They all converse about their boyfriends and girlfriends or their lack of
And their deadbeat job
Or the boss that bellows at all the right moves
And the hairdresser hesitates not to make a comment about their boss
As their hands sink through the thick curls of a client
And the scissors snap as they attempt to make something
Out of something
And then they talk about all the money that will begin fall into their arms
Or out of their arms
And some pretend to be something they are not and pose a life not theirs
And all the gibberish that floats in the air
Means nothing
And the lies that infuriate the hairdresser like a pestering fly
Three by three,
Kaleidoscopic squares.
Variegated sides,
Of rainbow and white.
And multifarious combinations,
Puzzle the brain
Unless attempted by theorem,
The sane become insane.
So elaborately defined,
And intriguingly designed,
That even if mastered,
Cubes will forever haunt your mind --
What am I?
Suns will rise,
across the skies,
and stars will twinkle,
throughout the night.
The moon will fade,
behind the day,
and planet Earth,
will spin away.
-- But you will never fade.
A bloody battlefield is all you see,
But I see love sleeping silently.
It dreams of peace and feeble hope,
It prays for those who now must cope.
Hearts are drizzled on an open field,
Blood drips from his trodden shield.
His mother cries oceans away,
Her thoughts drift to that fateful day...
The day he left and changed her life,
To fight a war of hate and strife.
A bloody battlefield is all you see,
But I see love murdered repugnantly.
Those Who Pray
By: Andrew Farkash (insanewalk)
My sickness disturbs me, though I persist in denying the source of my pain. My sickness is the doom of my life. I am an outcast in the world of my friends, lovers and what is left of my family. Friends and lovers are scarce, however, with this terrible sickness I so determinedly avoid. In the state of Kansas, all those with this sickness are condemned to a life of sin and are destined to burn in hell. Topeka, Kansas is the world I am forced to live in a world of hypocrisy and hate. I agree with those who sa
They all converse about their boyfriends and girlfriends or their lack of
And their deadbeat job
Or the boss that bellows at all the right moves
And the hairdresser hesitates not to make a comment about their boss
As their hands sink through the thick curls of a client
And the scissors snap as they attempt to make something
Out of something
And then they talk about all the money that will begin fall into their arms
Or out of their arms
And some pretend to be something they are not and pose a life not theirs
And all the gibberish that floats in the air
Means nothing
And the lies that infuriate the hairdresser like a pestering fly
Three by three,
Kaleidoscopic squares.
Variegated sides,
Of rainbow and white.
And multifarious combinations,
Puzzle the brain
Unless attempted by theorem,
The sane become insane.
So elaborately defined,
And intriguingly designed,
That even if mastered,
Cubes will forever haunt your mind --
What am I?
Suns will rise,
across the skies,
and stars will twinkle,
throughout the night.
The moon will fade,
behind the day,
and planet Earth,
will spin away.
-- But you will never fade.
Little children have no fear,
pretend to fly,
turn sticks to spears.
Little children give and take.
love the ones,
who fill their plates.
Little children love to believe,
in magic, ghosts,
and their wildest dreams.
Little children eat up worms,
make a buffet,
of the dirt.
Little children play with fire,
unaware of,
dangerous desire.
Little children grow and share,
play together,
cut their hair.
Little children pioneer,
shape the world,
from what they hear.
Little children sleep all night,
lest they wake,
from restless plight.
Little children do not know,
that one day they,
will cease to grow.
Littl
Shadows were my friends,
for so so long,
no one else cared,
until you came along.
Now I'm fine...
Now I'm doing well...
You saved me from myself,
and all that hell.
Life is an ocean,
just caught in a storm,
lacking all balance,
civilized nature or form.
I'm just a wave,
in this toiling sea,
You're a hurricane,
crashing over me.
You've never left me,
You said you never will.
I'm scared out of my mind,
but I trust you still.
I've fallen for you...
Fast as I could...
I know that we shouldn't...
But maybe we should?
Life is an ocean,
just caught in a storm,
lacking all balance,
civilized nature or form.
I'm just a wave
I lay here and wonder how He could cast,
Armies of puppets to spill so much blood.
Homes built on ashes from generations past,
And our children victims of His terrible flood.
I sit here and ponder why He exists,
And controls the fate of all.
Strings attached to all of our wrists,
And if they weren't there, would we fall?
I stand and declare His existence extinct,
His holy wars valid no more.
And His' puppets never to be inked,
With questions of, "Whom are we fighting for?"
Lastly, I present You with a glimmer of hope,
Since He 's no longer above your head.
Seek You and Us when life forces you to cope,
For
A bloody battlefield is all you see,
But I see love sleeping silently.
It dreams of peace and feeble hope,
It prays for those who now must cope.
Hearts are drizzled on an open field,
Blood drips from his trodden shield.
His mother cries oceans away,
Her thoughts drift to that fateful day...
The day he left and changed her life,
To fight a war of hate and strife.
A bloody battlefield is all you see,
But I see love murdered repugnantly.
Information is receding
and originality, retreating
all shrouded in fierce derision
I want to cry but I can't,
my hands still sore from countless cramps
loathing from every twisted condition
The words dissipate before spoken,
all correspondence to be broken
and I bask in self afflictions
It eradicates my pride,
as I writhe inside--
slaving over unattainable distinction
Man's the measure of all things
or so the Greeks and Romans said.
