|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
Art Needs YouA scene can be painted with words as well as brush strokes. The words are like the colors. There tone, the specific word, can change the meaning of a sentence drastically. The page, whether it is a computer page or paper, is the canvas.
It is the blank slate that an artist must put their mark. The idea can be daunting-How am I to fill a space so white? So blank? Then the words-or the paint-begin to flow. The idea was there all along, just waiting to be freed. It may not be what was originally intended, but it is art nonetheless. It doesn’t have to be Da Vinci or Hemingway. It may never reach greatness. However, you created something, no matter how novice, or how professional. Its practice, learning, and heart. You can’t have art without heart.
You pour heart and soul into everything you create. It makes the art come to life. You post it with faith and hope. Faith that you’d done the best you could. Hope that others would like what you worked so hard to create
Time MachinePeople always dream about being able to go back in time,
but what they don't realize is that they can.
Every time you read a story, listen to a record,
or watch an old film, you're time traveling.
So go ahead, pick up a book, listen to a classic tune,
watch a movie, and discover your time machine.
Nothing SpecialOur world is nothing special. It is nothing more than a collection of statistical averages. What we once believed to be the centre of the universe and all creation, is in fact, just one planet of many, orbiting one star of many, in a galaxy of many. And it is not extraordinary.
Earth sits at neither the top, nor the bottom of any scale. It does not have the highest mountains, the deepest canyons, the biggest volcanoes, or the wildest weather. We are neither the hottest, nor the coldest. We cannot even claim to have the most moons.
Even our brother and sister planets are not at the top of their respective scales. Jupiter, whom we once regarded as the benchmark of giants, is not the largest planet out there. Nor is Mercury the hottest. Nor Pluto the coldest. Even our sun, our very own Sol is not the biggest, brightest or hottest thing in the sky. It is an average star, with average planets. It exists in a galaxy, which is, in itself, only average.
And yet, despite this, despite the sheer
Poetry and Photography- A personal quote of mineI capture things with a camera. I let go of things with words. My artistic pursuit is a never-ending story of catch-and-release; I never get to keep my ideas for very long...
I am an artist.“Why do you like drawing so much?”
Drawing allows me to sketch out my ideas on paper. It allows me to zone out of the world - just for a little while - so I can catch my breath.
“I don’t get how you can just sit inside and draw all day.”
I don’t get how you cannot. Drawing is like entering a whole different world to me, sometimes one that I like more than my own. It’s like a new adventure every time I flip to the next page of my drawing book.
“I would much rather be outside doing something.”
That’s what you want, but not me. Maybe this is what I find for pleasure. Creating and shaping my own characters is my activity and I enjoy it, just like you enjoy your outdoor activities.
“I want to get out there and actually make my day worth something, not just sit in front of a piece of paper.”
Maybe some of us don’t like making it big. Maybe some of us enjoy the peace and serenity of drawing. I believe creating a pic
EncouragmentOur days are numbered, and ain't that true?
You look on the news and only see whats prophecized in the Book of Revelations, but what can you do?
It's important that we expose people to Christ and his miracles. No, we cannot always influence them to believe, but we can at least tell them about the man of peace.
As for those who do/ who are beginning to realize Christ, try not to look forward to the upcoming days, but to Christ coming back. No matter what trials society tries to give us, no matter the discrimination we will feel, just always take refuge in Christ.
No matter what happens, if you believe Christ with all your heart and you choose to live by his ways, you will have a place in his home.
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.
All Here For A ReasonI turned onto a shady, well-manicured driveway that, for all intents and purposes, looked harmless enough. Maple trees lined both sides of the street, and a parade of Canadian geese marched across the road to a wide duck pond with a flamboyant fountain. There were blooming crepe myrtles and rose-of-sharons, and as I grew closer to my destination, neatly trimmed gardens with neatly trimmed bushes.
I stopped to let the geese pass. They looked at me; one hissed. I honked my horn and moved around them.
At the end of the road sat a collection of grayish buildings and a number of signs directing me to the appropriate parking lot. "Welcome to Ten Creeks Hospital," said one of them. "Please enjoy your stay." I parked in the visitor's lot. Surely I wouldn't be staying.
I was shaking when I got out of my car. I had spent the morning getting high. One foot in front of the other, flip-flop noises, hot sidewalk. Mulberry and magnolia trees, freshly shaved grass. A bench and pan for smokers. A set o
Keep in Touch!