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Literature
On words unspoken or unread
Words echo into the space - waves of scattered particles spreading into infinity. They last but moments then dissipate- never disappearing but growing further and further apart; they shrink smaller, smaller, as they spread longer, longer.
Words sink deep into paper. Lines of ink staining fibre. They are unmoving- lasting until the paper itself is destroyed (possibly until the end of time).
What are spoken words if nobody hears?
What are written words if nobody reads?
And words read from a page to an empty space-
                                                                   are these doubly useless?
Yet if space is never empty...
                                         is the act of disturbing particles enough?
                                         is it enough to fill fibres?
:icontheguywhowritesstuff:theguywhowritesstuff
:icontheguywhowritesstuff:theguywhowritesstuff 1 0
Literature
I, The Sober Fool
My Beloved speaks profundities
     and pays dues not His own-
while I, the sober fool,
     stumble falsely drunk.
Though His wine warms my heart
     and sweetly stains my lips,
it is not potent in my veins-
     I am not subject to it's dance.
I drink too little, too less
     for the drunkard I claim to be.
:icontheguywhowritesstuff:theguywhowritesstuff
:icontheguywhowritesstuff:theguywhowritesstuff 1 0
Literature
DONT WALK
I am the kind of man
who will stand at
the DONT WALK sign
on an empty intersection
of an abandoned town.
I am the kind of man
Who is flattened
by a renegade road train
on the very same intersection
if I do decide to walk.
Yet.
I am becoming the kind of man
who will pick himself up,
who will brush himself off,
who will face that road train a thousand times
before bowing to defeat.
I will be the kind of man
who will either
become one with the bitumen,
or by God's glorious grace
reach your side.
:icontheguywhowritesstuff:theguywhowritesstuff
:icontheguywhowritesstuff:theguywhowritesstuff 0 2
Literature
The Balaam Monologue
O Lord, let me be as Balaam,
  only able to utter
  only able to speak
  only able to bless
  only able to curse
those words and names,
      subjects and rulers,
      mothers, sons,
      fathers, daughters,
      wives, husbands,
      women, men,
that you place on my lips.
     Let me speak thine truth
     thine whole truth,
     and nought but
                    thine truth.
:icontheguywhowritesstuff:theguywhowritesstuff
:icontheguywhowritesstuff:theguywhowritesstuff 0 0
Literature
thebigwet
That serpent slithers past,
                                  fast.
Her furious hunger
swallowing whole
all that lies in her path.
She has no mercy,
she makes no concession.
She does nothing
     but devour and grow fat
     with insatiable greed.
Yesterday she protected us,
     brought us life,
     gave us joy.
We revelled in her beauty,
     bathed in her majesty.
Today she demands her fill,
     her payment
     her sacrifice.
Today we
           see
her true colours:
                    
