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Literature
A story (?)
The tale continued, the king, mad as a cat with a Cheshire grin (at least he swore he was). 
He sat in his home, flowers blooming in a canopy over his bent frame. He hunched over a huge canvas, covered in patches of color and splashes of sound.
He couldn't do much anymore, broken as he was, but he did enjoy painting still. The thick oil stained his white tunic in splatters across his chest, reminding him of thing that didn't exist anymore, and the thin sound of music from a tiny homemade box tinkled through the air like the downy feathers of a bird blowing through the wind. He didn't have much, but he was happy with his sound and his color. He took a break, stretching his arms up towards the ceiling. 
The lilacs that hung down were some of his favorites. Seriously, how, and why, the queen had done this for him, he had no idea. He had perfection of happiness in his life, small enough to fit in his pocket, yet big enough to hold his soul. Incredible. He touched the gentle purpl
:iconStarEagles:StarEagles
:iconstareagles:StarEagles 0 0
Literature
Somethings(thoughts about my life since I woke up)
Did you know that I can't remember over half of my life?
Yeah.
I've got about two years of it if you put all of my colorful memories together, all the rest are just monochrome flashes. 
Like important stuff, things I know that I should remember, Aunt Kathy's laughter, the smiles of friends. 
They're just gone.
For some reason I've been treated strangely, something went wrong.
When I was about nine I stopped going outside as often. I would just kinda find some place to sit inside somewhere and stay there for as long as I could without hearing anything, then when mom or somebody knocked on the door, or called for me from the kitchen I would get up and move. I would sit still, mind roaring for hours on end. 
Sometimes I still do it, and I know it's a problem. I'll stand in front of the bathroom mirror for an hour without even realizing it, sometimes really thinking about things, sometimes not.
I used to have times at night where I'd be thinking and suddenly all my thoughts
:iconStarEagles:StarEagles
:iconstareagles:StarEagles 0 0
Literature
The
You want me to be a sociopath don't you?
You want me to be one just so that you can blame that condition for how I wronged you?
I haven't done anything wrong this time.
I'm not a sociopath, and my actions are my own.
My blood runs blue, turns red when oxygenated just like yours.
My head blows up with too much, too much, just like you.
You want me to stop my music?
You want the show to be over?
It won't ever end.
The show's part of my life, and you made it part of yours as well.
You dove right into my orange sea, and there's nothing I can do about that.
I can't fix things that I didn't break.
I'm sorry.
I'm too orange for you.
Go find a cool blue, a nice yellow, but stay away from me.
Our colors don't fit.
I'm not sorry
I'm not sorry
I'm tiger-tamed only by infuriation; infatuation.
I'm sorry
I'm sorry
I'm orange
Colors and words
Colors and words
The colors of my vocabulary cannot tell you what I mean.
:iconStarEagles:StarEagles
:iconstareagles:StarEagles 1 0
Literature
The consumer of hearts
The maw of his mouth was open, teeth dripping with something that she could only describe as blood. It may've been simple red ink though, she didn't know. All she knew was his teeth, and the beating thing between his jaws; the pulsating, quivering, little organ that he had torn away from her. His eyes, blue as sapphires, looked larger than life by the tears that were running from them as he threw his head back and swallowed the little thing.
The boy, for he was nothing but a boy, seemed wolfish as he ate her heart. Languish, as he licked the vermilion liquid from his lips. His eyes seemed sorry, but his chest welled with nothing but sorrow. He wasn't sorry, he was a disaster. He wasn't sorry, he was fallen apart.
