Sun Nov 11, 2012, 9:20 AM
PLEASE this feature and these wonderful works of art, thank you!
The amount of artistic talent here on dA has always amazed me, I feel like it should be a privilege to be able to feature such amazing pieces as these. Therefore, without further ado this Sunday's Specials
Mood SwingsThe jog from happy to
makes me feel like a record
It never lasts too long;
I can jump back a bit faster now.
for the pain that's been inflicted upon you,
the sorrow and hurt that one should never have to feel
but you did
that life showed you the harsh realities
of this world in which we call home;
the cold hard truth that the human race
can be sadistic and cruel
that a shot at life,
at a future was ripped right out from under your feet
and thrown in your face,
that the children never got to experience
the innocent ignorance that goes hand in hand with youth
nobody heard your cries for help,
the whole world turned a blind eye to the horrors you endured
Most of all,
That all the compassion,
in the world can't fix anything in the past
And for that,
I am deeply sorry
For A Genius Dying YoungFor A Genius Dying Young
I have always pointed out
That stars are brightest when they've died
And that the miracle, that we can still see their light
Is precious. A treasure.
You burn, not like a candle, not like a comet,
You burn like a star.
And when your fire ceases
Your light will still go on
Blessing all of us still under the same night sky
You will be beaming down at us even after we say goodbye.
I will take the end of you
The flutter that will close your eyes
Knowing that everything bright like you
Too quickly and too unfairly
Departs from us and
Shining, showing, growing soft
Dimming, but bright enough a torch
To Illume still the glory in the heart of you
And leave a small speck of something
Smoldering, but true
The incidental fact
That I know
You loved me too.
Blaze, young genius, burn and bedazzle
Burnish brilliance from afar
Bless us with your radiant star!
Resplendent, you will shame the moon,
And I will grieve you, genius boy
Scattered Mementos Locked Awayf i v e -- sprinting alongside her best friend,
her head is a rat's nest of hair and blades of grass.
She climbs the dogwood; her mischievous green eyes match
the grass under her tiny bare feet,
and there's dirt on her face, her elbows, her knees...
Her companion cannot climb, so she just sits
at the base of the tree, and laughs heartily as she
watches her friend tangle her limbs around the thin branches.
Their world consists of a slide, swing,
and little dogwood trees.
t e n -- the child can run faster now, and
sometimes - nearly - outruns her best friend (but that race
is impossible to win, for now).
New friends join in the game, and their sanctuary has
been moved: their world shrinks, and dogwood trees are replaced
by one honeysuckle. The children greet the sun (but mourn the dogwood).
t h i r t e e n -- little girls are growing up, and
geography homework has taken the place of Sunday
afternoons after church, spent under the sun.
The girl's best friend is growing tired,
metamorphic rock n' rollthere's this fly circling my bedroom,
this massive green-chromed thing like the world's smallest space-ship.
i've been counting and every four minutes thirty seconds it dive-bombs my head,
strafing airplanes and helicopter drug-raid spots through boarded-up cracks
& it's all in my head,
headlights and streetlights and not drug-
raids at all.
i'm a demon,
a speed demon.
i'm not, i said, and
i don't think we're going to get along.
i'm more of a mosquito than
a housefly or a blowfly,
that forensic larval life cycle
[determine time of death,
police setting sequences of events]
i'm a mosquito,
needle fingers &
there's this fly circling my room & he's a speed demon
Spilled Milk 2.0The milk in the backseat
is getting warm, condensation
pearling on the plastic jug
and dripping onto the bread.
His glass doll eyes do not see
this now, slumped against the
steering wheel, windshield
scattered across his lap like
candy from a pinata. His face
is stretched in a caricature of
surprise, saying, But I was
only going for milk.
She is impatient, pacing their
living room in her high heels,
smoothing her dress with her
trembling hands, casting acidic
looks at the green numbers on
the stove that insist on marching
onwards though he should have
been back fifteen minutes ago.
