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3 a.m. rambles on a bus ride home from NYCIt's 3 a.m. and I'm somewhere in Pennsylvania, probably,
dozing off every few minutes and cramped into a small bus seat
that is very uncomfortable.
Trees pass me by, few lights of homes appearing and passing,
or the blinking of telephone towers off in the distance.
We pass by small cities, the street lamps illuminating the silhouettes
of hotels and restaurants right off the highway.
The world beyond the bus is black, endless black.
The skies are clouded, not a star in sight, and I am
three days more into missing you.
The time blurs as minutes tick by, and I know if I fall
asleep on this cursed vehicle I will get sick,
so I continue to write to you,
to try to convey what the deepness of the night
does to my thoughts.
I miss you.
I miss you.
I hope you miss me, too.
InfinityWe can create universes.
Infinity flows through our veins and only when we dig deep enough in the crevices of our very existence do we find the stars, nebulae, planets roaming within the particles that make up our DNA. These homes, these stories, they are a part of us. Every cell in our bodies can contain so many other worlds, so many other us's that we don't know about and that they don't know about and that's incredible, so very incredible.
Some days, however, a bit of this world may find its way into our life. We feel the sudden urge to create, to release the energy that's been pumped into our veins and itches itches itches to find a way out. It crawls its way into our brains and the nerves find it's too much, too much, so it sends it back and it courses through along our life streams and down to our arms or our legs and further to our wrists and ankles our hands and our feet our fingertips and our toes where we can't hold it in, our fingers
Falling: Prologue“If everybody minded their own business, the world would go around a great deal faster than it does."
Saturday, June 9th, 2057: 5:17 A.M.
I woke to silence and knew I was alone. Of course I was used to this: waking up each and every morning to an empty house. It was almost as though one could hear their own breathing and, if they’re lucky and listen to the quiet hard enough, hear the sound of air hissing past their ears like when you place your ear to a conch and imagine that it’s the ocean.
Stiff joints popped and I flexed beneath the blankets- arched my back and let out a small grunt as sleep-ridden muscles were forced to work again. With much effort I worked my way out of the bed and lumbered to the bathroom across the too-quiet, too-dark hallway to relieve myself and look into the mirror with a scowl. My reflection scowled back.
Still half awake and barely functioning, I put my
The Stages of SpringI. Autumn's presence
Nothing but the crisp smell of
Fallen leaves and the in-and-out
Patterns of warm days laced with chill
II. Snow storms in March
Cold and ice when and where
It just shouldn't be
III. Lengthening days
And screwed up sleeping schedules
As night comes later
And an hour is lost from the day
Try not to have an early schedule that week
Because deep regret will follow with the first morning
IV. Flowers blooming and birds returning
Trees coming back to life with buds of pink
And chirps of winged beauties
Blessing the steadily-warming mornings
Warmth of the oncoming summertime
Unsure of a titleYou held my very existence within calloused fingers
And palms roughened from both playing stringed instruments
And catching yourself as you tripped over life’s speed bumps.
I wasn't broken, in the beginning.
Glued together and delicate, but not quite ruined.
You were gentle with my being and you cared
But I began to grow dark with age
My fingers grew slender from typing away my mind
And my limbs grew lined and dotted with scars
That were either intentional or accidental, I stopped keeping track at one point.
Eventually, it chased you away
And despite you staying, you weren't quite there with me
As the cracks grew more prominent and my mind grew heavy with beautiful thoughts
Of falling from your hands and crashing down into the icy dark of life’s ruthless grasp.
Of shattering upon impact and leaving everything behind.
You put me back on the shelf from which you found me,
Damaged and too close to the edge and left to collect dust.
Not that I minded; it
Squeaky Shoes and Vacant EyesSqueaky shoes and vacant eyes
Earbuds that hide a mind that lies
Music so loud to block out the noise
Caused by the judging girls and boys
Pale pink scars and shaking hands,
Snapping wrists with rubber bands.
Hair cut shorter, sleeves bought longer,
Hiding away so they can sit and ponder
The life they want to leave behind
But each day life will be sure to remind
Them to go outside with a smile and a lie
And to go back home and never cry.
And after all this time with every lie
They wait for the day they can say goodbye
To squeaky shoes and vacant eyes
And earbuds that shield a mind that wants to die
How to be a better writer!How to be a better writer, or
Even a better artist.
“Trust me”, I have experience,
I’ve been at it for years.
Let me give you a few simple guidelines,
Some that I myself go off of,
And I’ll pretend that my style,
Choice of words, will work for everyone else.
And let’s not forget to mention that
I am a premium member! A beta tester!
A senior member!
Till hell freezes over!
I must know what I’m talking about?
In all my greatness and glory!
I have the authority,
To tell others how to make their art better.
Let’s cut the bullshit here and now,
And ignore those people who tell us our style.
One person, so skilled and great,
With art that all tend to appreciate,
Does not have the right to lead ‘his’ flock,
To determine whose art is worthy or not.