His head went down, his tail between his canine hind-legs. The tears continued to flow even as she gently touched his head. The fur seemed to wilt at her touch, and the boy tore away from her. He didn't want to care, he didn't want her to care. Either he should be numb, or he
:iconStarEagles:StarEagles
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Saiaku by StarEagles Saiaku :iconstareagles:StarEagles 0 0
Literature
Brown
In my head
it's all red.
Red autumn leaves
drift by my bed.
I'm a joke.
I'm a kid.
I'm a fool.
Freedom drifts past an empty skull.
Has reality finally taken it's toll?
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:iconstareagles:StarEagles 0 0
Literature
White
If the bandages
they wrap me up in
are yellow
who does that make me?
If the clothes I wear
aren't white but purple
who am I to society?
Take pride in what is mine?
Take pride in what is divine?
Live and die?
Live and let live?
Sing and dance and be merry?
Why must it be the stereotype?
Why must it be the norm?
Where is the shadow without the light?
Where is monochrome with the color white?
Do I match?
Must I fade?
In this white light
where is the shade?
:iconStarEagles:StarEagles
:iconstareagles:StarEagles 0 0
Literature
Black
The darkest of tales
the Moby Dick of the whales
take me alive
or just don't let me dream to survive.
Throw your coins in a fountian
let those silly things be
throw you coins in the waves
let your copper poison the sea.
Hope is a ghost
in the deepest of memories.
deep charcoal as a shadow
taking it's deepest of toll
on all of those hidden behind dark windows.
:iconStarEagles:StarEagles
:iconstareagles:StarEagles 0 0
Literature
Violet
Deep skies
Bird cries
Hassles, guys
the unholiest of lies
take my goals
take me whole
the best of colors
the most impure of souls
Deep imposturous shadows
The most blinding of lying light
:iconStarEagles:StarEagles
:iconstareagles:StarEagles 1 0
Literature
Indigo
Two taps for freedom
one cry for reaction
you just think that you need him
it's just some crazy chemical-reaction
Don't blink
don't breath
don't forget
don't let the hero meet his demise
within the deepest of shadows he will die
only the brightest of light may end his plight.
:iconStarEagles:StarEagles
:iconstareagles:StarEagles 0 0
Literature
Blue
Stuck in the teeth
a melody underneath
your knife you must sheath
I want it all
I crave the fall
I'm Icarus
Soft jagged black shadows
Cold rounded white light
:iconStarEagles:StarEagles
:iconstareagles:StarEagles 1 0
Literature
Green
Circling like stars
open the stars
carve out the stars
I'm a killer
Cold and wrathful
I'm a joker
Sinner bashful.
I'm a card
tossing handfuls
crumbling snowflakes
taking their toll
:iconStarEagles:StarEagles
:iconstareagles:StarEagles 1 0
Literature
Yellow
Bees in the hive
Dead but alive.
Headstrong you must rive.
I'm a deer.
I'm a wolf.
I'm a fool.
Shadows shadow shadows.
Lights lights lights.
:iconStarEagles:StarEagles
:iconstareagles:StarEagles 0 0
Literature
Orange
The guitar
The Koto
The Shamisen
The Kaliba
The ukelele
my instruments
make me up
write my poems
and fake my laugh
save me from them
they may destroy me
orange lights flash
orange lights flash
please don't let me be gone
I hate the color
:iconStarEagles:StarEagles
:iconstareagles:StarEagles 0 0
Literature
Red
Trade my heart for a kiss
Trade my mind for my miss
Through your teeth you hiss.
I'm a thief.
I'm a card.
I'm a fool.
Shadows shadows shadows.
lights lights lights.
:iconStarEagles:StarEagles
:iconstareagles:StarEagles 0 0
Literature
Destiny
The piano singing in my ears changes nothing.
The words I play say nothing.
Again and again I try to write it out.
The tines of a music box
the teeth of a carnivore.
The world is a carnival
and I'm nothing but an actor within it.
Stars drawling
golden skin crawling
Icarus falling
stories calling.
What is my name?
what is my face?
what is my place?
Will I win this race?
Take my worst 
take my best
take my skeleton
take my bones and my body.
Why can't I get out?
:iconStarEagles:StarEagles
:iconstareagles:StarEagles 0 1

