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Deviant for 12 Years
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Mature content
Trough :iconpsychoticidal:psychoticidal 0 0
Literature
Ill-Aimed
I specialize in stealing kisses; 
Carry stars to light your candles 
On your birthday cake for wishes. 
I'd say our glances ,
(back when we met) 
mimed our smiles, 
it's maybe kismet 
that I hold a special place within it
(that locket on your breast's what I meant). 
How could I pretend to forget 
that nuzzling the back of your neck 
goosebumps your skin 
which brings me back to kisses. 
And how each one still misses.
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Literature
Idle
I'm on your heroin, 
going rounds with porcelain pigs
And we're toe-to-toe on twigs 
flying miles from there to here again. 
Tapping root in the vein in vain, 
Expecting merciful words to change
The outcome, 
But how come 
It flows a river of repetition? 
Our well-sung songs are skipping 
And coincide the superstition. 
You find your God in visions, 
But to Hell I ride dead-set on my mission. 
I'm taking every precaution:
Making sure I run the faucet 
On the gentlest of hottest, 
So the bleed is far from modest. 
I'm being honest, 
But the verses seem subliminal, 
I'm suddenly in critical 
Condition and you need to know 
Exactly how I'm doing, 
Leaving letters while you do it, 
blanking out the worry brewing
For the theatre, 
Another opening act well received, 
Or even seen, 
Or even be it heard 
Through the early wine, 
Where the red meets the white in a puddle
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Literature
Heir of A Dying Sun
Father, you've betrayed me. 
I say this, laughing a defeated gasp from my final lungs. 
It is everyone else you have abandoned, 
But it is I, your son, that you have betrayed.
As I carry your perfect burdens, 
Walking away from your crumbling dust and the whispers of your carcass, 
I have left this tell-tale grin disfigurement upon my mask, 
So that every fantasy I hope to find in mirrors, will be viciously sobering.
Moments from the end, each of us waving goodbye amid an oddly warm darkness, 
Preparing for the silence with corona-burned, whited-out eyes.
It's startling how numb I am to the understanding that everyone has forgotten their voice, 
And I would speak to remind them, 
But the thought of having them realize I was standing here all along, 
Boils the fluid in my spine and I shudder preemptively to foretelling cold.
Everyone expects the answers to swarm their minds like locusts when the towers burn, 
Reminiscent of memories
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Literature
Someone (Anyone) Take The Wheel.
How can we collide?
Eyes up above the canopy, we make fiction these shooting stars that scrape bright the night for momentary streaks at a time and somewhere along the way, we lose our footing, and betray ourselves to the hunt. In well-uttered darkness, we listen loud the reaching of the dawn, inching our fingertips out of incandescent night.
How could I derail?
Foreign needles find me a gold mine of anticipation, and I am ransacked; I am harvested raw till the wind rips through and down flutters brittle chaff. Along the dust of that breeze, you can barely see me and I wave away a whisper that will be heard in a faraway place, in search of tears, but without the proper dialect, it loses meaning.
How could you erode?
Buried beneath a thousand eyes that suffocate with breathy whispers, frantic for a flightless bird but battered by the flapping of “hollow wings” till you find your own mirrors agreeing. And it reminds you of how you failed as an artist; warning in your head as
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Mature content
To The Chamber. :iconpsychoticidal:psychoticidal 0 0
Literature
A Tale In 3 Parts - The Ghoul.
Ghoul - The First Awakens.
I woke up today, to find that I had died. Or, I believe, might have died. I cannot be certain. I found myself sitting here, in this chair, rocking slowly. Slowly rocking. I woke up to the sound of creaking, slow-paced rhythm grazing the inside of my head. My stale, and ancient eyelids cracked open with a struggle, blinking once with a dry lick, and I wholly(though without cause for such a notion) desired to stand up from this restful slumber, that I believe robbed me of all my life that I had beheld before this day, even though I have yet to prove I have died.
That is, to say - I woke up today, to find that I FEEL as though I had died. I may in fact be far from that. I rise up with crunching knees, sputterings of dust puffing out with my wheezing breath, that fumbled loose from my crinkly lungs.
In rising - that is, in doing so, I am blasted with a sullen bronze coating, that both batters my senses, and knocks my wilted stilts, testing my balance. It is day;
:iconpsychoticidal:psychoticidal
:iconpsychoticidal:psychoticidal 1 4
Literature
Awaken Undreamer
Direct your attention to the screen please, the hands do their best to guide you here, but your persistence in denying us is making things difficult - assistance is required, so we bring out the pliers and teach you many truths about insubordination. 
Every finger you clench down upon the clawed-out, wooden arms of this chair, peels back its own nail in panic, but is as futile as the efforts the muscles of your eyelids employ to shut tight your eyes - witness what we'll have of you, it's for your own good. 