He only went for milk, down the
street, and they are going to be
late for their own party, and she
is furious, but that fury is tinged
with an icy vein of panic that is
threatening to choke her, and
she checks the clock again, the
scream of sirens in the distance
pressing against unhearing ears
as the floor mats soak up the last
warm and living parts of him,
and the milk warms in the backseat.
Second-Long ThoughtI watched scarlet honey-drop fronds unfurl slowly,
its particles of time visible through lace sheaths.
I wanted to love you immensely; to trap you in my
sticky-sweet fingertips and suck the life right out
of you, sip-by-sip.
(There wasn't much there.)
Instead, you sped up my pulse, with your
amphetamine rush of concocted chemicals;
stopped me mid-stride and stole my heart.
(But grew thoughts like wildflower.)
Lacking all physicality of passion-painted particulars,
and chewing apart my newly manifested mind;
-listening to the discord of a minor strum-
(It's what I'm left with.)
Now, I'm tone deaf and praying to faulty gods for
swift, unruly departure from this unnatural,
superficial world, wrought full with censorship
and no purpose of bei
The Painter And His PoetHe, with his ebony hair and ivory skin,
Picked up his brushes and an empty canvas
She, with raven curls and cherry blushes
picked up her pencil and an empty notebook
She sat down, to write endlessly
About the way his hands were gifted
with the ability to create art
That was just as beautifull,
He stood in front of his easel, painting
portraits of her, sitting, smiling,
standing or crying
He's her inspiration
and she's his muse
They made love an art.
Like drops of water we fall
I must be
you might think that
you want to be different yourself
you do not
you want to be special
I am not special
everyone wants to be special
not so special
want to seduce me
because I'm different
I don't mind, but
I've never really liked those girls
I don't really like girls at all
I like sex though, so..
I let them
some will fall
in love with me.
want to beat me up
show me my
also because I'm different
and because they grew up with a strong father figure
I don't really like boys at all, but
I like their hatred
so I don't argue my case
will fall in love with me.
Maybe I'm a teardrop
or one of
because for me
are all different.
but you are not special
and even though I sometimes seduce you
want to beat you up
I don't really l
GangsterHe was full of [broken] promise[s]
[rain checks and train wrecks]
He had a thick [suit of] skin
made by [others'] scars
from vicious [love and] wa[regret]s
[that he can not remember]
He was [not] a man,
[just a boy] with a bright star
and his impressive, three piece
pinstripe suit [of skin],
with double-breasted pockets
[to hold hearts that don't fit in his glove box]
and hand stitching along the lines of his brand new sleeves.
who said love was beautiful.this is not what you're expecting.
i'm not going to write about the first time we kissed or the first time you whispered something beautiful into my clavicle or the first time we held hands and i swore that the earth shifted under my shoes. i'm not going to write about the first hello or the first goodbye or the first moonrise i watched reflected in your irises.
i'm not going to write about how your eyelashes are spidersilk and your mouth is a song and how when i was weaving the colors of your eyes into a sunset i got lost in the middle. i'm not going to write about how your fingers pluck symphonies above steaming mugs of tea and how looking you in the face is like holding my breath underwater.
i'm not going to write about that.
instead, i am going to write about the first time you dragged your hands through your hair and i noticed that your knuckles were scarred from too many fights and how i wasn't surprised in the slightest. i'm going to write about the time we stood in the kitchen
The WriterA golden eclipse was emblazoned upon the back of his eyelids. The crisp, morning light, an event horizon on the surface of his vision. He found it so peaceful to lie here; watching the fire dance on the skin of his eyes, to see the distortion such a simple veneer could have on life. Everything was different depending on perspective. A certain paradigm is an important thing; it discerns life or death, true or false, love or hate. A simple problem can be interpreted, and solved, in several different ways. Untying the Gordian Knot is either a complex puzzle or a simple chopping manoeuvre.
