For so long I was stuck,
but then inspiration struck.
I found the right idea, at last
and now I'm on my way.
We're ThereAnd so, at last, we've reached the inevitable end,
the destination we've been chasing all along.
A bittersweet resolution to everything we've done
and now, I guess, it's time to say so long.
The Myth of IndependenceYou say "hell is other people.",
but where do you think you'd be
if everyone around you
shared your misanthropic view?
in a world of apathy,
what exactly is it
that you think that you could do?
So That HappenedJust when I thought that it
was over, said and done,
something told me that
it's only just begun.
So I took another shot
and tried with all my might,
I only hope that it's
enough to make things right.
Misanthropic Abandon“Hell is other people”,
a wise man once did say
and from where I'm standing,
they can all just go away.
No one is an island,
but I'm damn sure going to try.
They only people I want to know
are me, myself and I.
MediocrityIn the mushy middle
right between loved and despised.
With no distinguishing features,
but potential unrealized.
It leaves no lasting impression,
just emphatic apathy
so all that's left to say
is that there's nothing here to see.
I'm FreeBreaking out of old
and their inherent
until all that's left
to embrace the
to say exactly
Don't StopI've got to keep on moving,
there's no time to take a break.
If I let up now,
it just might be my last mistake.
I need to take a breath,
but just can't afford to slow.
I've made too little progress
and I've got too far to go.
DigitariaA survivor of a war
that will never be won
makes its way through the cracks
bent on finding the sun.
The tenacious invader,
Doing all that it can
just to live one more day.
sempiternalWhen I grow old
For when rainbows dilute and notebooks fatten
on times untimely passing,
when the moon falls out of kilter with a sun that
curdles in a sad, forgotten sky,
and the rain congeals inside the clouds
when the slurry of seconds sinks deep into my bones
and my skin crumples like parchment, my spine coils and splinters
and my fingers buckle, knuckle-cracking -
when my dreams fade like polaroids in sunshine
and my memories break free from their kitestrings
unanchored and drifting in such dulcet mindmurk and I watch
the world crumble from gold into grey.
I want a thousand laugh-lines
for they will be the maps to better times
so I can find my way back
The Rumour of IcarusIcarus
there is a rumour that your father killed you, that
he bent your wings until they broke and then
told you, "Fly."
If this rumour is true, then it lives in the throats of
those fragile boys who wear your death like Cain's mark,
whose tender hands split like swollen tomatoes when
they pluck strangled seabirds, whose
arms slump beneath the weight of their father's genius.
And this rumour lives on
the under-skin of their eyelids so that when they die
or simply sleep
they dream of their fathers
or maybe just of Daedalus, standing with
his hands full of feathers and wax,
their blood-flecked down under his fingernails.
your face is gone, icarus, you are a warning & a tragedy &
the patron saint of boys who will not listen but also you are a god, icarus,
a god to these boys and still, when you fell
said Bruegel in oils, Auden and Williams in verse
no one gave a damn.
they also say that your father strained the sunlight into an amphora
and told you, "Dri
December 25thDecember 25th and I've had 365 days to forget
your aunt's incredible roast turkey and braiding tinsel
through your sister's hair and interpretive dancing
to cheesy carols with your drunken Uncle Mark.
Firelight flickered across the curve
of your lips, the shadow of your jaw
and boy, you were beautiful,
all smoke and cinnamon.
December 25th and I'm ignoring the urge
to mess up your sleet slickened hair
and the fact that your card now says "from"
instead of "love".
I almost don't notice the way your eyelashes
glitter with snowflakes
and the fact that you look adorable
while you laughingly attempt to make a snow angel.
December 25th and I'm going to cheer
along with the rest of them
when you kiss her under the mistletoe
and then I'll gush about how sweet her embarrassed blushes are.
The pudding is brim filled with wishes
and maybe this year they'll come true better
than the last, because it seems "forever"
was too much to ask for.
Is that supposed to be insulting?"Lesbian!"
You say that like it's a bad thing
like it's something i should be ashamed of.
But why? Because I happen to fall in love with the same gender?
That my interests are out of the ordinary?
That I dye my hair wacky colors and wear clothes that don't fit your normal?
I see nothing wrong with that.
People really suck at insults.
To Us- Synesthesiai.
excites a burst
of color; an
tastes of mangoes;
caressing my senses.
your flavor is
all become a
"T" is crabby
and "I" worries.
"J" is strong
each number becomes
its own plane
all the numbers
becoming an army
of curvy rows,
a perfect pattern.
each and every one
a different hue,
a different shade,
Gender massacre.anatomy is like a cage, that tears away any hope.
born this way, born that way,
our mind chooses nothing.
do we choose what we are? Or does anatomy?
long hair, tight skirts, weak.
thank you, society.
flailing body parts, vulgar dancing, bare.
thank you, ladies.
give those who identify as women a stereotype by wearing more makeup
baggy shorts, shaved heads, muscles.
thank you, society.
patronizing insults, unnessecary grunts, aggressive.
thank you, gentlemen.
give those who identify as men a stereotype by cheating at poker, where
a woman's heart's on the table.
you can't be either,
you can't be both
[this is what you teach me, society.
this is what you teach yourselves, society.]
rip off this skin of mine
rip off these assumptions
rip off the ignorance
and call me human.
What is art?
'Describe what you call art'
To me art is something from the heart.
It's an embodiment of a vision,
It's a display of ambition.
An artist's work is never done,
Cause to the artist the work is only part of the fun.
An artist tries to show his emotions,
While sometimes hiding his true motions.
They say the eyes are the gate to the soul,
That's why an artist will never look foul.
They guide people through a world only they see,
A world filled with mountains, miracles, oceans and land seas.
So whenever somebody asks me: 'What is art?'
I do not only answer: "Something straight from the heart,
It's everything we know and that which we don't know.
It's hidden by the illusion of reality only certain people can see through."
2P Romano Hetaloid x Reader (Part 2)“talking”, ‘thinking’
Despite you pleads Flavio kept undressing you, leaving you only in your (color) frilly undergarments. “Frills definitely suit you my bella ragazza but I wouldn’t mind taking those off for you too~” “NO!” You quickly avoided his hands as he was reaching for the clip of you bra, and since beggar can’t be choosers you picked up the first piece of clothing you got your hands on. “Aaww~ Alright mio amore you can still wear it but only if you put on that dress you got” “Fine, I’ll be back” You went into your room and locked the door to change only to realize what dress you have picked out. It was a short (color) maid dress that you bought yesterday just thinking you could wear it for fun while cleaning the house.
‘Dear God why!? …Maybe I can escape through my window and-’ “(f/n)~! You done? Don’t make me go in there~” “Fuck my life”
Six Words for a SlumpSix Words For A Slump:
You're tired, unable to create anything.
You feel angry; the anatomy's wrong!
Why won't these words come together?
"Nothing's right anymore, my hands tremble..."
Yet the solution is fairly simple...
I'm showing it to you now;
Break up your ideas, smaller sized.
They come together, like in Tetris.
Rotate the blocks; shape your art.
Draw chibis and stick figures too.
Instead of epics, try a haiku.
How about a six word story?
If your mind is blocked, overheated.
Let it cool; take it slow.
By attempting all the smaller things,
Your art is sure to grow.
-Chen Yuan Wen, 5th January 2013