Bite down upon this cable, and feel the energy of our intention course through you like a vine wiring up your spine and throughout your brain; our signal pulses deep and you have to admit, it's quite catchy, but for now - that's the least of your worries. 
Identify for us now, the meaning in this image, but pause for a moment too long and you'll flutter mad from the flickering slideshow of this cognitive obscenity...I believe we have your complete commitment at this p
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Mature content
This Disease. :iconpsychoticidal:psychoticidal 0 0
Literature
For The Trembling of Blossoms?
Amidst a prime confusion, every part of me awakens in this kaleidoscopic wonderland. 
   At the cost of clarity, I question myself:
I am the Collision - The deadly that walks the colors, bubbling along my flesh in streamline escape, liquid to the touch and savory in the poison. 
    Or perhaps 
I am the Evident - fresh and raw in blood as the fingerprint that grinds against stones and walkways, learning to feel with every discovery. 
   I believe 
I am the Perception - Upright I crawl against the weathering, daring myself to chameleon old identities in an effortless ploy to deceive my every predator, or should I taste the illusion?
    Yes, 
I am the Adrenaline - flexing the muscle of my indignation, relaxing apathy and destroying the supple sinew of my relief.
    In a memory: 
I am the Harmony - vegetative in my motivations, ample in my breath along the seductive fruit they would find
:iconpsychoticidal:psychoticidal
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Mature content
Do You Miss Me? :iconpsychoticidal:psychoticidal 0 0
Mature content
The Endless River :iconpsychoticidal:psychoticidal 0 0
Literature
A Sense of Dread
"N-Nooo..." Lysanna collapsed, weakened and defeated. Her sister had found her; she knew  what she planned. Her large, watering eyes scanned wildly for a solution. With reserved strength she stood, grabbing several bundles of tattered clothing as she hurried to the shower. She ran the water cold, donning the ragged garments as she soaked herself completely. She wasn't sure yet how exactly, but she knew she had to intervene if she hoped to survive.
---
"Aqui-what?" Paul questioned groggily as they carried him from the van to what appeared to be a long-since abandoned house in the middle of nowhere.
"Aquilarens!" Maya said harshly, before retrieving her composure. "Look: it doesn't matter. What matters is that we remove it as quickly as possible."
Maya, now clad in what seemed a cumbersome cloak, turned to the driver, "I sensed her making a connection in the van. She knows we have it. We have to hurry."
A sense of dread washed over Paul, "She who?! What is this thing?! I still don't
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Literature
Dissolve
"NOOO!" shrieked Lysanna, rippling the tattered furniture with echoes of her psychic energy. Elsewhere just then, the spawnling stirred to life once more and Lysanna saw through the flittering vision the effects of the foul injections start to wane. As panic filled the van, a devious smirk etched her face, but she knew time was critical. She made her way to the half-filled bathtub, still fuming at her sisters treachery, and ran the cold water as she climbed in, and unplugged the drain. As the water ran down, she dissolved into a liquid state herself, determined to intervene.
---
"Aqui-what?" Paul's head still swirled as he was being carried from the van. He couldn't tell where they were or how long they'd been travelling but save for the dilapidated house they were heading into, the area looked lifeless.
"Aquilarens. We're from very far, very deep down below the water. Look it doesn't matter, what matters is getting THAT out of you and fast. Judging by that little episode back in the v
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Mature content
Nightmare :iconpsychoticidal:psychoticidal 1 0
Literature
Fateful Milk
Thirteen years ago, Paul came to London and embarked upon a journey.
Back when Paul was seventeen, he had set out to escape the crutch of his inhibitions. In fact, it was during his first outing to London that he broke away from those reserved voices. Were it not for the coercion of those he met in the hostel to tag along, he might've never loosened up.
Those friendships that followed him through his travels across the rest of Europe would never have existed. The e-mails, the globetrotting, the love of his life, the REAL love of his life, all would belong to someone else; some other "Paul" that took his place that night. To think, that singular event of which all these others spilled out from like fateful milk could have been so different had he been afraid to let go of the glass.
Certainly he wouldn't find himself back here in London for this reunion that had been put off time after time. Reluctant as he had been reading the e-mail, he couldn't deny the longing nor hide the eag
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So I have something in my eye. Nothing is there, I know, but it feels like there's something there. So what do I do? How do I solve this problem? Easy. I employ the same solution I've used in nearly every predicament, both life-threatening and harmless: I ignore it.

