|Deviant Login||Shop||Join deviantART for FREE||Take the Tour|
This evening.Shall I describe to you my favorite colors?
There are two of them, quite ordinary if you ask.
The first is the shade of the underside of a hawk's wings, as an autumn sunset hits the feathers.
It's liquid copper sunlight, woven by God into a glorious shape.
The second shares the same season.
It's the clear autumn sky, at twilight.
So cliche, I know, but that's what makes it ordinary.
The pale yellow on the horizon, going down the gradient into chilled orange, blue-gold.
And then that first sight of navy, that first instance of stars in the velvet.
That is the second color.
A blue so deep I could stare for hours, did it not last only a few short minutes.
They are my favorite colors.
Mine and my own.
Ordinary, and commonplace.
But fantastic and lovely.
Essay, unnabridgedThe year is 2013 and my high school, the hypothetical last refuge in the area against the undead, has been breached. After the first of the zombie scum entered the building, through a door left open by a scavenging patrol, panic spread quickly. I abandoned my friends in the crowd, grabbed my schoolbag, and sprinted with the flow of terrified people. I broke off into a nearly-empty hallway, populated by similar minded people desperately attempting to find a hiding place. The had nothing with them but their adrenalin-heightened fear; unlike me, they had not planned for a situation like this, a situation where the safety of the last haven in Frederick would be destroyed.
Unlike the sorry souls I turned my back on, I had thought through this scenario countless times. In the corner of the cafeteria, where my friends and I set up base, I found myself with ample time to think. I'd hoarded small supplies, filling my school bag not with the now arbitrary textbooks, but with survival gear.
the Companion taxGive me breath, give me life, but don't give me your validation, I know I'm right.
I know that what I feel is how I should feel, and I don't need you to tell me I should feel guilty or proud of it.
It's my essence and I'm not ashamed and I don't need your opinion of me for support; I stand on my own.
So let me breath and let me live and then I can give you my devotion and myself.
That is all I ask for me from you, from me to you.
Wild RideTry not to lose your place in your life
We'll be returning to this page
But outside the book is a world unwritten
I'm here to free you from your paper cage
Buckle up and strap in
Just fake it for a while
Remove the silicone from your fun-dip
Give me a great big smile
You've always been one to turn
Your stubborn face towards the sun
And question "why" when people said you couldn't
You'll have your answers when we're done
Outside your pages is a world
That they don't want you to see
A world of "why's" and "what if's"
A world where you want to be
By the time our time together is complete
You'll have your answers my dear
This world unwritten has no rules against it
But your answers may not be completely Clear
Find them yourself, I'm only your tour guide
I'll hand you nothing but the means
When I return you to your routine written pages
Pick your book apart at the seams.
New Age SocietyI remember distinctly
Yes, I remember quite well
It was neither the last time nor the first time
That you told me to go to Hell.
It was that middle time,
Somewhere on Memory Lane,
When I said "see you there, bitch,"
and suddenly I saw the insane.
In our New-Age society,
Where even the label-less have labels,
Children are taught from birth
Skewed, hate-twisted fables,
Of greed and strife and hidden morals
That the Only way through life
Is also through battle and quarrel.
You're twice as likely going to find
Someone pointing legislature, rather than a gun.
It's equally as dangerous,
Two-times the reason to run,
Such a major cause of so much anxiety
So much discontent
In this New-Age Society.
In this New-Age Society,
I have no memory of better times gone by
Instead I have a childhood of discrimination
Sweet Nothings'if i could, i would devour you. i would eat you whole, consume you mind, body, and soul. because i am a selfish person. i want you all to myself. no one else may have you.' he said to her, as they lay tangled in each other.
her reply came with a sleepy smile.
'there is a part of my mind which understands the intended romance in your statement. that part is wooed by it. there is also a part which insists upon my realizing the reality, the literal. you, my dear, are a cannibal.'
he placed a kiss on her head.
'well, we'll have to work hard then, to make sure that you are only wooed. we will make you want to be eaten. we will make it so that part of your mind which is literal, is quiet, so when i whisper sweet nothings into your ears, you are completely swept away. lifted off your feet by my obvious romantic intention.'