Why walk when we can borrow wings,
And glaze with glee the sunset red?
And thus we turned to he that knows
The secrets, both of earth and sky,
And ordered that he should compose
Some aircraft that would aid us fly.
He smiled and shook his bearded head:
'To fly you'll need wings of your own
for there's no glory to be had
in reaping fruit you haven't sown.'
And on we toiled, and on and on,
'til our own wings did graze the dawn
She stood in the cold and crisp November air, flicking ashes from a cigarette into the breeze. Her expression was as frigid as the ice on the ground; her hair was a coffee sort-of brown like her eyes. Short, she was voluptuous in the true sense of the word.
Her name was Noyer.
She threw the cigarette to the pavement and extinguished it, bare foot. She walked on into the day, observing nothing, observing everything. Where she'd come from and why was a mystery even to her. Daughter to no mother, no fathershe was an orphan of the mother earth.
In the dee
Brother,
I'm writing to tell you I'm dropping out of college; I haven't told anyone. I'm twitching, Michael. The hunger came back a few weeks ago, and I'm not sure it ever left. Regardless, it's crying now, and I need to go. I need to keep moving on. I'm leaving for Chicago tomorrow. My train takes off in the afternoon, and when I get there, I'll leave again. I want to go somewhere new, Michael.
I want to go somewhere I have never seen before.
Now, I know you have to be worried, but don't, Brother. Don't you be afraid. I'll write
He grew up enchanted -
a magic man
whose music kept the world awake
and made the stars quake
like tiny children
plucked from bed.
He was a stranger
in a stranger land,
who walked on water
while we slept;
and when the children wept,
he made colors with his eyes
and stitched the skies
like quilts of eiderdown -
patches of blue and violet,
featherweight and coarse
like tufts of peacocks
and hung them up
behind the clouds
and set orbs
like spangled berries
to keep heaven company,
hoping the moon's sly glow
would grow silver
and startle the air
and let him keep it
like a long swathe of midnight...
Crit Ticks for the Critics by nycterent, literature
Literature
Crit Ticks for the Critics
"He has the right to criticize who has the heart to help." - Abraham Lincoln
Introduction:
You've read guides, you've heard the propaganda, and now there's no going back. You've decided: "I want to write critiques too!"
Looking out over the gray expanse of dA, you spot a poem. Or a photograph. Or a juicy piece of digital art, and you know exactly what you want to say. Or maybe you don't, but you slog through, making the effort. And voila! A click and you navigate away, grinning, imagining the artist's delight when the deviant opens his or her message center upon the next log-in.
You left a critique, whether as a "critique" or in a comment
Its Samhain. The line between the spirit
world and our own is a ray of moonlight.
Its the night when the reluctant soul sticks
to our plane, hovering - a withered rose
whose beauty is the figment of a dream;
a gleam gilding the surface of the lake.
For long hours of idyll would the Lake
poets revel in letting their spirit
soar free on the nightingales wings, and dream
of glimpsing their Muse clad in pure moonlight
but tonight magics afoot: clouds just rose
to blur the moon like fumes from incense sticks.
The Romantics habit of rambling sticks
to min
Little children have no fear,
pretend to fly,
turn sticks to spears.
Little children give and take.
love the ones,
who fill their plates.
Little children love to believe,
in magic, ghosts,
and their wildest dreams.
Little children eat up worms,
make a buffet,
of the dirt.
Little children play with fire,
unaware of,
dangerous desire.
Little children grow and share,
play together,
cut their hair.
Little children pioneer,
shape the world,
from what they hear.
Little children sleep all night,
lest they wake,
from restless plight.
Little children do not know,
that one day they,
will cease to grow.
Littl
Due to recent personal whatever-you-want-to-call-them, I have had no time to sort out through the almost 100 or so contest submissions for the My Snow Man Melted Literature Contest.
So here's the deal:
Next week is finals week. That weekend I am home free- which also means I can get myself back on track with the contest and everything else deviantart related!
Yay!
Sorry for the delay! A winner will be announced soon!
(excuse the dramatic journal title)
And follow me on twitter if you have one :-)
http://twitter.com/flushnemo
:heart:
I've been so busy (which is why I haven't commented on anything for awhile) that I haven't even had barley any time to write!!!
It's finally break, however, I have so much homework :(
On another note, the My Snow Man Melted! Lit. Contest is coming to an end soon *cries*
Please submit your entries ASAP. No more entries will be accepted after December 31st. http://insanewalk.deviantart.com/journal/28380789/
OH YEAH. It's my birthday tomorrow! YAY ME!
Okay
That is all I guess
I'll try to post more stuff soon!
LOVE YOU ALL MERRY CHRISTMAS <3
Starting today, every week (or possibly month, still not sure), I will be featuring the best literature I have come across on dA! This will be a weekly/monthly feature of the most beautiful and mesmerizing literature pieces that not only leave you breathless, but display the brilliant usage of literary tools and techniques.
If you would like to suggest pieces to be featured in future issues, please send me a note. Or if you have any suggestions/ideas regarding this weekly/monthly feature.
Please take the time to read and :+fav: the following pieces. They truly deserve it. And please, +:heart: the news article as well (so that these pieces
First off, I agree with everything you like..sept sand in my ears ...O__O I would go nuts. Second off, if you bite too hard I WILL bite back D; [I'm a nommer, i'll admit it] And you're a writer, which makes you x10 more awesome<3