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The tale continued, the king, mad as a cat with a Cheshire grin (at least he swore he was). 

He sat in his home, flowers blooming in a canopy over his bent frame. He hunched over a huge canvas, covered in patches of color and splashes of sound.

He couldn't do much anymore, broken as he was, but he did enjoy painting still. The thick oil stained his white tunic in splatters across his chest, reminding him of thing that didn't exist anymore, and the thin sound of music from a tiny homemade box tinkled through the air like the downy feathers of a bird blowing through the wind. He didn't have much, but he was happy with his sound and his color. He took a break, stretching his arms up towards the ceiling. 

The lilacs that hung down were some of his favorites. Seriously, how, and why, the queen had done this for him, he had no idea. He had perfection of happiness in his life, small enough to fit in his pocket, yet big enough to hold his soul. Incredible. He touched the gentle purple flowers with his fingertips, tracing the edges of their endless petals with the softest touch he could. Maybe next he could paint the lilacs and the lilies, lovely as they were. 

He walked outside, enjoying the breeze. Did he deserve this at all? No. Did he have it to enjoy though? Indeed, he did, and so he would. The wind smelled of salt and flowers, mingling pleasantly through his mind.

Sitting by the edge of the beach, he watched the waves disappear into the shore. Where did they go? Would he go there one day? He supposed that he would never truly know.

(I love your ideas, I really do, but can't the king just disappear into his little flowery house on the beach? I know that I would never go back to civilization if I had that, and the king is me, so...? I'll admit, I'm not too pleased with my new life here in Georgia, but it's not the worst, so can I maybe not kidnap you and cut off your feathered limbs? Can I just stay in my little home and live a good life?)
A story (?)
(Is this okay? Itriedlol)
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Did you know that I can't remember over half of my life?
Yeah.
I've got about two years of it if you put all of my colorful memories together, all the rest are just monochrome flashes. 
Like important stuff, things I know that I should remember, Aunt Kathy's laughter, the smiles of friends. 
They're just gone.

For some reason I've been treated strangely, something went wrong.

When I was about nine I stopped going outside as often. I would just kinda find some place to sit inside somewhere and stay there for as long as I could without hearing anything, then when mom or somebody knocked on the door, or called for me from the kitchen I would get up and move. I would sit still, mind roaring for hours on end. 
Sometimes I still do it, and I know it's a problem. I'll stand in front of the bathroom mirror for an hour without even realizing it, sometimes really thinking about things, sometimes not.

I used to have times at night where I'd be thinking and suddenly all my thoughts would turn into newsprint images of things that I had never seen. Monochrome frames of people mangled and bruised. Things that I couldn't even describe though I can still see them in the back of me head. my brain would go all monochrome or, on other nights, my mind would occupy a plane of only peach-pin and white. The images then were usually naked human figures, bloated past recognition. I still have no idea why my mind would get stuck in this kind of space.

I can remember all the times I was spanked for stupid things very clearly. 
The times I did something like fail a test and dad yelled then sent me to my room.
I would lay there in bed, curled up like a baby for as long as I had to wait. I never closed the door, he always seemed to hit harder if he had to open the door.
He said that I was allowed to cry, though I was not, under any circumstances, to scream. He would blister me so bad if I yelled that I really wouldn't be able to sit down for about a week without twisting up my face in pain.
The last time that he did it I was about 13 and I just laid there and took it.
I think that the humiliation of when he used his hand made it hurt more than when he used his belt. I used to think about how if I ever hit someone or something that hard my palms would really hurt. I used to lay in my bed face down thinking things like that until he would call me out. I would go out, eat dinner, or do whatever it was that he had called me out for, then I would go get on my pajamas and get ready for bed.
 
My parents have tucked me in before bed since before I can remember, and if anything bad ever happens during the day then I always prepare myself for a lecture before I go to sleep. 
They'll just stand there and talk. Dad keeps it brief, usually ending with a threat of some sort that he never delivers. Mom tends to just repeat the same thing over and over, I see red the whole time and take it.

Another thing.
Every time that my dad catches me cutting, by which I mean that he sees the self inflicted cuts on my arms, he threatens to spank me. He hasn't done it yet, but I'm just waiting for the day. He always ends the conversation by slapping my wrist pretty hard. The hit isn't what hurts, it's the humiliation that I feel. He makes it seem like this is just another school assignment that I've failed, another mistake that he will not stand for.

My brother used to have a speech impediment, I was the only person who could ever really understand what he said. I was like his translator. Sometimes I wouldn't translate his words, keep them to myself just because I could. 
We used to bring out all of our favorite toys, me with my little plastic animals, and him with his trucks and cars. We would make up stories and run around the house, take them on adventures with heroes and all that sort of thing. There were never any superpowers, there was never any real love story types, they were all just kind of there, having fun together, or fighting each other with kung-fu moves. 
I really miss times like that. We would talk about real stuff in there too, we would pause for a second and talk about how our day went, or how much of a jerk some kid was, or something like that.

