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GrowthThe mystery slowly comes into focus
The haze of uncertainty,
Dissolves into a calm confidence.
I am the earth, emerging suitable to plant
Desire, to protect gentle roots
To Aerate new innovation
I am the gardener, cultivating and pruning
Decision, of what matures,
And what I let whither.
A MortocycleThe sound of the motor
Once a siren of joy
Now brings only dread
Sick thoughts in my head
This too shall pass
Red fades into black
Black becoming white
New beginnings in sight
My rhyme is contrived
Words flowing like cheap wine
Sick thoughts in my head
Doubt, Shame, and Hope
Write out each new note
To me it all sounds the same
Echoed pestilence through my brain.
The Eternal Story: Character Exposition 2/3 ChanceAs I stare at this blank page, he is infinite potential. The choices that we posses, the very things that separate us from each other, make life possible. Our desire to prove and explain simultaneously drives and improves us, as it collapses the infinite potential that exists within everything that is left unobserved.
The most personally relatable of the Three, Chance inhabits and embodies humanity. He is our freedoms, joys and unbridled expectations. Every choice, mistake, success or providence that we have enjoyed or lamented, is only possible through reality and limited existence.
Purpose, unsure and striving. The unknown. He is ruled by temptation and chaos. The only love he knows is passion, irate and inconsolable.
Rage consumes the inexperienced. Our insecurity manages our day-to-day lives in the struggle for control, acceptance, and understanding.
So much of his portrayal can only be explained through his actions.
Chance is the flame that ignites the fuse; it is his struggle tha
The Eternal Story: Character Exposition 1/3- TimeFather Time is not old, for to be so, he would have to be a patron of his own cycle. He is, has always been, as long as there has been anything in existence. Which is to say forever, because if there is not something, there is nothing, and time is not relevant.
He is constant, relative to each realm of existence, and yet unyielding to conscious woes. A compilation of heat, space, and development; never dictated; yet never fully understood. Sheer comprehension is impossible without perspective, and within perspective, lies restriction.
Time bears no emotion. That would equate to limitation, and thereby "humanity" as it will so superfluously be named. In a constant superposition of interpretation, simultaneously faster or slower when compared to the varying observer. Yet on each scale a distinct tempo is unchangeable, as if he does control every realm to some degree. The beauty of parenthood; to create and guide a life, through an environment specific to each being, and yet remain comple
My Little BirdThe evening kisses cool on the back of my neck. I huddle smaller despite the mildness of the breeze. My thoughts turn inward, abandoning civility as I forget to remember again. Christine is a miraculous disaster. She inherently empowers everyone around her. The chaos that is my consciousness every time she walks through it, as carelessly as haphazard. I form a nest, plant a feeder of tempting humbugs, in the hopes that she will settle for a short while, and let me watch. Snap photographs of my imagination; little intangible keepsakes that contain fragile, happy feelings that manifest only for her. My little bird. I let her fly, and she never returned. I am never truly disappointed. It is impossible for me to feel anything but optimistic and positive when she is in my mind. Smitten.
I travel on in the illusion I created for myself when I feel a crunch under my foot. The pink smoke blows from my eyes, and I see a slight, porcelain, little girl; her left arm now dismembered. Such a beauti
Turning PointThe mounting pressure in my chest grows palpable, as it travels and hardens as a knot in my throat. Reasoning has left my mind today, the forces of another facet of my being taking over.
A slow burning panic, inhabiting unwelcome and causeless the void of my most vulnerable insecurities.
When favor smiles upon those accustomed to combat, ones best suited for endurance in contention; favor does not relieve the beating need for survival, the anticipation of the unknown adversary.
Expression; my outlet. That or sabotage the good that has removed me from comfortable elements. The return to turmoil a tempting, beckoning escape.
I arrive here, granted my silver lining made cognizant and physical for the first time in my life. The chaos in my mind is merely a building conception that I deserve better than constant torment.
I can only strive for understanding, before my previous poisons sour the taste of this truly superb love potion brewing.
A lifeA life
when i stimulated the prayers of rib-beat
when i licked the temple of my teeth,
speed pushed my fingers shaped like confessionals
clasped holy, carved my throat to fixing-
lover; i did this for the anthem of your eyes,
the feel of strangled feet crushing the fame of stars
for the glow of streetlight worship, for the moons
of your crooning throat, for the halls of your arms,
the strayed revels of your arms,
lover: you manufactured a god out of the drugs i used
and had me addicted to the divine, to the dignity of music
you pressed in my direction: just what i am, hallelujah,
marijuana, day and night-
lover, i fell in love with your culture
that preached the real definition of dusked kneecaps,
the plea of closeted throats, the whisper of bless,
unlearning how to say please god in borrowed tongue,
i fell in love with your attention, nervous grace
lover. i levied the rubble of my sins
Synesthesia - III have learned not to say
when your voice burns under my tongue -
learned not to shiver
at the cold of sirens on the street -
learned not to describe
the pricks and strokes and touches.