The Useless PlentyThey pass us every day. On the streets, or in school buildings, they'll nudge by us on their way to some place else. Some place, not here. But we're already there. Our minds have taken us father than their legs ever will.
And they don't understand. They try, certainly, but their have their mundane drama and appearance while we concern ourselves with whatever fills the spaces. The little cracks, filled with stray passions like windows stuffed with cloth in the winter. To keep the empty out.
This is for the girl with cuts up her arms, raised from the skin, and the boy who drinks bottles of cough syrup for the alcohol content. This is for the girl who dyes her hair to hide, but in doing so, says, "Hello, World. Here I am. Suck on it." This is for the boy who lives for his image, cultivates it carefully for the public eye, then will go home and watch anime or a sci-fy show, and doesn't care who knows.
They pass us. There is a distinction, the "us" and the "them." Within the us, there are s
Jerky“Dad, is that guy jerky?” I ask as we pull up alongside a car, towards which my father is throwing dirty looks. He ceases, and exchanges a look with my mother at the comment.
Minutes pass. It may have been days, but it does not matter, because I am again in the rear passenger seat of our first Honda. Strapped into the back, but not into a booster seat anymore; I am a big girl, and the laws are different in Canada. My father is again driving, my mother occupies the seat in front of me.
“That guy is jerky,” I say with conviction, sure that this time, I am right. I even point so they know who I’m talking about, the man in the car that caused father to growl for some reason. Again though, mother and father say nothing. The giants in the front seats simply exchange another look. The kind of look that makes me think I shouldn’t have said what I said. But I don’t understand.
Father calls other drivers jerky all the time, especially when they act like
And best of luck to the boysAnd best of luck to the boys in the band
on the rest of their lives
I wish you all well while we sit here
trying to get by
without the music that kept us alive
And let's give them all a great big hand
a rowdy applause for the boys in the band
we'll manage and make it somehow, I'm sure
sick and dying hospital patients
without the music that was our cure
ConfusedRight is wrong
And wrong is right
Pain is pleasure
And pleasure is pain
It's an upside down world
In my messed up mind
To liveThought process;
To live vicariously through another
until we see the illusion within illusions
which reality do we set our foundation in
until we decide to move into another realm
its all real in the minds eye
there are no real hidden truths
just complacency within our own tolerances
What dictates drive under such circumstances?
The psychology of multiple selfs
pieces hidden from one another until the right moment
we mourn for ghosts
because beauty can't exist without loss
the clock ticks and we're quick to cast morality into different shades
to predict our mortality
based on experience
based on fact
based on a drive to understand
but moreover- to live
LOVENothing else matters
Creativity is the path
Love is the ultimate
form of communication.
But it can be
Love is simplicity,
Love is small,
you cannot find it
in the big things.
Love is how wind passes
Through chimes or the
squeak of your porch swing
The amount of love
for a place depends on
the amount of time
spent in that place.
Love for people
is what they help
in that place,
what you discovered
to you, how it led
to the completeness
of your soul.
Nothing you buy
can complete you,
unless it is a means
What you read
cannot complete you
but what you learned
from that reading
can lead you to
discovering what is
hidden about yourself.
What you eat
cannot complete you,
it can only supply you
with energy and will
to further complete
and discover new mysteries.
What you watch
cannot complete you
but only give you
vague insight of
what you do not know
AntecedenceWhen something is amiss, no matter how bad.. judge the cause of the problem, rather than
the consequence of it
It's easier to frown upon the one who is overwhelmed.. reacting.. and heard. It should be
understood why. Like fire, pain and it's consequence.. doesnt start on it's own
Reticent (minor trigger warnings)Do not speak to me of hate until you have carved the word into your own skin. You know nothing of self-loathing until you court a razor's edge to feel alive. And you have not truly felt pain until you wish that you had died.