I guess that at my core I'm still just a little kid running through the woods behind my old house. I'm standing still right near that deep ravine, wondering if the old tree that goes across it will hold my weight. I'm sitting in dad's lap, thinking that I'm driving the truck while he keeps his hands steady on the wheel just below mine. I'm talking to the shadows in my room because they're always moving. I'm running down the road so fast that I trip over my own feet and skin both my knees and the palms of my hands.

Every therapist that I've ever had had called me brave at some point or another. I've never much cared for compliments, but this one I know that I truthfully haven't done enough to deserve. I don't save damsels, I don't cure people of their ails in any way. I'm not brave, I'm just living. I try my hardest to be polite, and I don't hold on to things that I don't want. I've put up with shit, I don't want to be called brave.

Whenever I try to talk to my mom about dysphoria she puts it off as me just wanting to get a binder. Why would I want a binder if I didn't feel uncomfortable mum? Why would I bring the conversation up at least once a week or so for over two years if I wasn't serious mom? 
Last week she said something that hit me like a bolt of lightning. "This all started when you hit puberty."
Dear lord woman. I was perfectly happy with my life, and my gender, that is until I became this horrid thing that I don't seem to recognize as myself every single time I look in the mirror.

These hormones aren't mine.
I wanted your help then, and I would love to have it now if there's any way that I can get it.

I don't talk very much about myself because I really don't see the need to. I feel like people know what they want to know, and if they truly want to know more I feel like they should really think about the question that they're going to ask. Pick something that will get my mind going. Don't just go "How are you doing?" say something like. "Hey, I was wondering, how do you feel right now? I care about your emotions enough to format a question non-casually and think that you deserve to have my thoughts be kind of about you for a few minutes or so."

I don't correct old friends who misgender me, they don't know me very well, and I don't know them very well. I don't see the need for them to know who I really am if I talk to them less then once a week.

I think too much, but I don't seem to eat enough. I'm gonna go get breakfast/lunch (since it's 2:20). I'll be back.

okay, got some foodstuffs (don't question. I'm eating two plain hotdogs, three hotdog buns, a bowl of fiesta shredded cheese and a cheese string. Is this what it feels like to be a freshman in college?)

Mom never used to keep soda in the house, and if she did I wasn't allowed to touch it. The first time I ever had a carbonated drink was when I was ten or so, and it was in my older cousin's basement. Coke-Cola's still one of my favorite drinks, and I have a strong dislike for Pepsi. 

I don't think that I've ever had a real friend before. People either lie to me, manipulate me, and/or, though I know it sounds pathetic, use me to get whatever it is that they want, then they drop me like a hot rock. 

I own a Juul (ooh illegal). It cost me like thirty bucks, and I use it whenever I feel like it I guess. The buzz helps me think sometimes, and when I'm upset it usually just makes me tired and puts me into a nap easier. The mint flavor is easily the best.

I'm not addicted to anything except maybe porn. Terrible thing, I know. I discovered that side of the internet when I was about eleven and saw some weird hentai.

I like to sing, and it seems to be helping me to lower my voice. I think that I really enjoy it because it's one of the only things that I feel like I can really control.

I can't really even remember when I started writing poetry. I was about eight when I first started thinking of writing as more than just words though.

When I was little I used to go over to my aunt and uncle's a lot. My Aunt Karey has this big pool in her backyard. It's kind of built into the deck (maybe one of these days I'll be able to take pictures of it. The porch and deck of that house are amazing to look at.), and my family and I used to go swimming there a lot. The bottom of the pool is lumpy as can be, I truthfully have no idea why, but when I was a kid one of my family members (I'm thinking it may've been my cousin Victoria) told me a story of how it happened when I asked them. They told me that before the pool was filled my aunt threw a big party in it, like a formal dance/ball type. They told me that all of the ladies tall heels made indents in the bottom of the pool because of how hard they danced. Whenever I ask anyone about that story they look at me like I'm crazy, but I swear that someone told me that.

I've wanted to play the string bass since I was a little kid (maybe 8 years old or so). It's one of those instruments that I feel has a life force all it's own.
Some guitars have a life force too I think. If mine has one (i don't think it does the stupid thing), he's a grumpy old man who grouches at me every time that I try to play him.