It's been a long time since I've written anything on here, but I have written. I'm just lazy. I'm too scattered to focus on what to do. I talk to myself a lot and I rather enjoy the lack of response that I give. Sometimes I feel like I used to be my own best friend but I've grown tired of my company. Not that I have, nor that I will, but it just feels that way. So how does one respond to that? I can't exactly have a talk with myself about the state of our friendship, now can I?

This is really going nowhere. I haven't slept in hours, maybe a day, I don't keep track, and I just simply like writing out the words I would say if hearing my own voice from within my head didn't feel so disembodying. So what do I say? I'm not sure.

I tend to say this a lot:

"I have nothing to say, which is a shame, because I have so much to say."

It's almost a tattoo on my tongue that grows from the root in my brain like the parasite that the words tend to be.

Words are parasites. They can be at least. More often than not. Eating away at you, feeding off what little you have to share/give/treasure. Most parasites are greedy (that's a fact, right? If not, just go with it) and refuse to share the delicious brain they have all to themselves, but not words. Words will spawn more and more words in your brain, and they'll all feed and over-engorge themselves on the delicious thoughts you have until your mind goes black, hollowed out and rotted, and the only things you can think of are those words.

So what do you do?

Well the only cure I've found is to write. Or scream. Or shove those words into your heart blender and pour out from your mouth a savory slur of curse words that spatter the slack-jawed maws of any hapless passer-byer that happens to pass by haplessly. Should you take that route, a chilly, frothy foam washes over you and you'll feel soapy-fresh rejuvenated. Like you just cured yourself. But you didn't. You can't.

You ever pull a hair strand out of your skin and some time later it comes back (I have a hair on my arm that stands out from the rest, and I always see it and it drives me insane because I can feel it from time to time and I have to tweeze it out and sometimes I don't have tweezers so I basically just go insane forever and die from it. Which sucks because when you are dead, your hair keeps growing) - even if you rip out the skin with it, it'll come back. Well sometimes it doesn't, but that's besides the point.

You can rip out plants and trees from the root. I haven't done this lately, nor did I pay attention the last time I did it to be able to say with certainty that what I'm about to say is true but it feels true so I'll assume it is. If it's not, then everything up until now in my life has been a lie:

Rip it out at the root, with the root, all the root, and it's gone for good.

That's what you have to do to those words. You have to rip them all out, all of them. At the root. Right from the core of your mind. Split your skull open, dig your fingers into the plush-plum-pink (grey I know) and pull til it splits open with a juicy, well-thought-out spray, and reach into the slosh and grab/grip/wrench out those words.

Now you are free. Free to think again. But not exactly free. Nope, you are not done. Those words are parasites. So what do you do?

The only sensible thing is to kill them. They have to die or else they'll slither away once you let them go and writhe up the legs of another careless, thoughtful fool, slithering up their body to gouge them in the eyes and start infesting their brains like they once did yours. And you can't let that happen. Because those are your words damnit! You can't let other people get eaten up by your words.

No. You have to be responsible. Killing is responsible. You have to kill these words.

Words are resilient. They are borderline immortal. Through the ages, the definitive survivor of every passing century has been words. Society is lousy with the plague of them. We don't even realize how riddled we are. Infectious things. STDs. Spokenly Transmitted Diseases. They will not only survive, but through their genetic makeup, they manage to thrive. Every word spoken is a seed. It is a seed that plants in the ear. Every word spoken is a parasite. It is a parasite latching onto the mind. Once it(both) is well-buried in that husk of a head of yours, it grows. Flourishes. Thrives.

We can't let that happen. We have to kill them. So how do you do it?

It has been scientifically proven that the silver bullet of werewords (if you don't like that, burn in hell because that is as witty as I can get on this little sleep) is paper. Words cannot stand paper. Words and rocks apparently but that's going off-topic.

When words see paper, they start to freak, they panic and hide. You call it writer's block. They call it SURVIVAL. Still, you have to do it. It is the only way you can be free. Think of them like vampires, and your pen is the stake and each time you press the point down to the paper, you pierce the heart of the words, nailing them to the page, and drawing their shape in their own blood.

Think of a keyboard as a machine gun that basically does the same thing (I started to type the sound of a machine gun, but then I realized I have no idea what it sounds like, and writing *machine gun sounds* was just tacky, so I'll let you imagine what the sounds would be or do like I didn't, and search engine*** it).

