creativeDIYkei

O love, O art, -- Where is Poesy?     So cunning and so sweet, That should she someday come to me     In rhyme and metric feet, Would she, I often wonder, sink from sight; Or would she move my merry hand to write? She has called upon me before,     And I, the same of her. Yet still I wish to hold her more,     And pray, be blessed further. For I have known the taste of her sweet kiss; That dulcet opiate of ageless bliss. She has sang of the dusk and dawn,     And all from rise-to-fall; Has came when other guests were gone,     Or danced upon their call. Though all wonders have some lasting merit, I will ne'er refuse her

je regarde par la fenetre, je vois ce monde glacial. je ne sais pas quoi mettre, dans cette enorme malle. je repense a mes amis, seul dans cette chambre. je me questionne sur la vie, et son coté sombre. je vais me coucher, puisque je ne puis rien faire. je ferme mes volets, et eteint la lumiere. je ne suis qu'un reveur, avec un grand coeur. je ne suis qu'un reveur, qui reve de jour meilleurs

A 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

"Bez nazwy" Bez nazwy tu stoję uciekam po ścianie swym wzrokiem ściganym rękami, ustami o innej własności innego imienia Znikają me nazwy, pękają znaczenia Wymykam się żartem, w tył zwrotem, plecami odchodzę powieką. Lecz wracam. Myślami. I pełznie już pamięć wbrew mnie niezatarta w złowieszczym, grzechotniczym rytmie I chwyta wciąż ostrymi kłami uczucia tak kardiologicznie I zapominam nazwy własnej w duetach w pół porozrywanych W zmienionych imion mowie ciała w echu organów połamany

Lilly in the night pale and lonely locked inside frozen petals Somehow whispers softly, "Better than dead," How terrible, this sadness; drowning better thorns than broken and this rope around my neck? Suffocating, and I can't breath surrounded by this: the sweet smell of decay. Frightening, this agony suffice in slowly killing... how nice of you to stay till I'm long gone. Moonbeams this night leads this path down, am I following the right light or am I blinded by the sound? This chain wrapped tight around hearts, marred with mistakes they can't help repeat. Scream till they can hear you hands over their ears, I pro

Violent tears the sound of all those wasted years come back to me refract to me Drenching me in rain. Wasted years spent crying and dying and lying to oneself lying to myself, Drowning me in pain. Lying the dancing art of give and take where blood is the paint and art is what you make of it take from it Driving me insane. Rain down upon me down on this haggard soul. Wash away this pain from me And let me breathe forevermore. Soak my heart in white rose tea let it grow to full extent and sing to it a symphony of love without regret.

I am a liar. super-hyper. suicidal. a wannabe poet. a wannabe author. a made-up mother with three sons and daughters. eccentric. extraordinary. insane.

The saying goes that if you ask eleven Therians what this thing called Therianthropy is, that you’ll get twelve different definitions. This long and somewhat daunting word stems from the Greek word therion, translating to ‘beast’, and the word for a human or a man, anthropos. So then, by the sheer translation, someone could indeed infer that we’re a community of beast-people wandering the streets in plain sight of humanity as some deformed mix of animal and human ravaging on human flesh in the night. While the beast-human, part is true in a sense—the thing about us wandering the streets, eating people and whatnot, is

A blank piece of paper Is staring at me It only wants to be written on A pen with no ink Is glaring at me "Write" it commands But my chair is spinning in circles And my thoughts are flying out of my head And the words I want to write Are staining the floor Like spilled paint The trashcan in the corner Of this dirty room Is overflowing With crinkled papers With half-written poems And half-expresses feelings That are dripping down the sides And the color of pain and hate Of love and joy Are staining the floor Like spilled paint My tears of frustration Are falling on my blank piece of paper And the lines start to run O

Once upon a time, there was a girl named Lila. Now, Lila wasn't like the other girls. While they liked to prance around in frilly outfits, Lila preferred her play pants. Lila liked to run around and fish and swim. The other girls were grossed out by the worms and insects Lila found so fascinating. She liked to play dress-up and pretend. Sometimes she would pretend she was a princess or a mommy, but most often, she'd pretend she was a prince or a hero or a daddy. Sometimes she would play dolls or house with the other girls, but most of the time, she preferred the company of the boys instead. As Lila got older, and the other girls got into