The broken suffer behind walls as strong and cold as steel. They do so not to entice themselves into feeling protected, but rather, to keep out the bigotry, discrimination, and hateful stigmas hurled at their feet. Shame and solitude are too commonly experienced by those that most need compassion and understanding.
So do not speak to me of loneliness unless you have been cast out for revealing what you truly are. Do not dare to judge the broken and rejected unless you have been shattered by those you once thought cared. Do not leer and make light of the scars etched into my skin. Never do any of these until you truly know where I have been.
I will never say anything. Because you will Never feel or understand the way I do. If I had a penny for every time that I have
Is there a Polar for In Between?We live in a world of...
Yet we all live together.
If red was blue
And blue, red.
...Then what is yellow?
saying ... 5?"even the strongest of us have a right to cry. for crying is not weakness. it is not giving up. I is not lowering your guard. tears help us to heal and show us that we are still human no matter what we have been through. it may take a while for tears to flow. it may take years for hurt to show. but if your heart still aches from old wounds or bleeds from a fresh break the dry well of your soul will begin to flood and tears will finally wash away the pain of the past. no matter how recent the injury. we must cry in order to heal. remember that even the strongest of us have our breaking points."
- Megumi Susanowo
Patriotismo Artificial Patriotismo Artificial
Un aniversario luctuoso, ése debería ser un mejor nombre para estas fechas. He llegado al punto de ignorar estos días de una manera mucho mayor que como lo hago con las épocas decembrinas; durante la euforia de los regalos, aunque en esos días de Diciembre puedo dejar que el frío entumezca mis quejas.
Ahora sólo me cuesta trabajo dejar que el alcohol o la comida típica me anime. No hay mucho que hacer en un pueblo pequeño. A no ser que las opciones permanezcan sospechosamente limitadas. Agregaré las visitas dominicales a la iglesia en esta vaga lista.
El eco del bar nunca beneficia a las tonadas vocales del cantante, todas y cada una parecen estar fuera de tono. No parecía que los tragos secos de tequila le beneficiaran en absoluto. En cambio, los instrumentos se lucen por encima de una actuación mediocre, aunque debo de admitir que si pudiera reducir su volumen lo haría en u
The ProblemThe youth today does not know how to talk. We do not know how to talk to one another nor do we know how to talk to anyone outside our age group, capable of articulating but not transferring meaning with out spoken words. Yet we have profound conversations through text messages, using less than 160 words, and know exactly how to transfer our feelings and thoughts into abbreviated words and sentences so that others will understand them easily. However, they have no depth. Any actual conversation, two of us face-to-face, is awkward and harsh, unless there has been left enough time for the two to come to know each other. Upon first meeting, it is rare that eye contact will be made. Jokes and jests are made, in attempt to connect, and numbers are exchanged, maybe. That is when the communication begins. Not when two people have the opportunity to talk, unlimited words, pay nothing, but when they have limited words counts and little chance for actual connection.
IowaIf you visit Iowa,
you'll call her fields empty,
but she wasn't born that way.
A part of her was carved out
when she was ripped between Virginia
and the purple mountains of New Mexico.
Her gold hair, she tore it out when she realized
it didn't make her a princess.
She laid her locks strung along every road
leading somewhere else.
White hairs on her cheeks
are scars from winter.
Her hair darkens with the dampness
of summer rains.
The storms are never silent,
but neither is life when there's a tear
in your childhood where
a parent ought to be.
I've been flooded by Iowa's sorrow.
The only way I can distract her from her own voided landscape
is if I hate myself harder than she cries.
She just wants to fly
and I want to bus or train,
not because I fear death, but because
I want to take living slow.
It's the only way I ever feel.
From the air it's hard to watch Earth's hips move.
But Earth can't compare to the country.
That's my girl.
Full grown even when harvesting season's j
Keep in Touch!
scheinbar is a much-loved and well-known deviant. Just one look at her gallery, filled with enchanting photography, will have you mesmerized. A deviant for over 7 years, Christiane can always be found posting inspirational features as well as regularly commenting on other deviations and encouraging and empowering her fellow deviants. We are inspired and insist that you too stop by and congratulate ... Read More