There you have it. Dead, bloody words on the page/screen, nailed down, twitching slightly, echoes of their death screams still pulsing in your ears, tickling the hairs and finally the civilization of thoughts that once populated your mind, begins to make it their home once again. The villagers rejoice the passing of the plague.

Unfortunately those words were part of your mind, and having taken this long to die, became a significant part of it. You must understand that every death is a murder, on your hands, and you will never be the same again. You will be...different. For better or worse, you are different. The silence that follows is savored the same though.

It must be said though that words stapled onto pages are no different than how they were when they were alive and feeding on your mind, save for now being dead and starting to rot. They take on the traits of the dead.

Rotting, bulging and wreaking of expiration. As time goes on, the symptoms of death, numerous as they are, grow to overpowering amplifications. The smell rides the air and drifts into the farthest corners. When words die, they are little more than zombies, still as infectious as ever. The aroma unique, eventually they will be discovered by the curious. And a new, evolved infection occurs, sparking reactions and responses, and emotions and foremost: thoughts.

The proverbial blood in the water. Eventually the words will come to feed upon these, within the new host, and the cycle inevitably continues. Having cured yourself, you have inadvertently infected another, perhaps several. In time, you will be reinfected as well. I guess there really is no definitive cure. Only moments of relief.

Odds are after reading this, you've come to realize that I've infected you. I'm sorry. But I had to kill a part of my mind by writing this, as I'm eager to revel in the silence.

I wish you luck killing yours.

***I didn't want to say google because that's too expected. I'm so nonconformist I have started to conform willingly.
  • Listening to: Depotax - Elastik
  • Reading: A Song of Fire and Ice.
  • Watching: Lovely Molly. WTF is going on, seriously?!
  • Playing: Warframes. Play with me.
  • Eating: Scrambled Eggs maybe...maybe soon...
  • Drinking: Chocolate Milk because yay adulthood!

deviantID

psychoticidal
Sev
Artist | Hobbyist | Literature
United States
I'm a comedian. I'm a superhero. I'm a violent person. I've got scars everywhere. I like dogs. I own a cat. I have a sharp pain in my side. I like to act. I love writing. I hate having hair. I hate cutting my hair short cause I miss my long hair. I like Norse mythology. I am laid-back. I am easily distracted. I watch movies all the time. I like to play games. Not when it comes to women. I get frustrated by myself. I make-up words quite often. I write too much, except when I don't write enough. I sometimes go nowhere. I am always looking for something new. I'm frantic. I'm psychoticidal. I'm a work horse. I'm a clown boy. I'm Sev. The End.

Current Residence: Fort Worth, Texas
Favourite genre of music: Metal, in Most Forms.
Favourite photographer: <3
Favourite style of art: >_<
Operating System: Windows
MP3 player of choice: Foobar 2000
Favourite cartoon character: Not sure. So many role models.
Personal Quote: I'm just a simple holographic image built by you to make this world seem so much more believable.
Interests

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:iconcskadoz:
cskadoz Featured By Owner Feb 7, 2013   General Artist
sev, great to meet you, bro! :highfive: t'anks for watch, yeah? 'preciate -- hope you enjoy. like your work, need more!
Reply
:iconpsychoticidal:
psychoticidal Featured By Owner Feb 7, 2013  Hobbyist Writer
Good stuff bud, my pleasure, enjoy your work as well.
Reply
:iconcskadoz:
cskadoz Featured By Owner Feb 8, 2013   General Artist
:highfive: :manhug:
Reply
:iconvaoni:
vaoni Featured By Owner Feb 7, 2013
Thank you for the fav :)
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:iconpsychoticidal:
psychoticidal Featured By Owner Feb 7, 2013  Hobbyist Writer
My pleasure.
Reply
:iconmesozord:
Mesozord Featured By Owner Feb 6, 2013   Digital Artist
=) Thank you so much for the fave.
And if you have the chance, here's my facebook page with a lot of new stuff yet unposted here and WIPs too.
Facebook: [link]
Maybe take a look at it (and why not, leave a like =P)
I will gladly appreciate it!
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:iconpsychoticidal:
psychoticidal Featured By Owner Feb 7, 2013  Hobbyist Writer
Done and done.
Reply
:iconcharlescombs8526:
CharlesCombs8526 Featured By Owner Feb 6, 2013  Professional General Artist
Thank You For The Favorite
Reply
:iconpsychoticidal:
psychoticidal Featured By Owner Feb 7, 2013  Hobbyist Writer
You're welcome!
Reply
:iconsrtapies:
SrtaPies Featured By Owner Jan 31, 2013  Hobbyist Photographer
Muchas gracias por el W =)=)
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