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The Writers BurdenWriters heed your calling,
Bare arms for your right,
Take up your pen in action,
And prepare yourself to fight
Working until distraction,
In you heart it's true
For these things inside
Make the words part of you.
Writers heed your calling,
Words from your fingers slip,
To put bread into your mouth.
For art you would once happily flip,
Will keep you from moving south,
The cold of winter beckons at your minds door
Make sure to prop it open
so they can come inside.
Writers heed your calling,
You read long past stars,
making you intelligent
with words meant to be ours
but beware Astonishment,
for he is a rouge
who bottles you up
and eats you whole.
Writers heed your calling,
remember the meaning of your life,
the point behind it all.
that even in through the strife
you can't afford to fall.
Brush writer's block aside,
take charge of what you know,
and put the hate behind.
Writers heed your calling,
Trust your fellow man,
that when you are writing,
other's are writing your battle plan.
High SchoolBlank white walls,
Lockers sigh as they open,
contents sliding out,
like water in a stream.
You learn things here,
get new information
even if you don't want it
as the sky beckons from outside.
People rush by worried about
and romantic relationships.
They don't notice me,
I blend into the barren walls.
Doors engulf them,
sucking the students into the darkness.
There are so many things akin to,
The JungleMenagerie of hogs and cattle,
No returning from the machine,
Squealing hogs, swooping penalty,
Scraped, severed, slit, cut, chop, jerked
Screaming, crying, and squealing.
Skinning, chilling, boiling, labeling,
Carcasses inch-deep in blood,
Sinclair, Upton. The Jungle. New York: Bantam, 1981
Striking When I first watched the 1943 version of Pride and Prejudice I was already a huge fan of the book. It wound around in my mind like coil, curving and digging into my brain in some palaces while lightly brushing in others. Not surprisingly, I watched it alone, while my parents were out and I found myself captivated by the actors in the movie. The women weren't today's kind of beautiful. The ideal, big breasted, skinny women that men are supposed to fantasize about now days. They were curvy and a healthy kind of plump.
Their features were striking. I love that word, striking. I won't ever be gorgeous, but I have been called striking. That is my word. The one used to describe me. I am not plain or beautiful or ugly. I am striking. Maybe that's why I love older things. Back in the early 1900s, the more striking you were, the more people looked at you, the more you got to sing and dance. The more you got to be an artist and let your hair down as you
Bird The people in my neighborhood stare at me. It's not because I'm crazy like Jordan, who lives down the road in the blue house that her father repainted before we stopped being best friends. She would bounce down the street like springs were tied to her shoes, smiling with crooked teeth that she would hide when you smiled back with your teeth that were straight like cream, brick walls in your mouth.
I am a different girl, some say. Her head is off in the sky with the birds, flitting around ideas that don't make sense, no matter how hard she pulls on them with her beak. She doesn't chirp like a bird, but she sings. They don't talk about it when I'm there, but I can see it in the place in the center of the eye that betrays all lies and feelings. I'm good at hiding that place inside me. That way no one knows that inside I'm braking into tiny, cutting pieces that tear gashes into the deepest part of my soul. Torn into small fragments of myself as the
A Temporary Freedom In my head, I am free. Free to allow myself to dream of soft november mornings and cool summers where I would not melt in the suns fierce rage. Free to dream that my people are not just people that live in my imagination and spring to life when I ask it of them, like I am the puppet master and they are the puppets in my world. Where I am God for a short while, creating and destroying in turn. Sculpting the smallest detail of a meadow, down to the last blooming bud, while leaving the sky blank and starless for a short while. There, words twist like thread, stringing themselves together to create a tapestry of light in my minds eye. I sail along on the ship that is my conscience, my eyes alight with the strength of my excitement.
But when I look out the window into the other world beyond the sails go slack against the mast and my peoples face's slowly fade to black and the starless sky becomes white and blank like an empty page.
Can you blame me for resentin
Clean CanvasI go to my brothers school. It is like I have found a tear in time that sends me back to the time when I could still play with dolls and have imaginary friends without the concerned looks of those older than me. I sit on the blue kiva that I once hated so much because it had corners that caught my shoes whenever I tried to walk around it, and watch as people I once knew walk around the school, not even pausing to look my way. I wonder if they even know my name anymore. I can name them all.
