop
Favourite cartoon character: Arnold
Personal Quote: "I shall not waste my days trying to prolong them. I shall use my time."

Favourite Movies
Waking Life, Minority Report, Pulp Fiction, lots
Favourite Writers
Robert Frost and Isaac Asimov
Favourite Games
God of War, Gears of War, Mario games, Banjo Kazooie :P
Favourite Gaming Platform
old school
Other Interests
Noveling, poetry, written roleplaying, sketching

Hmm...a tag?

Hmm...a tag?

Evidently I've been tagged for a random thingiemajig. Well, since I haven't written a journal in a very long while, here it goes :D Tagged by ~SPPlushies (https://www.deviantart.com/spplushies) Rules: 1. Post the rules 2. Each tagged person must tell 8 things about themselves 3. At the end you have to tag 3 people and post their icons in your journal 4. Then go back to their page and leave a comment saying you tagged them 5. No tag-backs o1. I'm a lesbian!! XD o2. I'm addicted to sci-fi, especially where it involves robots o4. Star Trek TOS has saved my life in so many ways o5. Coincidentally, I'm also addicted to yaoi :o *is a walking paradox* o6. I aspire t

Poetry Appreciation Campaign

Poetry Appreciation Campaign

So i've realized the lack of appreciation of poetry lately, not just here (though it did bring this atrocity to my attention) but in life in general. People analyze poetry, look at the poets' pasts, pick it apart until nothing is left, but few people actually sit and read poetry for the sole unadulterated purpose of reading it. Is it because people rely so much on eyesight (or, rather, eyecandy) that the words and tender quiet phrases are lost in the sea of color and photoshopped blemish-coverings that people list as art? Is it because people simply don't have the time to contemplate a deeper mening than a piece of fanart that took less thoug

Comments 35

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Meeeeeeeeeeeeeshil, I made a new one. :D
I'm watching you... WATCHING YOU!!!.....

0.0.... >.> <.< >.> .... Still watching.
Yeah well. Creep. :hug:
uber-nerdStudent Traditional Artist
nice stuff!
Thank you! I love your drawings :D
uber-nerdStudent Traditional Artist
Thank you!!! :D
HighOnPockyHobbyist Traditional Artist
your stuff is really grate. ^^ For some reason you look fimilar(sp)