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Deviant for 14 Years
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Newest Deviations

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 1 0
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 1 0
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.
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 0 2
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 0 0
That serpent slithers past,
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
her true colours:
:icontheguywhowritesstuff:theguywhowritesstuff 0 3
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
          For His works ignored,
          for His grace witheld.
:icontheguywhowritesstuff:theguywhowritesstuff 0 0
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 1 0
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 0 1
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 1 8
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 0 0
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 0 0
"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 1 2
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 2 0
Dear Mr. Burgermuncher
Dear Mr. Burgermuncher,
You are a fat fatty Mcfat-fat.
And you smell.
Your faithful stalker.
P.S. See you tonight!
:icontheguywhowritesstuff:theguywhowritesstuff 1 0
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 1 0
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 1 0

Random Favourites

With blind eyes, we kill,
yet our bloodstained hands don't stop.
We know nothing else.
:iconsheepknight:SheepKnight 2 0
Holy by Toeps Holy :icontoeps:Toeps 27 2 inside the mind by slowtones inside the mind :iconslowtones:slowtones 16 6
Six Sons
I spelled the name George in lemon-yellow candy hearts. The protruding stem of the "r" said e-mail me in pink capital letters. I don't know anyone named George but it seemed better than making excel charts of the names of my children. The children are on the same theoretical level that George is. I would not name one of my children George, I think. I don't really even like the name George. My desk was cleared off hastily for it to be written in candy hearts; the papers are all over the floor, scattered amongst the unmatched socks and milk cartons. I am eating only the white ones because I am a supremacist with candy hearts. George is blond, I think. My husband insisted on the name, after his father. I cannot complain because I must name one of my sons Harold after my own father, and even George is not so bad as Harold. I will apologize profusely to the son named Harold; he will be my favorite. Certainly more favored than George, who never grows out of his infant blue eyes. I will allow
:iconyellowroses:yellowroses 3 3
In Flanders Fields

In Flanders Fields
In Flanders Fields the poppies blow
Between the crosses row on row,
That mark our place; and in the sky
The larks, still bravely singing, fly
Scarce heard amid the guns below.
We are the Dead. Short days ago
We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow,
Loved and were loved, and now we lie
In Flanders fields.
Take up our quarrel with the foe:
To you from failing hands we throw
The torch; be yours to hold it high.
If ye break faith with us who die
We shall not sleep, though poppies grow
In Flanders fields.
-Lieutenant Colonel John McCrae

