You see all of the cracks;
the weather-beaten surface
but not the splendour;
the clear beauty beneath.
It is shaped by the currents
which will flow and carry it,
not by passing storms
that cannot break the ice.
Losing The Creative Spark by The-Random-Dreamer, literature
Literature
Losing The Creative Spark
Somewhere in the depths of my mind is an everlasting well of ideas. But sometimes it's hard to lift the heavy lid. And around it has grown up a tangled jungle called Real Life, making it hard to find amongst the clusters of thoughts.
The very thing that I used to love escaping from has subdued me, caught me in its grasp. I used to write instinctively, without thinking. I hated having to analyse language in English lessons, because I didn't believe that writers put any conscious thought into their work. Now, I'm more than happy to analyse everything I read or write - which leaves less room for sudden flashes of inspiration. I believe that once
Shifting Tides Dream Scenes by MelodiousPoet, literature
Literature
Shifting Tides Dream Scenes
CALINA:
“I have won the war; you two are no longer useful to me. You know what happens to things that I no longer find useful.” That gravelly voice struck fear into my young heart. Short and to the point as he always was, this man was the only thing I feared, and the one I hated most. All I could see was darkness, but sounds were clear as day. The shifting of feet and the cocking of guns terrified me, but I couldn't move. I closed my eyes, curled into a ball, and hoped it would be okay. “General, you know what to do,” His disembodied voice commanded, harsh and void of emotion. The two shots that followed jolted my ey
My Beautiful Siren, You're Killing Me by MelodiousPoet, literature
Literature
My Beautiful Siren, You're Killing Me
Your lips sing siren songs to my heart,
drawing me in with your temptation.
I want to crash into your coastline
and land in the crook of your smile.
Your eyes shine like dying stars,
their light warming my very soul.
I want to swim in your gaze
and drown in those breathtaking depths.
Your voice sends shivers down my spine,
caressing me with your beautiful sounds.
I want to fall asleep to your melody
and wrap myself up in your words.
Your heart beats in such a wonderful fashion,
dancing away with my own.
I want to stay like this forever
and never untangle my love from yours.
There is something hideously clever
about watching television outside.
It is possibly the ultimate defiance.
Over there, rebels have flipped off officials,
they have fornicated with machines
and they have worn shirts like flags.
But here, revolutionaries have
ripped the binding dress off of mother earth
they have stuck their thirsty tongues
in the magnetic air of steel and wind
and they have swallowed the sovereign
waters of Calypso.
Gaia could not weep,
because her throat was plugged
by the sharp middle finger
of electric sockets and wires.
A spring thing melts
Into a summer Dream;
A well that doth not
Spring Eternally.
Fairies part farewell as
The summer magic
Melts into the autumn.
The fog beneath my lids
Growing thicker,
Darker.
The winter is bleak,
Chilling what we see;
The cold hard truth.
Crumbling, Tumbling;
All of it for naught.
Forgeting the worth
Of what I've got.
In the suction,
Holding on to the
Worthless corpse.
Just let go.
Just let go.
The sun shined brightly in Marina's eyes. She walked close to her older sister as she held her hand, and continued to wander up the mountain-side. In her other hand she held her stuffed panda bear, while on her sister's right she carried a picnic basket. His name was Pakku, and Marina had him as long as she could remember. It was her prized possession, as it was a gift from her mother, and despite it being old, it was still in excellent condition.
It was a cool morning, but quite refreshing. Every breath Marina took in gave her a sense of freedom, until she started to hyperventilate and make herself dizzy. She stumbled a little bit, but stil
He stands alone, one of few
Silent hero, accused by many
With lies so vile, and untruths
From the lips of the Usurpers
Hunted for what he is
No noble chase, but
Desperate crossing back
Trying to lose the trail
Throw off the damming hounds
Baying for his blood
Calling for his life
Seeking for his end
They don't see him
His nights spent
Imerressed in his books
Walking the lonely path of a healer
I follow his way
I learn, and obey
My steps are his
My path is his
So we walk,
Under Bast's Silver Moon
Rosalie Kitchen (In the persona of Z)
The Artist and The Model by CloudNumber8, literature
Literature
The Artist and The Model
She posed for the artist to paint her
She sat so perfectly still
A tremble came across her body
That was way beyond her will
"For that, my dear" said the artist
"I'll paint your blue eyes shut
Forever you'll be cast into darkness
Before you return to dust"
The subject, the model, the lady
Laughed and was not so fussed
"You think you have such power, my dear
In the stroke of your brush?
Don't forget it is I, your subject
That brings beauty to your piece
Without me you would be nothing;
A lush drunk on self belief"
With that the artist grabbed his palette
Ferociously began to paint
Till fatigue encapsulated his bones
And he b