|Because you love me and I have quality work? Hahahha what lies am I speaking|
The Weight Of Living (1/?)The pale rays of sunlight were fading fast.The Weight Of Living (1/?) by xoSoul
Cy dropped her pack, releasing a long breath of air through the filters of her gas mask. Scanning the horizon, she looked around for somewhere to camp for the night.
Hotels weren't easy to come by when World War III had nuked everything. Only post-apocalyptic wastelands remained.
She spotted an outcropping of debris not too far off that she could camp comfortably behind. Shouldering her pack once more, she trudged towards it. Her stomach rumbled, loud in the deserted area. It was nothing uncommon, her being hungry. Her emaciated form showed that, though this amount of undereating was the worst in a long time. Her food supply was running low, with only a single can of soup and a limited number of stale crackers left. She'd been saving them as long as possible; the last time she'd eaten was approaching to three days. Her energy and hope were fading fast, and if she didn't find somewhere or something to raid soon, she would starve to deat
Under A Gibbous MoonIt was a dark evening, the light of a starkly gibbous moon shone ominously onto a lone Arkham building. A place rooted firmly into one of the more undesirable districts of that cursed city. The light trickled through into its Georgian interior, as if afraid of the dancing shadows it threw forward like devilish spectres. The pointed ears and peaked form of something alien to the world were cast darkly onto Howard Phillip Lovecraft by the softly tortured light. He sat reading the "The Cask of Amontillado", muttering to himself, strange musings punctuated by the curling of his lips. The cat's shadow disappeared and the scene seemed twisted for a moment, silent but for the screams of another world that could be heard echoing in the dark circuitous passageways of his mind.Under A Gibbous Moon by FalloutPanda
Lovecraft stared stoically at the aged paper before him, pensive as he ignored this all too familiar experience. He closed the book, self indulgent self hatred and adoration of his erstwhile peer an
WaitingWaitingWaiting by swansisters
Pale willow girls wait by the river, brides of the water,
Guppies swim through their veins, silver darts of bright pain.
Their names are hieroglyphs of mist, frost and rain.
They walk barefoot in the snow, leaving tracks so they know the way back,
A tracery of breadcrumbs that the ravens will never eat.
Twelve princesses slip underground,
Dance in slippers of tattered frayed silk,
Corkscrews of ribbon, stiff with blood and melted tallow.
They inject themselves with music until their eyes hum like bumble bees.
Then they sleepwalk through the day in a haze of yearning
For fierce wet stone beneath their frenzy of feet, of bones.
When they kiss they taste blood.
They taste honeyed tears.
The brides walk by blank storefronts, by scraps of words,
"Joe's Dry Cleaners", "Nick loves Alicia", "Please, oh please".
The town huddles waiting for checks, food stamps and jobs,
In a boarded up movie palace, the wood charred by some great fire
Black as the ravens that feed Elijah rice,
Stop Romanticizing Poets 2K14This is how I write my poems:MisfitableGrae
You’re blonde and you have blue eyes.
You’re the perfect subject for my next great hit,
a long rambling epic or a two page sonnet
which would start by comparing your hair
to rays of the sun and your eyes to the ocean
at daybreak. Even if you’re more of a dishwater blonde
than sun-colored, and your eyes are less ocean and
more sky, I swear I write this poem and think
vaguely of you.
But here is a secret: I’m not writing a poem about you.
I’m writing a poem about the idea of you.
And I don’t know if it will be a love poem or
a break-up poem or a “please don’t go home and
commit suicide” poem or one of those
heartbreakingly honest poems that feels like
you put your pencil on paper and bled.
I don’t write poems like that often.
No poet does, not really,
we write poems about you and your blue eyes
because we don’t like how bleeding feels,
and it is much safer for us to pretend to fall in l
I write Fanfictions, too! (click here!) |
Right now I have Harvest Moon, and the always amazing Romantically Apocalyptic!... But I'm planning to expand!
Current Residence: CANADA
Favourite genre of music: Various, mostly Rock and Alternative
Favourite photographer: Once more, too many!
Favourite style of art: Traditional art, poetry, and photography
MP3 player of choice: iPod
Shell of choice: Bullet please
Skin of choice: Slightly bruised
Favourite Quote: "Just because we do bad things does not mean we are bad people.”