:icontheguywhowritesstuff:theguywhowritesstuff
:icontheguywhowritesstuff:theguywhowritesstuff 0 3
Literature
The Smiles of Silent Judgement
The smiles of silent judgement
slither across their knowing faces;
     lips lying,
     laying in wait
          to thunder down God's almighty truth
          upon the sideways sinner.
     Poised-ready to pounce
     at the slightest suggestion of a slip.
While the infant in the corner-
     hands outstretched and
     feet together
     wept.
          For His works ignored,
          for His grace witheld.
:icontheguywhowritesstuff:theguywhowritesstuff
:icontheguywhowritesstuff:theguywhowritesstuff 0 0
Literature
CHI-RHO
Who am I, O LORD,
that you should bless me?
     An unsteady harlot,
     drowning in my own sin and failings
     (though I try always to walk upon the sea).
As I fall, in the seconds
that briefly linger,
your firm grasp saves me
from the dark, eternal pit
where there is weeping
and gnashing of teeth.
For although my grip
will forever slip,
your hand, O LORD,
it never fails.
For I am yours and you are mine,
and on me, forever, shall your mercy be!
:icontheguywhowritesstuff:theguywhowritesstuff
:icontheguywhowritesstuff:theguywhowritesstuff 1 0
Literature
About Tomorrow
The swallows and sparrows
dance on the cool morning breeze.
They rise and fall;
        float and stall;
        soaring, diving, fluttering
and all the while chattering-
        not about days been,
        nor days to come-
        but the present moment;
        their current joy.
They trust the sun to rise at dawn,
the moon to appear in the even cooler twilight air.
The swallows and sparrows
     (dancing as they do on the cool morning breeze)
worry not about tomorrow-
for today will have troubles of its own.
:icontheguywhowritesstuff:theguywhowritesstuff
:icontheguywhowritesstuff:theguywhowritesstuff 0 1
Literature
The Jazz Player
The jazz player hunched in the corner outside the circles of dim light, cast by steel-shaded lamps, hung from the ceiling. The lamps broke through the darkness, but failed to make clear the thick smoke of cheap cigars and tar-laden cigarettes.
A one-man quartet could be heard from the corner— the lone saxophonist mystically weaving his melody in and around itself, knitting a cocoon around himself until he was completely, flawlessly protected from anything which could reveal and tear apart his vunerable heart. And yet to do so, he himself needed to make a small incision, through which he would feed his fingers, flowing flawlessly and effortlessly up and down the saxophone; just enough so his guts—the centre of his being—would know where to direct his fingers; just enough so his soul could seek the weak points of his figurative fortress and advise this same centre of where to direct his fingers so the carefully crafted cocoon would stay ever true, ever complete, and the ja
:icontheguywhowritesstuff:theguywhowritesstuff
:icontheguywhowritesstuff:theguywhowritesstuff 1 8
Literature
MUSEings
My muse and I reached reason.
I gladly devour'd her fruit
with selfish glutt; nill return.
So she most softly made known:
honeyed words aren't freely laid --
one must observe and examine.
Only then will she sweetly whisper;
only then will we love once more.
:icontheguywhowritesstuff:theguywhowritesstuff
:icontheguywhowritesstuff:theguywhowritesstuff 0 0
Literature
First Crescent
Stars shine in Cleveland amidst
a thin veil of creeping clouds -
silvered by gentle kisses
of the new moon's first crescent.
:icontheguywhowritesstuff:theguywhowritesstuff
:icontheguywhowritesstuff:theguywhowritesstuff 0 0
Literature
Persuasion
"There comes a time in every mortals life when one must meet ones maker. Unfortunately, some need a little persuasion..."
He switched his gaze from his bony hands, placed delicately on his lap, to meet the therapists's eyes. The emaciated face of her patient seemed to gleam with a passion for his job.
"... That is where I enter the proverbial picture".
:icontheguywhowritesstuff:theguywhowritesstuff
:icontheguywhowritesstuff:theguywhowritesstuff 1 2
Literature
Den of Dragons
Within the dragons' den -
   the smoke they breathe; twists, turns, spirals
   hea'enward in clouds of tar and ash
   (their mouths gaping and nostrils flared).
Indeed they don't breathe fire -
   They inhale it, swallowing whole
   The ancient gift of Prometheus
   (the first giver of stolen goods).
A wise woman once said:
   'This is the closest one can be
   with said sacred element. Yet
   such intimacy comes with price
   (as with all sim'lar relations).
I see their wrinkled skin
   And hear their deep raspy roar that
   rarely, though spontaneously
   interrupts their philosophy
   (or words of the drunk lay-dragon).
:icontheguywhowritesstuff:theguywhowritesstuff
:icontheguywhowritesstuff:theguywhowritesstuff 2 0
Literature
Dear Mr. Burgermuncher
Dear Mr. Burgermuncher,
You are a fat fatty Mcfat-fat.
And you smell.
Love,
Your faithful stalker.
P.S. See you tonight!
:icontheguywhowritesstuff:theguywhowritesstuff
:icontheguywhowritesstuff:theguywhowritesstuff 1 0
Literature
What The Tree Saw
She sat on the bench, he lay beside me. The wind would blow – roughly persuading my leaves to float towards the ground, and lay themselves upon the man who lay beside me. Some weren't persuaded. Some would fall, but land between the man who lay beside me and the lady on the park bench.
Some even dared to land beside the lady.
The lady on the bench let a smile through her cool, calm composure, elegant in the moonlight. Her eyes - focused beyond the gentle sprinkle of rain relived her story. She enjoyed every second: The control, the power, the thrill.
The night was quiet, spare the soft roar of cars. The roar reminded her of the sea. Crescendo, Forte, Diminuendo, Repeat. There were no crickets to be heard. No cicadas made an audible sound. Nor did the Owls who, or the storm birds screech. There was Rain, Wind, Leaves, Cars. And last of all, the thoughts of the lady who sat on the bench – which had now turned to the family of the man who lay beside me.
Did they exist? Who were
:icontheguywhowritesstuff:theguywhowritesstuff
:icontheguywhowritesstuff:theguywhowritesstuff 1 0
Literature
Observations On The Train
Silent clunks and
squeaking breaks fail
to overpower the
aging gentlewomen's
genteel, garrulous gossip.
Lurching into station
they part with
"Don't bother to
dial" and giggle
as well-born
gentlewomen should.
:icontheguywhowritesstuff:theguywhowritesstuff
:icontheguywhowritesstuff:theguywhowritesstuff 1 0

