Below are the 25 most recent journal entries.
just a quote thought by me...
hey guyss this post is open for all the criticism or appreciation by all of you. if you have anything in mind about this....plz comment. okay here it goes:-
"Success is the only thing whose meaning is best understood without experience"..
please do comment...
To Writers and Artists,
We are accepting works (poetry, short stories, and artwork, including photography) to launch our inaugural issue of our magazine, The Fine Line. The deadline for submissions is March 31, 2010.
For guidelines on how to submit please visit our website: http://thefineline00.wordpress.com/
Looking forward to reading your work,
Co-Editors of The Fine Line
By Taylor Hellstrom
An unstoppable force
Pushes me toward my fate
Regardless of choice.
Still more roads diverge from my feet.
"This is my Proposal"
Life is a business arrangement
Sex is negotiated
And love comes with terms inked in fine print
On silky lace.
Happiness is expansion in the company,
Or is it economic growth?
The two rarely go hand in hand.
Morals are policies that get constantly amended
Especially after downsizing
Which is just another word for loss.
We have mascots that we call pets,
A new one is needed after the original get’s old
We’re buried in paperwork
And that’s not even a metaphor anymore.
I've never really done this in a community before, but. I just posted some stuff I wrote over at my journal. read, comment, hate, whatever. feedback would be nice. :)
Song of Myself
Or a Study of Nothing at All
I am an amoeba
Morphic and occasionally detached in search of food
A bug, however, is not beneath my skin
Nor am I small - like a bacterium
The taste of dust, though, can be found on my tongue
Sugar-snap peas grow in an old land
And I am new come from old
How deep are my roots - when tugged on
We can both find out
I am the lapis-lazuli of solar panels
Awake beneath noon sun
The best solutions are the clean, green ones
I could be a pinwheel
Bright, spinning yet stable
Pushed by the wind - corkscrewing
But I do not fall down
Nor am I made out of plastic
I am filled with incandescent bubbles
And they are vibrantly happy, floating
But be careful with them
Precious, and they can pop
I am my dreams - which is simplest
For my dreams are my own
I dream of rain
In the marrow of my bones
But glamorous golden
non-sequiturs searching fiendishly
for billboard glory,
A futile search, indeed
for they are blind
unable to see,
Reaching with idle hands
they gouged out their third eye,
and replaced it
with Gods roving eye eye
imprisoned in slaves labor,
It's a paper eye,
and holds the same value.
So...you think you can write?
a rating community for writers
My days without you
By Javier Falcon
Many say that I have changed,
that I am not the one they saw before.
Others say that somehow I have softened,
that the gleam of love is apparent in my eyes.
But all I can say is that without you I feel pain,
as you were my heart's only remedy.
My days without you are just gray,
a storm which ever so slightly rips me apart.
they're a wound that kills me inside.
My days without you are a nightmare,
that reminds me every day of my life,
how much I was focused on loving you.
My days without you are just full of pain,
as the hole in my heart which erupts my love for you,
only grows bigger as I see you from afar.
My days without you are the only bitter,
they demonstrate that the space you left can't be filled,
that every girl which passes by is just a fake image of you.
My days without you are those of a wanderer,
searching for the person they once loved,
trying to find the last piece of their puzzle.
My days without you are one's of loneliness,
with a heart which only lone to be with you,
suffering in depth and keeping a mind saved for you.
Days in which music is the only consoler,
yet music is what makes me think of you.
All the great moments and memories by your side,
never to regret one single instant with you, makes
my days with you the one's which the sun only shines on us,
as I wish to take you in my arms and walk into the horizon.
whistling sexy (july 2, 2008)
so whistling is sexy
The Desired One
The Desired one,
What if the sun didn't shine?
Would the grass still be as vibrantly green?
Would flowers still smell,
And would the earth still thrive?
What if the moon had no glow?
Would our evening of long awaited passion still have been as believable?
Would fireflies lose their desire to twinkle?
And would the stars still shine?
What if we had never walked?
Would our lips have met in heated desire?
Would your hand have grasped mine?
And would we have become one?
What if you didn't really love me?
Would my ferver for life be doused?
Would I be lost without you by my side to guide me through the darkness of this worlds bland and empty despair?
But I suppose we will never know.
If cold is pure...
If cold is pure
and heat breeds desire,
then the winter is not our time.
