Glorious ShitAnother Dream-You can make it;Pass through shitTo welcome the divine.********************What kind of mind is this?What kind of perversion?You don't make much sense to me,You don't make much sense to them-You don't make much sense.Return to painting flowers,Name flowers flowers,Name darkness strangeness,Name genius a vile trait.We cannot decipher you...Bend down a little.Everyone needs their audience-Who are you to dispute?Who is it you're talking to?It can't be to yourself!Alright. Now...Everything is illuminated!(I can write my glossaryOf horror and neglect.)Do I love you?Of course I love you,Nobody else still caresAbout the little things,Such as your senseless self.(Yes, I'll make everything clear,The way you want me to.)Let's speak a new language,Let's call man the Head,The alphabet into the globe-The stud of universe.(Of course we are the center,Can't you see?)NowStrip.Stop laughing,Stop writing-Stop mocking me!You are a brilliant little b
MotherA knot deep in my stomach-An unbearable growing painContaining breaths and scars,Momentary intervals of our life's game.A knot in my throat,Choking me before the rise,Depriving us of understanding,Taking away left time.A tidal wave devours my skin,Casting me bare, without a kin-Without the courage this blast to bare,Stolen from time,Convicted to just stareAt every day that passes by,At my lack of bravery,My egoistic past wounds driveSafekeeping me against the onesI should be the least afraid to love.A knot is tied around my heart,Bred inside it for years-For too damn long for me to claimDespite the drain I still have one.
The WriterI am not my stories-Not all of them at least...There is truthAnd then there's fiction.Spare me just this.
HardDo not flirt with Death.He will fuck you anyway.
ReturnIf Time existed,I would not.The face is erased,My eyelids reversedTo form a danceOf dissonant notes.The unbeliever in me,The lioness in me,The crimes perpetratedUpon my life;All these exist-While I could not,Even if I wanted to;Within this hellNo man could breathe,Expand, or love.Take this sigh,This glimpse into my underworld.Step in,Or forever Goodbye.
LoversYou define me.You hold me imprisonedin the snaresof magic unprecedented,under the reign of love.My eyes are wet-and in thisthey're not alone...I want you.I must devourevery inch of you-Before it is too late,before the passion disappearsas unexpectedly as it came.
The Serpent's RevengeFlames protrude through my eyes.The pain is sharp,clear inside my mind.As the smoke escapesfrom my future corpse away,everything is possible.The epitaph stands cold,alone within my life,in memory of fear.I grow into a lionessroaring through my spirit.My soul is for saleto anybody interested.The flesh grows old,denouncing my history.Hanging from a thought,this world I leave behind.I denounce my possessions.From the imposed egoI recognize but fearaugmenting with each loss.Our prisons we buildwith our faked tears.In full denial we screamtowards the unattainable.With hatred-filled fiststhose secluded we attack-Like amoral beastsdemanding vindicationin the name of victims sodomizedin their reign of broken human pacts.
BitterIt starts with a feeling,a flashing memory,a suggestion of movement
It all comes back to me:Faces, dates, facts.It all comes back to me-But I am not there
A teardrop, your handinterchanging genders
Our lives could bethe finest, most delicate,most intricate scenarios.My thighs spread apart,waiting for you.My mind gets rid ofits burdens most unbearable.The music is familiar-And so is your smile
Always promising,never truthful.While I gnaw away the timelost in contemplation,you start another life.As lovers we first met.As foes we diefrom our histories apart-Creators of riddles,friends to no one.
Turning into GhostsWho's that face on the wall?Who's that mirrored mask of horrorother than my own?Leaving the years flowwithout the time to lookinside or outside,we let our livesmove on their own.So drag this carcass on the mud-Smear its facewith these horrid colorsof solitude and alcohol.For of this selfwho used to be my own,I recognize the traitsbut not the whole.
CatharsisWretched — purgingThe dregsOf divorce.
The Ghost from the ClosetThis is a story bout my buddy Mistgod :iconMistgod: and his childhood ghost from the closet. It is a true story. This story illustrates the double edged sword of a powerful imagination. As a child Davie (Mistgod) would have trouble sleeping, just as he does as an adult. His dreams were extremely vivid and colorful and often the dreams continued for a while even after he awakened. It was terrifying to a seven year old. One of those waking nightmares was the ghost in the bedroom closet. For a while, each night he would hear shuffling noises coming from the closet. He would cry and scream, waking his brothers up and his parents. They would tell him it was only a dream or his imagination. Eventually they tired so much of this they quit consoling him and just ignored him. So he suffered in terrified silence. Something was definitely moving in that closet! He would fall asleep and dream bout it. In t
CarterBeautiful minds are found in the strangest of places. Today, I found one wandering about in a place where most beautiful minds are found: the library.The day had gone from bad to worse. One argument, one robbery, one piece of startling news. By the time my second period of freedom came, I was inches from tears and ready to end my day. I was fifty five minutes away from the freedom of home, and the promise of no teachers or schoolwork the next day. I moodily shuffled over to a table in the nook of the library and sat down at the table to list the various tasks I had to complete over the course of the next few days.Hannah, a dear friend, called me over. She appeared to be stamping books. For what, I did not yet know."If you have some free time, could you help me stamp these books?"I politely refused, saying that I had other engagements, and returned to my table. However, said engagement quickly was finished, and I returned to the table with the girl and her enormous stack of books."