I have learned that skin cannot hear,
nor ears feel
(whichever it is).
How strange to think:
I may travel all my life
and never find a lover who can hold my laugh in his palms.
Even The City KnowsIs it at all easy?
Being by yourself, I mean.
Sitting in a car, on a train, on a bus--wherever you might be now, isn't it hard to be a drifter?
There are no men with newspapers, no women with strollers, no love-crazy teenagers, no annoying toddlers, no anybody.
You stare out the window, like there are people out there, calling your name. The trees are out there, and they've lost all their leaves, all their buds--they've lost everything, just like you.
The sky is out there, and it's gray and colorless, just like you.
The stars are out there, and they're so blown-out-of-proportion, and they're just like you, too.
But the trees, the skies, the stars, they're used to being left alone.
You lack the ebullience of your drink, but it, too, is fading.
Frost has gathered on windows, on the ground, on rivers, everywhere.
Frost comes and goes, just like you, when you finally melt away.
The city draws to darkness and quiet--it disappears, just like you.
But, even frost
the tattoo artist.she finds gems hidden underneath my skin and
rips them out with her teeth, the sores
along my arms swelling with pride and red; never
has she wondered if the pain would make me
grit my teeth into powder—no, she knows
i take it like a man takes steak:
raw and tough and bloody, like my fingers
after picking scabs to let some fresh air in; her
words are etched on the point of a needle, and she
is a tattoo artist drilling ink into my body, her lines
thick with moxie: "alive" splayed out across
my wrist, "awake" above my heart—she paints
a vision on my eyelids of an endless sky and
tells me it doesn't belong to me, but that i
can have it; perhaps foolishly,
i believe her every word
Where my corpse is foundAs I lay here,
On the guest room's bed,
My grandmother exchanges the oxygen
for the delectable scents of cinnamon, sugar, candy.
She does this through the magic of baking
Gingerbread Men, Gingerbread Houses, Yule logs, Candy Canes.
While I smell my cruel ex-boyfriend's suffocating tangy cologne.
I hear the laughter of people outside the streets.
Their loud, cheerful voices show the huge smiles on their frost bitten faces.
While my ears hear the bitter melody of arguments.
My parents' failure to stay together as promised in a holy place
caused my lovely imprisonment here at my sweet grandparents' house.
Through the slight opening of my door and through the windows,
Color penetrates the Darkness I have worked hard to create.
One usually embraces the Illuminating Decorations.
While I lie down here to reminisce my friends
Who are Traitors;
Proof of their conniving betrayal was the broken art project
of A Christmas Star
sitting alone on the floor.
People at this time feel w
An apologythere are books of memory
I scribbled in them with crayon and
seeped flowers into their spines when I was young.
Tearing the edges, I filled it with my life.
Now my hands shake.
Muscle slipping, dead ink spilling
marking my veins like
sin soaks the soul.
with so many lost lines
you would never find,
the first fresh stroke of its creator
or, the final sigh of the full stop
exhaling the memory
that it once was something-
a blank page,
a fresh breeze cooling you,
wrapping her hands around your neck.
And me, telling her secrets until
it overruns her with inky sickness.
Among my loves I still beg mercy
while carving my suffering.
My pen ripping into where my voice and hands
were never brave.
Tearing into pages of all things
like the dress of a lover.
If I could, I would leave a note, saying:
Forgive my words that cut you,
I only do it so I can live
with the poison inside.
ParalyzedManic action crippled by indecision
Over saturation of option
I could run a marathon
Scream loud and long
Pick a fight
Destroy an opportunity
Do something drastic and irrational
To equalize the pressure between
And the treacherous ocean.
And I do.
Fidgeting in my chair,
It all happens within me.
Red Letter Day - Prologue
So here I am, writing.
I’m writing, I’m writing – just as you told me to.
I’m writing, I’m writing, I’m writing.
Have you ever noticed that when the sun goes down, this flat changes? It does. The walls are white during the day and lingering brown at night. During the day, I’m with you and the light from outside paints the walls that heavenly color. But when that sun goes down, the demons wake and I’m alone again, even though you’re just a room away.
Somehow it seems less threatening tonight, and I think it’s because you’ve given me an assignment to try and fight off the darkness. You gave me a stack of papers and a pen and told me to write everything that comes to mind.
It’s a strange feeling to have complete freedom. These empty pages are mine to do whatever I please – I could even wipe my ass with them – but they’re also terribly intimidating. The blank page has always been a nemesis of man. It&
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^Nyx-Valentine arrived in our community and started whipping everyone into a frenzy with her relentless desire to bring the Artistic Nude and Fetish galleries to the fore. 9 years later, and it's safe to say that Nyx is not only a leader as a photographer in these galleries, but she has also established herself as a much saught after model. ^... Read More