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Activity


deviantID

theguywhowritesstuff
...sometimes...
Artist
Australia
I find:
          The hardest
time for me to write
poetry is when I try.

The easiest?
                     Never.
Interests
I don't know who - if anybody - still visits this neglected corner of dA.

But I've gone through and purged the crap.

This profile originated as a space to upload all my poetry
               - regardless of quality -
                                                     under a very thin pseudonym.

Then I became attached.
Then I became distracted.
Now I am writing again -
                      and the shite must go.

So my gallery reserved for crap is gone
           (as are the ones which slipped through the cracks).
Poems of sub-quality (but not trash-worthy) are now in the 'scrapbook'.

I will be uploading a newer, longer piece of prose -
     chapter. by. chapter.
     
I am taking my time-
          at times: 3hrs for a single paragraph.

Although I don't have a fancy account with a fancy 'Critique Wanted' check-box,
                      Critique
                           Is
                      Wanted
                            (honest, brutal, unabashed).

Now that I have bored you with unimportant information, I will leave you.

Adios!
  • Reading: Insufficient amounts.

Comments


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:icondeformity0:
DeFormity0 Featured By Owner Apr 13, 2012  Professional Digital Artist
Thank you!
Stay creative ♥
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:iconbeaple:
Beaple Featured By Owner Feb 21, 2012
Thank you for deciding my work was worth being aware of!

I hope to produce articles of artistic merit that justify your choice!

Thank you!
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:icontheguywhowritesstuff:
Thank you for producing work worthy to be shared!
Reply
:iconashellessmind:
ashellessmind Featured By Owner Feb 13, 2012
MISTER DARCY
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:iconcatoram-a:
Catoram-A Featured By Owner Feb 27, 2011  Professional General Artist
thank you for the watch!!!! :iconrainbowsheep2:
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:iconpsdeluxe:
psdeluxe Featured By Owner Dec 30, 2010  Hobbyist Digital Artist
thanks for the fav on this --> [link] :)
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:iconpixelationunknown:
PixelationUnknown Featured By Owner Dec 18, 2010
Lookie Lookie!! I took your advice!
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:icontheguywhowritesstuff:
Huzzah! I shall go view presently!
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:iconpixelationunknown:
PixelationUnknown Featured By Owner Aug 2, 2009
D-ROD YOU MAKE ME SO HAPPY! ^-^
:typerhappy:
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:icontheguywhowritesstuff:
theguywhowritesstuff Featured By Owner Aug 3, 2009
...Don't you mean T-Rod? =p

And no probs. Making people happy is what I like. :D
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