Seasoning of Poppies by xessencexFields of Poppies by wildchild-sillygirlred dream by fibulamim
windy summer day by Floriandra:thumb66930146::thumb63757145:
poppies by potter58poppies by trueePoppies by godsavebritainComposure of a dream by ShelleyJackman
Silence by Plinsomething old by ThirdsockFlanders Fields by ConcreteRainxPoppies by charonferryman
Remembrance by AnnaJanepoppies by saiaiiPoppies by murdered-doll
:icondiabolo-spinner:Diabolo-Spinner 44 54
The Ugly Contest: Boarded up.
All ugly things must come to an end:
That's right, The Ugly Contest has closed its doors to entries after a month of gathering the dirty laundry of anyone who wished to throw it at us. This news article is just to give those who have entered a bit of info about how the contest will be judged, and to exhibit those who have entered.
Ugly judgement
The judging will be done by a series of umming and ahhing and long internalised debate by me, apocathary. Due to the length of some of the pieces, it isn't going to be easy judging this contest. As a result, I am allocating three weeks starting from the 1st of November and ending the 22nd of November. After that, I will organise the activities promised in the prize and post a news article on the 26th announcing the winner and the execution of the prizes.
Ugly entries:
:shithappens:Without further ado, here are the ugly entrants!:shithappens:
:iconapocathary:apocathary 22 28
Galaxy lineart by AgataKa19 Galaxy lineart :iconagataka19:AgataKa19 135 50 Departure by DiomedesZX Departure :icondiomedeszx:DiomedesZX 128 61 Aurora Musis Amica by DiomedesZX Aurora Musis Amica :icondiomedeszx:DiomedesZX 69 70
Down the stairs and too the left
sat a man unable to speak as his
words were taken at a young age, his
mothers eyes told stories that he would never
Up the stairs and too the right
sat a girl, unnameable as she never knew her name;
questioning his love and lust and wondering
where to draw lines in the sand they had spread
across their dinning room floor
in the room across the hall lay a child
something very tangible but terrifying and they
both were connected through the thing.
it cried because they didn’t understand
:iconsutcak:Sutcak 4 1
Disintegration by DanielaUhlig Disintegration :icondanielauhlig:DanielaUhlig 10,514 903
Not out of the woods: A silent epidemic persists
As many of you know, I have struggled with lyme disease for a long time, having been in remission from chronic late stage Lyme and recently relapsing. I have decided at long last to make a concerted effort to spread the word about the disease in the best way I know how: bitching online!
I'm going to give you the skinny on this nasty bug, as well as point you in the direction of more thorough, official information on the topic should you wish to learn more.
Lyme was only discovered in 1975 and was named for Lyme, Connecticut where a cluster outbreak was found and the disease is said to have "been discovered." The truth of the matter is that it's likely some form of Lyme disease (or Borreliosis as it is scientifically known) has existed for some time. It is in the same family of bacteria as syphilis, known as spirochetes and identifiable by their corkscrew shape. This cute little slinky of a microbe can be deadly, in part due to its screw-like form which renders it skilled at tunneling i
:iconopioid:opioid 414 403
Website Notepad - Stamp by ConDecepticon Website Notepad - Stamp :iconcondecepticon:ConDecepticon 512 234
As Dark a Dream
faint starsprawl across the swell of her hip,
skin so pale, her palms open to the skies.
and you watch her as she sleeps,
kissing her softly,
as her eyelids flutter over vast universes,
all gently turning upon the wheel of her dreams.
she is beyond you now,
in a place you cannot reach...
but you take her warm hand in yours,
nestling your face against her neck,
her pulse a hollow drum of blood,
keeping time with her meandering journeys.
you close your eyes,
willing yourself to find the connection...
willing yourself to wander;
willing to dream the same dark dream as she.
:iconmaenad77:maenad77 2 11
Mama, the lantern
Deep within,
deep within
She holds deep within.
She brings us clear vision
we bring her slow death.
Her soul shines through
her body, it spreads
Hanged & burned,
hanged & burned
She is hanged & burned.
Oh! how hard she cries!
Yet she cries so silently
so meekly, as if in a trance or in prayer
Like melting candles
they cry as they touch the fire
So light & warm,
so light & warm
her love is so light & warm!
But in contrast
the candle gives up easilly
It melts & expires
it melts & expires
The candle, it melts & expires
Her little children exclaim:
"Look! Mama, the lantern!"
"Mama, the lantern!"
...then mama brings another candle...
:iconellisbigay:EllisBigay 0 2


:icontivarah: :iconvintagetreelover: :icons-caruso: :iconpixelationunknown: :iconsutcak:


:iconkikitse7: :iconashyboi: :iconscr3am1ng1ns1l3nc3: :icontaraesoli: :icontivarah: :iconvintagetreelover: :iconjustswing2dance: :iconpixelationunknown: :iconanurbannomad: :iconqichin: :iconmaenad77: :iconsutcak:



I find:
          The hardest
time for me to write
poetry is when I try.

The easiest?
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,
                            (honest, brutal, unabashed).

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

  • Reading: Insufficient amounts.


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DeFormity0 Featured By Owner Apr 13, 2012  Professional Digital Artist
Thank you!
Stay creative ♥
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!
Thank you for producing work worthy to be shared!
ashellessmind Featured By Owner Feb 13, 2012
Catoram-A Featured By Owner Feb 27, 2011  Professional General Artist
thank you for the watch!!!! :iconrainbowsheep2:
psdeluxe Featured By Owner Dec 30, 2010  Hobbyist Digital Artist
thanks for the fav on this --> [link] :)
PixelationUnknown Featured By Owner Dec 18, 2010
Lookie Lookie!! I took your advice!
Huzzah! I shall go view presently!
PixelationUnknown Featured By Owner Aug 2, 2009
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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