We use cathedral voices,
in a darkened room.
shivering over flesh
covered in sweat and tears.
a girl named paradise (june 18, 2007)
he said, “come here let’s play”
and then he said, “i quit”
and her name was paradise
ok, he said, “come on let’s play”
and her name was paradise
her name was paradise
Hansel and Gretel Revisited
(x-posted all over the place as per usual)
Hey there! I've been being a pretty lousy writing community member as of late but I'm hoping to be able to pay more attention to things since I have more free time right now. Here is something I wrote way back in high school. And of course, I can't make a post without pimping my zine Ephemera--new issue expected to be available by the end of the week! Get all the info here. I am always looking for new submissions by writery/artistic people. :)
( poem.Collapse )
brush with life
today on the computer i wrote this, i can't stop thinking the words and needed to get them out. the ailing feeling is gone
Grey desk and suffocating lights
Goose bumps and my ill stomach
I can’t bear to live with this feeling
Lost and heavy head of hopes
Remembering that I can’t be in love
The times I lost with you
The lies I told you
Fuck the lies
Fuck the time
Fuck the never gonna
Fuck the love
Fuck the dreams
Fuck the hopes
Fuck the life I live
Hey everyone, sorry to double post, but this is my second and last post for the night. Feel free to comment criticize, or complain.
Our lineage written in blood and pain,
Hey everyone, I haven't been on for awhile, so I have a few pieces to put up.
Born of hope and dreams, I am a One of Now
in peace (march 17, 2007)
ah ... the familiar pain
ah ... the familiar hope
The muse is being a little vengeful today - she has been growling and snarling at me today, forcing thoughts into my head which - in the case of some - are probably left untouched, unsaid.
Having said that, though, here are four new poems for your reading (dis)pleasure.
( PassionCollapse )
( Not WorthyCollapse )
( The Mask Of SisterhoodCollapse )
( Murdered?Collapse )
Another new poem...
The moon rises over the pallid sea and
The silvery mist of the meadows –
Silently one by one,
In the infinite meadows of heaven,
Blossoms the lovely stars –
The forget-me-nots of the angels
Her level rays, like golden bars
Lie on the ground below
An eerie green with
Wild shadows cast in brown in between.
Silver white the waters gleam,
As if Artemis herself,
In enpassioned dreams,
Has dropped her silver bow
Down upon the quiet earth.
A very soft spirit worships -
One lovers know and love so well –
Whose influence over
All tides of soul has true power, and
Who lends a pale light to
Rapture and despair;
The glow of hope and wan hue of sick fancy
Are each reflected within the mirror of slivered rays
Lighting the path of meeting or of parting love -
Illuminating the mingling of and
The breaking of hearts one in the same…
An ethereal smile enthroned in beauty.
In the same breath,
The governess of floods -
Pale in her anger –
Washes all the air
That rheumatic diseases do abound.
Through this fit of temper,
We do see the seasons alter
<lj-cut text="Some questions about music/text relationships.">
I am a university student doing a research project on music/text relationships for an ethnomusicology class and have a couple questions for the community here. I am looking for input from people who consider themselves musicians, writers (of prose and poetry as well as lyrics), or both. It would be great to get some input on one or all of the questions below; if you’d like to participate, please answer any question that seems interesting to you. It is my hope that this might create some good discussion, as well.
I got inspired to do the project after reading this article in LA Weekly: http://www.laweekly.com
Do you listen to music when you write? Why/why not?
Is it possible for someone to think of himself as a lyricist first, musician second?
Is song "the most perfect use of language"?
Is music "the art that other art flatters itself by bending toward"?
Is there anything significant in the difference between the ways that music can tug on your heartstrings and the way literature does?
What do you think about the idea that we would all be more apt to think about what music we want playing at our funeral/deathbed and not which books we'd like to go out reading?
How much do literature and music really have in common, and how would you like to see that change?
My muse, the vengeful little bitch that she is, is stirring there in my mind right now. She hasn't decided whether or not her presence needs to be forceful today, but it has inspired this...
There, in the thicket,
Can you see it?
A half-wild beast supping on
A half-cooked stew,
Lingering close to the clearing
Yet not quite willing to enter.
Drawn in by the stench of
Eagerness and hope,
It releases a gut-wrenching snarl and
Moving ever closer with
A gleam and a dare in its eye.
Do you have what it takes –
The depth of faith;
The constitution and patience to
Go as far as needed –
To tame the beast…
To train this thing?
The stench of a still life,
A snapshot of some story
Rattling about in your head,
Draws the beast ever closer –
Snarling, drooling, and
Ready for battle.
Suppositions, superstitions and
Half-finished stories –
The fruit of your imagination –
Is the stuffs of which
The beast creates and cooks
Its nightly repast.
Do you possess it –
The patience and passion necessary to
Tame the beast…
To tame your muse so that
You can put pen to paper and
Clear your wild mind?