"Mrs. Larson, Mrs. Sand, Mr. Johnson," the names rattle through my head like pennies in an empty jar. I pause slightly after each one to try to rub the rust away and look at it for what it was; a part of my personal history.
I wave at Mr. O, but he gives me only one passing glance, shaking his head like he meets people who wave at him vaguely all the time. It almost hurts that they cannot find it in their hearts to recall that I once went to school here, among the teeming masses of faces and names an
Left Overs It's not the same with boys. My brother can walk into a room and be expected to cruel and vague in his answers to questions directed at him by the room, seeming to breath life around him from all sides. He can suck in those words, engulfing them in the black hole of his mind, then spitting answers out like playing cards in a game that has been played too many times. I must always have something good to bring to the conversation or I will be brushed away from the holiday table, scrapped aside like the left-over turkey. Bones stick out of this turkey, only to be covered with gravy to hide the gravity of the bird body on the table. My words are like that gravy, hiding me inside. That gravy is made of human want and human lust. Yet it is also laced with human generosity. It is made of grades and expectations that haunt our every move, pestering us like the constant tat of a woodpecker against the pane of your window.
My brother moves how he wants, but
God, Whats Her Problem I sit at the table, smiling politely and nodding as that one girl tells me about her weekend in the mountains, her hand drifting over the rim of her plastic tray continually, The constant movement turns my blood a putrid orange, ready to burst forth in annoyance induced anger. I nod instead, wanting to be nice so in a moment, when I leave, she won't turn around and whisper, "God, what's her problem?"
The boy I sit next to in Biology always looks at my paper, smiling slightly as he does as though I'm that blind to him. I want to tell the teacher. but if I do then he will convince the school that I was the one in the wrong. More people wouldn't talk to me and I'd be all alone. He scratches his nose, not even bothering anymore to hide that he's cheating. Too bad for him. I raise my hand and respectfully request a seat change across the room to where it is absolutely silent and eyes are all sewn into place with words. I'm allowed, but as I move I look over and
ZL - truce[Alix, Aurelio] PAST, over 9000 years ago (bun you requested this i’m so not sorry)
“Hey,” Aurelio says softly as he sets a coffee down in front of Alix’s face and sits on the desk. “Thought you could use the pick-me-up.”
The other looks up from the appalling amount of paperwork he’s currently working (drowning) in. “Thank you,” Alix says simply and smiles at him. “It’s not as bad for today; only three o’clock and I’ve gotten through this much red tape. That’s something to be said, right?”
Aurelio nods-shrugs. “It’s still the same amount of paperwork, either way, and most of it would do better in a fire or a shredder. Or eaten. Like this.” He quickly tears out one of the coversheets and stuffs it into his mouth, chewing almost comically while he waits for his saliva to work. “Y’ see what I mean?” He evades all of Alix’s attempts to rescue the p
Emergency KitIn Case Of Emergency, Break Glass,
And stare into the pieces.
Bask in your shattered reflection
One of the words I’ve been keeping close to the inside of my forehead, almost between both eyes in fact, but like just above that between mark, so that when I blink I can feel the word there…is the word harmony.
It’s a word that I keep in my mind, in that spot aforementioned, not only for what harmony is all about and means and could mean and feels like and gives to me to keep in a spot that binds me to it, but for the fact that keeping one word in mind manages to make a supreme difference to how I think in everything I do and say.
Harmony is something that is. Like if I don’t think about harmony, or am not aware of harmony, it still is. Harmony was, too. I mean harmony was always there in my life, and still is. Yet I never used to hold it in my mind, or even play with its meaning or value, in my mind. So it was like it wasn’t even there, I could say. But I don’t say that, cause it was, simply cause n
Eyes of Optimism The walls were dirty, the floor scattered with trash and broken toys. The sink was filled with dirty dishes and empty beer bottles were scattered throughout the rooms. There wasn't much good to say about it, and there was plenty of reasons not to want to move into a hovel that would look much like this one, only cleaner.