You write one way I write another,
My thoughts are calm, while yours are loud as thunder.
She strokes left, but he’ll stroke right,
Her art his peaceful, but his depicts a fight.
A pencil i
The Secret of LifeSome people say future and past don't exist, that you should live in the moment.
Then, I ask you: why do we have children?
How could we reach the level of knowledge we have today?
We build on top of each other, on top of the past, and the past is the very thing that forges us, the very reason we are what we are.
Living in the moment means saying that we shouldn't be concerned about our planet, about the fact that we are running out of resources.
Truth is, we already are living in the moment.
Truth is, we already are living like animals, ignoring the future.
On the other hand, ignoring the future can ease the pain of acknowledging what life actually is, just like ignoring the past does.
But no amount of deep insight and knowledge can be obtained without any price.
No pain, no gain.
Are you ready to accept reality and fight to seek knowledge, or do you prefer living in your shell, in your own reality?
Neither is wrong.
Reality is what
you choose it is.
Make your choice.
And be proud of i
Entry Four- Step One Almost CompleteStop.
Stop comparing myself to others.
I am different from you, him, her, them, they.
Just because I believe differently from you doesn’t make me a horrible person.
Avoidant Personality DisorderI've never gotten to explain this to anyone before, since every time I try, I break into some sort of sobbing fit. If my explanation sounds a little funky, that may be why.
Yeah. So, I have APD, or Avoidant Personality Disorder.
To summarize, it's a disorder that makes people want to avoid social contact and criticism by all means.
Unfortunately, that includes me.
I didn't know about the disorder until I browsed through psychological disorders for writing purposes, and happened to find it. I matched every single symptom.
Every last one, period. And I believe, wholeheartedly, that I have it.
This isn't your WebMD diagnosis, not when you feel so badly.
It's a really difficult feeling to describe.
Whenever you so much as try to make conversation with any person, you feel like chopping your head off. In my case, you're afraid to say hello. Or goodbye, or thank you, or I love you, or things that people should be able to say without stopping to think.
You feel unworthy o
Magic HourMagic Hour
by Kit the Wolfy
I always keep a cool and sunny place in my heart.
A place where the sky glows with the rich blue and pink and yellow of dusk and dawn, and everything is in picture-perfect clarity.
It's my own private magic hour.
And in this magic hour where everything is clear and bright, I take some time every day to reflect.
Reflect on the people I love.
Even if it's hard to continue, and even if I have scars,
My magic hour always heals the pain.
So, every day, I take a little time to retreat into my heart, into my magic hour.
And in that magic hour, I sit down in the grass, lie back, stare up at the shining sky...
And I think about how grateful I am that I have the people I love.
EmotionalA lot of people say that emotions is what makes us human because it's healthy for us to stay happy, joyful, and to always smile. But, what if the table was turn? In fact, is it turned already? Because some people can't feel that way.
What if instead they felt the opposite? What if they felt sad, pessimistic, and always cried tears every day in their lives? Some of them can't help, but feel like that. They feel like they're hopeless, mistakes, imperfect, or not good enough, anxious, depressed, bipolar, tearful, broken, and never going to be the person they dream of being.
So the real question is: Is being any other emotion besides happiness make us human?
NothingAnd the preview shows Nothing, just like the title of this poem.
But what's behind the "Nothing"? If you come closer you will see anything that is, paradoxically, "The Nothing."
Lost!Meandering through a dense jungle, lost in my own thoughts.
Climbing through the thickets, beating back the vines!
The path ahead with its twists and turns, seems to lead nowhere!
Now standing stock-still, scanning the forest rooftop, I feel so alone!
Is there no one who can hear me, as I cry out for guidance?
No one to reach out to, so as to take my hand?
But wait! Is that a sliver of light I see, shining through the darkness?
It is my angel, here to comfort me!
I Can't Lose to You.My blood rushes.
My head is light.
I can't think straight anymore,
My only thought is; Fight.
Fight your criticism.
Fight your words.
Fight your taunting.
I hate myself like this,
Where all I see is red.
It only reminds me,
How I wish I were dead.
That way, I can hurt no one.
I can not give in.
I can not lose.
I can't. . .
I can't let you win.
I want to scream,
But I don't want to lose again.
Nine TimesI saw him nine times.
The first time we were both sitting in the room together, getting ready to take the math test that would determine our placement. I was scatterbrained and throwing things around, trying to find the pencils that I had known I would need but had still just tossed in my purse. He was lounging backwards in his chair, looking for all the world as though he didn’t have a single care in the world, including the upcoming test. It annoyed me, that I was frantic and ready to scream, while someone else could be that relaxed.
I tested out of the class.
I don’t know if he did.
The second time I saw him, it was a few months after I arrived on campus. He was the one rushing and frantic this time, running across the square. He was probably late for class, though I had no way of knowing for sure. I was already lost in my own thoughts and ideas, deciding on my major and convincing people that yes, this is what I really want to do with my life. If they weren
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