John Tullock admired and cherished this, as it meant in someone else's view; he was an innocent man, even if he didn't believe it himself. Regardless of his own beliefs, twenty of his peers had agreed to this, and according to the Sixth Amendment, he had enjoyed the right to a speedy and public trial, by an impartial jury of the State and district. The trial had been speedy, certainly. His sentence howev
distinctionThis is what I cannot understand.
There is an understanding that nothing is ever black and white. Good can be achieved through bad means, what's wrong can sometimes be right, and if you turn right for long enough, you eventually go left. Boys can be girls who fall in love with girls who sometimes think they are boys and the lines between everything end up irreversibly blurred.
Or so I've always thought.
But this is a line that cannot be blurred. This is the only remaining clear-cut line that separates black from white as perfectly as a color wheel. And that is the fact that everything is until it isn't. We are until we aren't. We breathe until we don't. We live until we die. There is no gray area, no matter what the talk of doctors and comas and life support and brain death might say. Your heart beats until it doesn't.
This goes beyond just life and death. Emotions are until they aren't. As are moments, definitions, seasons. Two people falling in love, well, some of them inevitably cra
The Pianist."I am sorry for your loss." Said the doctor.
I snorted at his thin-skinned pity. Most people think that loss would be losing a rosy-faced child to a fall a little too high, a loved one being crushed by a car driven by a man who couldn't keep his booze in his bottle.
No one would think that the loss of my hands would be nearly as heartbreaking.
"Renowned pianist has lost his hands in tragic fire." That was the media's headline, the dreadful truth being smeared in my face as if the inflamed stumps of hopes and hands burned were not enough reminders.
I have not been totally truthful with you, my thumb remained plastered on my left hand, melted and deformed like heated wax, but to me it was just a wilted seedling mourning it's parent tree's cindered remains, and nothing more.
Some people called me lucky, some wondered if I would extinguish the cooling embers of my life, and others dwelt in the smoky remains of my past, they recalled how I was called Musical Shakespeare, Beethove
she smells like mint and floral perfume, and when he buries his face into her hair, he catches a whiff of honey-scented shampoo.
he inhales, lets the mix of scents overpower his senses before breathing out with a soft, drawn-out sigh.
her scent lingers in his nose even hours after.
his lungs are on the verge of exploding.
she smells like sweat, heady and potent and he reels back for a moment, overwhelmed.
moving forward, he wraps his arms around her thin waist and presses their bodies together, relishing the soft gasp that falls from her lips.
he takes a deep breath, and the taste of salt bursts forth on the tip of his tongue.
she smells like milk and vanilla and hospitals. it's a scent he's not used to, but he thinks - he's sure - that he'll love it.
he smiles at her, and she giggles and splutters in reply; his heart shudders.
lifting her small little hand, he presses his lips to her tiny palm.
you're like oxygen, and i've got
art in all its formsi'd like to own a typewriter and hire a mechanic to have him
remove all the dots above the i's and j's so that i could type
the way i write. then i would sit cross-legged on a sandy beach
and write all day while the seagulls sing and the wind tosses my
hair until i have to spend hours untangling it. i'd write late
into the evening by the light of the moon, and i'd go every day
to see its waxing and waning and never-changingness as it peers
down at us from the dark heavens, forever in our orbit (just like
i will spend the rest of my life orbiting you). and i would savor
the simplicity of this moment, of sitting on the beach with my
typewriter and the stars (i wish you were here).
i know a boy who can take photographs with his mind. when i
told him of my adventures of squawking seagulls under the
moonlight he told me he wished he could have taken a photo.
i ask what sort of pictures he takes and he says 'only the
kind that make you look twice. the ones that make you want
to sit and wri
- Mood: Tired
- Reading: Your Art
- Watching: Your Art
- Drinking: Earl Grey Black Tea
Oh my, thank you for the feature!
Thank you, sweet Dee!
Thanks again, love! (:
all these are so good
thank you for the feature <3
thank you for the feature <3