But all she saw were walls that would keep her safe, a place to sleep and feel at home, if only for a little while. She saw windows and light. She saw cabinets and a stove and a refridgerator. She saw herself entering these rooms and relaxing quietly, maybe by a small fire-place-like electric heater, with her cat. She could see her mixed matched furniture fitting in well in a place like this.
In her mind, she could hear Carrie Underwood singing "Temporary Home." She knew this wasn't the place she would, or even could, stay at for the rest of her life. She knew she'd end up moving, far away with any hope, and that she would leav
Even More Robot Angst [Preview Post]Life is not a matter of holding good cards, but of playing a poor hand well.
- Robert Louis Stevenson
Date: 6th January, 2014
Time: 5 AM
Location: Lucky 7 Casino
Sweet Mother of Venus, the things that went on in this robot’s head at times… possibly not even Tardis would understand him if she could only hear him right now.
Working hours were long gone, but the former ranger wouldn’t go home just now… maybe he’d even take a little trip to get a bit lubricated after this, but for now he just remained sitting at an empty table, the broom next to him indicating that he technically still had work to do, but just for this morning, XR had decided to take a prolonged break.
For a long while now, he’d done nothing but just to sit at this table and glance at a bunch of cards he’d laid out in front of him as though there was some kind of structure behind it and with th
Years~And as the Queen came riding up, a one eyed boy made his way over.
Y e a r s ~
And as the Queen came riding up, her humble servant bowed before her.
Babylonian Medley #3: Absolutely PositiveYou made the lentil soup yourself. No-one can make it the way that you do. A dash of this and that. Humble ingredients that are spun together to make a meal fit for a noble. At least, you think so. Many nobles have disagreed with you on the matter.
Perhaps that is why they needed to die.
It isn't that you killed them for lacking in good culinary taste or simply disagreeing with you. But they couldn't appreciate the simple things. They couldn't see the refinement of humility or the grandeur therein. This had many different consequences. One of them was that they were unable to appreciate the best things in life. Another was that you have been been killing them whenever you could get away with it.
That's life, isn't it? And it's also life that you won't be able to kill any more of them. And life that they'll die soon anyway.
It's done. Babylon the great has fallen. Your dreams of empire crushed to dust.
And here you are, all alone, eating lentil soup.
There are books all around you. Surr
Can you imagine living your entire life scared - constantly being frightened, without ever really knowing why? Should you try to be big and strong, plant deep roots and live like the spotted gum? Or, should you lay low, bend with the worst of the winds like grass?
Choose the gum, and there will be a cyclone. Choose grass, and there will be a fire.
Should you dig in and hide? Sooner or later, something bad will happen where you are. Maybe try to roam – steer clear of danger? Will that keep you safe, or just lead you into disaster quicker?
So, instead, you shove your head into the sand and hope for the best, knowing all the while, sooner or later, something terrible will bite you on the arse.
How can you tell if you can run faster than what’s coming, when you don’t know what it is that is coming?
But, of course you don’t know what I mean. You’ve never been curled up on th
The Mirror GirlI am crouched over myself, trying hard not to fall over. The nerves in my feet send telegrams to my brain, screaming at it to stop me from moving. I hate this, I hate this, I hate this! My mind is on repeat, the recording forever replaying, over and over. The other girls can just move and she smiles and claps, her fingers the only things that move faster than this endless tempo of music that sets my nerves on edge. I glance at the clock. An eternity until I'm free.
"Moorea!" she shrieks in that voice that is too sweet to be human. To pink to be real. "There you are. Will you try the steps, now?"
I shake my head, praying that it will come off so I won't have to step out there in front of all the other girls and stare at myself in the mirror that seems to portray different people than the people I know. The girl in the mirror who grimaces stares me in the eye. She feels the same thing I do and I can take comfort in that. At least she understands. She turns as I do, the same awkward, clun
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Lilyas has dedicated herself to making our community a brighter place with her vibrant artwork and infectious enthusiasm for interacting with others in our community. It has certainly paid off, as many deviants flock to her page on a daily basis to let her know how much of an inspiration she is. We absolutely agree, and couldn't let all that hard work go without recognition, so it's with great pride that we bestow the Deviousness Award for March 2014, to ... Read More