I've liked music for as long as I can remember. My mom has a couple of videos of me singing as a little kid, but I've sung daily to myself since I was about 10. I just sing while I do stuff, I don't really know why.

I like indie music a lot. I don't like all songs of the genre, but I love the songs that sound like free-verse poetry and are really nice when they're played in the car while it rains.

My Aunt Stephanie plays the violin, and when I tried it then it didn't squeak all that much. I'm thinking about trying to learn how to play it since it doesn't seem like on of those instruments that I could have lots of trouble with.
My Aunt also speaks fluent Spanish, runs what seems to be a mile every day, likes to have all of her pets to be black and white, and seems to be able to cook just about any vegetable known to man in any way imaginable. Plus she listens to all of my favorite bands.

I have a very extensive rock collection that I've built up over the years. I think that it's probably one of the heaviest boxes in the storage unit right now. It weighs something like fifty pounds.
None of the rocks are labeled, though my mom has suggested that I label them. I keep them because I like how they look. Sometimes I'll set the best looking ones out on my shelf so that the world can see them. If I grow tired of a rock I put it outside so that it can sink into the ground over time, melt, and become a cooler rock for the future.

Okay, that's about all I've got for this random page of facts about myself. I hope you have a nice day <3
Somethings(thoughts about my life since I woke up)
I woke up at eleven thirty in the afternoon and have been writing about myself since. It's now three thirty, and I hope that by publishing some thoughts about myself and my past I can ease the weight of them. I'm hoping that now my mind can ease up and stop running a thousand watts like it's been doing for the past few days :/
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You want me to be a sociopath don't you?
You want me to be one just so that you can blame that condition for how I wronged you?
I haven't done anything wrong this time.
I'm not a sociopath, and my actions are my own.
My blood runs blue, turns red when oxygenated just like yours.
My head blows up with too much, too much, just like you.
You want me to stop my music?
You want the show to be over?
It won't ever end.
The show's part of my life, and you made it part of yours as well.
You dove right into my orange sea, and there's nothing I can do about that.
I can't fix things that I didn't break.
I'm sorry.
I'm too orange for you.
Go find a cool blue, a nice yellow, but stay away from me.

Our colors don't fit.

I'm not sorry
I'm not sorry
I'm tiger-tamed only by infuriation; infatuation.
I'm sorry
I'm sorry
I'm orange
Colors and words
Colors and words
The colors of my vocabulary cannot tell you what I mean.
The maw of his mouth was open, teeth dripping with something that she could only describe as blood. It may've been simple red ink though, she didn't know. All she knew was his teeth, and the beating thing between his jaws; the pulsating, quivering, little organ that he had torn away from her. His eyes, blue as sapphires, looked larger than life by the tears that were running from them as he threw his head back and swallowed the little thing.

The boy, for he was nothing but a boy, seemed wolfish as he ate her heart. Languish, as he licked the vermilion liquid from his lips. His eyes seemed sorry, but his chest welled with nothing but sorrow. He wasn't sorry, he was a disaster. He wasn't sorry, he was fallen apart.

His head went down, his tail between his canine hind-legs. The tears continued to flow even as she gently touched his head. The fur seemed to wilt at her touch, and the boy tore away from her. He didn't want to care, he didn't want her to care. Either he should be numb, or he should be alone. Maybe both.

"It's okay."

He growled and looked at her, his eyes flaring. How could she say that? They both knew that it was a lie.

"I forgive you."

Her hand was back on his head and the neverending tears poured harder down his face. He growled lowly once mare, almost a warning, but she heard no threat in his noise.
Saiaku
言葉  が 最悪

私 は 描く こと は でき ませ ん。
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StarEagles
Sam
Artist | Hobbyist | Varied
United States
Trans, and just out to make the world a better place to live.

If you're wondering why I put it on my profile, it's because I want people to feel welcome, no matter who they are, or who they identify as.
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StarEagles Featured By Owner Aug 25, 2018  Hobbyist General Artist
www.youtube.com/watch?v=5CjA4W…

My art style has changed (it's so easy to draw now omgosh) and this song is magical
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