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SeerI saw you. I saw you plainly and you shook. Who knew I had such power in a look? I, the rooted one stood still, while you trembled like a leaf blown by a force unseen - truth? guilt? fear of being caught? Would your world crumble should I shine a light on your dry and withered self? I knew what you had done, and despite all the history you tried to rewrite, deep down you knew too, and because of it, you trembled. Not the mighty oak you would have them believe, but just a trembling dead leaf, clinging to a branch. I see you plainly. Do they?
Acts of HateYou say that you hate me as if it should sting,
When from every act toward me the message springs
Though words of love passed from your smiling lips
In my heart I heard unspoken truths of clinched fists
To verbalize the hate that I read long ago in unsmiling eyes
Washes aside those empty words, I always knew were lies
It's been said that actions speak louder than words
Moreso they are underlying truths from you so rarely heard.
Perhaps if not a hypocrit, you would know it too
That those actions destroyed all love that I had for you.
In the end, no words could ever make better
The deeds that cause a heart to shatter
The FlameBeing a creative usually starts with perception and sensitivity. Artists and writers translate the world around them into a transferable language that takes their viewer / reader into that place, that experience, and gives them for one brief moment a sight through the creative's eyes. Not everyone is capable of abstract thought, to see beyond themselves, but creatives transport others, opening doors and minds in the process. Not limited to what they see, creatives reveal that there is more, and therefore strip away the self imposed limits of the person intaking the work of the creatives' hearts and minds. Media is important for this reason.
However to be this sort of shaman of thought and imagination, is a taxing reality. It comes with a myriad of reactions by those who experience their work. Sometimes it manifests in jealousy or a lack of respect for these hours of creation as real work, when the very act taps resources of emotional and psychological depths that often are not used in
a shut in placeMeg's world is a world of uneven earth and blue skies, surface rock cracked and blown about by howling wind. She runs through wasteland, stumbles with purpose towards a wooden desk in the distance. She runs and runs, dirt and stones scuffing Mary Janes, but the writing desk is a finish line she can't reach.
"Why a writing desk?" her friend Alex says when she tells him about the dream. He emphasizes the question with a hand, waving the sandwich he's holding towards her before taking a bite.
She's left out details: how she is smaller, younger, a smooth-faced child with little hands dressed in her Sunday best instead of the twenty-one-year-old English major she knows herself to be. How the desk speaks of a familiarity she can't place and screams of a significance she can't understand. How she's been having the same dream for weeks and how it haunts her every waking moment with an urgency of impending consequence and menacing complexity that reminds her of Kafka.
Meg shrugs, the motion cau
Caught in Battleby LJ
Lately I've been doing a lot of not sleeping at night.
That is to say, I fall asleep fine, but about one in the morning the dreams turn to thoughts and I'm not asleep anymore.
I just lie there, thinking too much to even close my eyes.
My eyes feel bad in the red mornings, so tonight I light the oil lamp and sit up.
I might as well write what was requested by a friend a few days ago, at dinner together.
It doesn't kill dream memories, though.
At that dinner, my friend said, "They're nice stories and nice paintings you do, but they're not you, you know."
I protested. "They certainly are."
But she protested last.
"No, they aren't. They're other people's. You should write or paint yourself, for once."
I made a joke then, and said I'd do a self-portrait of me asleep. I'll write now instead.
The dream tonight was about the time I sketched a picture of him in the hospital. It was the last time I sketched him or was in a hospital wi
The Art of Consent: BurlesqueHowever,
i can use the rounded corners of
sullen eyes, too-short fingernails,
magnanimous hips, and frosted lips
pressed crackling against the
porcelain dream he
so blackly freed against me.
i am four inches envy and
six inches will,
and completely engrossed in pursuit of
And he, still violent and violet, is there,
unconvinced and scared, and so perfectly
He finds me tied, vaudevillian, to his
falling from mind to mouth,
from mouth to spine.
Where contact confuses
sexually transmitted attention for
sexually transmitted affection,
there is not time to obscure the view that
condemns him to what is malign
and otherwise known as misunderstood.
And i felt his eyes eating up where i stood,
felt my heart burning up what it could,
dropped a flatline to
pick him off my hemline, and understood
what it meant to be in control.
i love the heady derision provoked
simply by the act of undressing, no smoke,
except for that of the opiate crowd and
no mirrors, ex
Submerged in Swan Lake
Swans and wings are floating by
on a breeze imbued with jasmine and
willows outstretching their arms in welcome.
Through deep breaths he arrives
plunged in murky, pungent water.
A quiet whisper, and he prays -
"Please... may I linger here?"
Willows lower their arms
and jasmine falls to the Earth
where the wind dies and finally rests.
The crows are cawing hymns,
begging to be swans.
But only the duck submerged in Swan Lake
has delved the desired shore.
Its waters dangerous and plagued
by monsters baring their teeth;
most ghastly and putrid they are
that no crow may ripple its surface
nor any songbird seeking beauty fair.
The Swan Maidens bare their chests
and open their wings in veneration -
for the duck has sought beauty through courage
and earned his guise of grace and virtue.
Insidious Changes - PrologueInsidious change is sometimes the worst, because you never notice it until it's, in all likelihood, too late.
Tick-tock... tick-tock... tick-tock...
We grew up from the little children we were. Our hands used to capture tiny white crabs on the beach, to collect them into makeshift houses we'd designed for them out of our red and yellow sand-buckets. Our hands used to delicately peel stamps away from soaked pieces of envelope paper and lay them down to dry. Our hands used to grip the guava tree and litchee tree branches tightly as we'd hoist ourselves up in our respective and adjacent tree-homes. Our hands used to hold needles as we both embroidered little snippets of fabric with owls and grapes and peonies. Our hands used to fashion goolab jahmoon out of dough, for our mother to fry and magically transform into sweets.
Tick-tock... tick-tock... tick-tock...
Your hand became bigger than mine. Your hand gripped the remote control tightly as you brought it down on the back o
Glazes Part 3Glazes Part 3
Glaze Recipes Part 3
Sharing a few formula's I use
all glazes are ^6 electric/oxidation
Potash Feldspar 33
China Clay 15
Zinc Oxide 3
Blood of StarsSonorous particles catching light,
A heraldic curtain of raindrops
Spanning the turbulent heavens;
Catching my beliefs
Reflecting my relief
Songs for those whose ears have broken;
Deaf before the crucible.
Always imagined this calm empty sea;
Suspended in this state of grace
Halcyon only the storm can convey
Anguish trapped in ephemeral raindrops
Falling into the sea.
... And this too shall pass
But you and I are binary neutron stars
We'll encircle and collide
Encircle and collide
And in the aftermath our particles combine
Scattered across the multiverse.
My light calls to you
With your voice rebounded;
And for you I sing the melodies
That only the storm can sing;
Gravity's pull eternal
You and I will regather;
Encircle and collide
Shattering pain like droplets
Under the hammers of our will
On the forges of our souls,
The embers in our veins
The blood of dying stars.
Like fading whispers
But in your grace I breathe eternal
Adrift upon your calm empty sea
One Day at a TimeIf I can make it through this night,
perhaps the dawn will bring insight.
If I can make it just one more day,
maybe everything will be okay.
If I can make it another week,
perhaps I will find what i still seek.
If I can make it through this year,
perhaps I will grow beyond this fear.
If I can make it another decade,
maybe this pain will finally fade.
If I can just make it and live this life,
there's a war that I must fight.
It's the battles we fight every day
that pave a life along the way.
Keep in Touch!
^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