ChrisHe always had the penchant for the poetic and the photographic. His Twitter profile had the following words: Bare in the forest, pen on the page, note to a key, and a dream on a cinema screen.But for what we could have become, it was never to be. As with all things significant for me, it started on the Internet. On Facebook. On Twitter. I volunteered, somewhat bravely, to be a mentor to a bunch of first-year journalism students. They were fresh out of high school. I almost wish they could read my mind. What they think journalism is will be forever shattered by the first year I had just endured. But there's always an exception to the rule. Chris. In the 2014 first-year journalism group on Facebook he was asking questions, running polls, cracking random jokes. He amused me. I stumbled across his Twitter account, and with stalkerish ease I gathered more information about him. He was an actor, a photographer, a musician and a self-published novelist. He modelled for
Biography Thingy I was born in Windsor at Hotel-Dieu hospital and spent the first few years of my life living in a small house in Windsor with my parents and my older sister. I don’t remember much about the first couple years of my life or even living in this house, just pictures and stories from my parents. When I was around 4 or 5 years old, we moved to Tecumseh and I grew up as a Tecumseh kid. It was around this age that I discovered a passion for sports and my parents signed me up to play hockey and baseball. I played travel hockey and baseball for several years and this is where I met most of my close childhood friends. I was very shy as a child and had trouble speaking to people and mostly kept to myself. Despite being parts of sports teams, I always felt isolated as a child but I still had a relatively happy childhood. My parents did their best to spoil my sister and I despite the financial struggles that my family went through.
veinte.Am Donnerstagabend geschah noch ein Wunder und dann flogen wir zurück. Nico und ich sassen auf der Plaza de la Santa Ana, und gaben uns Mühe, etwas zu Essen zu bestellen, was in Spanien nie einfach ist. Man ist entweder zu früh oder zu spät oder sie machen gerade Siesta. Julia setzte sich drei Meter weiter vorne mit dem Rücken zu uns hin. Einfach so. Aus dem Nichts wie der Urknall. „Mein Gott, da ist ja Julia“, zischte ich. – „Ich weiss“, sagte Nico ruhig, „ich habe sie über den Platz kommen sehen, aber ich hab mir gedacht, ich sag jetzt absichtlich nichts.“ Sie hatte uns nicht gesehen, dabei hätten wir uns mit den Fingerspitzen berühren können, wenn wir beide einen Arm nach dem anderen ausgestreckt hätten wie Gottvater und Adam in Michelangelos berühmtem Gemälde. Noch so ein unglaublicher Zufall?! „O süsses Lied“, hob ich zu flüstern an, „auf welches Instru
Her"Why would someone as brilliant and nice and good as you be friends with me?" I asked her, mumbling the question to my desk. We watched the math class play board games and cards, with a chess set between us. I was winning, but she was able to keep up with my moves, and she could see the motives behind some of my more complex manuevers.I wasn't surprised.She thought for a moment, and with hardly a beat, she replied. "I don't know." We moved on, and I ended up beating her in chess. Afterwards, we sat on the floor and talked about the world, politics, possible cures to diseases."I could rule the world." I told her suddenly. "The question really is, what I'd do with it." She didn't doubt me."You'd need help in diplomacy." She told me, smiling. I laughed."Imagine all the people I'd offend. My poor secretary; all the apology letters and speeches..." A thought occurred to me. "You'd be good at those things. We could do it together." She smiled."I'd be your translator. 'My sincerest apol
Daily Quickie #18: Camp Tie-UpsThis is a true story. Names have been changed for the sake of privacy. This story involves minors and light bondage, but no sexual content. If that is what you are looking for, you're in the wrong place. With that said, enjoy!***In my job as a camp counselor, I have the express privilege of seeing some weird stuff. Every summer, I spend a week surrounded by about 120 boys between the ages of eleven and seventeen, with the wonderful smell of hormones in the air. And it was this last year that prompted one of the more interesting events I have ever seen there.I had been reading a bunch of TUG stories all over DA and the like, and decided to try a little social experiment. I set up a knot-tying tutorial for any camper that wanted to take part, and got a fairly large turnout, much to my surprise. When I was a kid, those kind of things tended to generate groans. Apparently, this group was a lot more interested. I would soon discover why.I spent about half an hour teaching them basic kno
Liberty's LocksI'd be lying if I said that I remembered all the details, but I think I knew even then that the maxims of conversation had been violated. I indicated no interest in Princess Diana or Great Britain, but the conversation kept turning back to those subjects. Aunt Betsy—who was actually my cousin, not my aunt—made a diligent effort to introduce me to Princess Diana through picture books we flipped through on the floor of the musky basement apartment. “This is a real, live princess,” she told me. I was at an age where I asked a lot of questions, but I don't remember being particularly interested in Princess Diana. I marked, however, that her hair was very short.I would soon be sobbing ostentatiously as my fine brown hair dropped onto the floor in clumps. My aunt would halt the barber to lecture me about the inappropriateness of the racket I'm making, and console me that when the nice barber lady is done, I will look like Princess Diana.“I don't want to
AliveI am a black canvasSmeared with gold and red.