No More Floating Blues by RichardLeach, literature
Literature
No More Floating Blues
See those airships coming in, babe, floating down from the blue.
There was a time for floating, and that time is through.
I was out there in Montana, I was under that big sky.
The thought of you here in the city made me sit and sigh.
Baby, let's go out for breakfast, there's a place just up the block.
They'll serve you anything you like, and we can sit and talk.
Anyone who sees us will say there are two good friends.
And we know that is true, but that is not where it ends.
We can go to the theater when the evening arrives.
We can get lost in the play and found in our lives.
This is not a phase I'm in, a temporary stage.
My life's an open
I am lost on a street that I've been down many times.
Who switched all the store-fronts? Who changed all the signs?
Well, the moon up above is the same as before.
But was it always that blue? I am not really sure.
I am singing a song that I don't seem to know.
And it goes up too high, then it goes down too low.
I believe I'll go home now and call it a night.
I hope that you will be there to make everything right.
it is the third of october
and i am building a castle for us
out of feathers, bird bones,
ocean waves and library book pages.
anything to keep our feet from
touching the ground.
you are sin, he whispers
and his fingers trail cold fire
down my side, scorching flesh
and freezing bone;
brittle pieces of me shatter
as they hit the stained linoleum floor.
don't wake me from this nightmare.
i whisper a nursery rhyme
as i walk down our
autumn path.
kamikaze leaves fall, trailing
fire as they throw themselves from
the branches, down, down,
to cold pavement below.
your words echo in my mind
a constant reminder
that i am sin
but you,
you were
ne
psychology defines schizophrenia
as an impairing, delusional disorder
borne in the person’s inexorable inability
to tell right from wrong,
hopeless fantasy from harsh reality,
or even suspicion from acceptance
but aspen is a lovely, flexible woman
with names of imperial animal races
that never belonged to them,
with the countless colors of her eyes that
she makes up with named numbers
written in cursive sharpie on her palms
she takes pills that seem to
dampen & take away those charming
things she always says to me;
the voices don’t haunt or tease her,
they’ve always respected the way she
counted with willpower & the way sh
We must have been
Like two black specks
On the many white horizons we traveled
Myself in black compression gear
From head to toe
Like a svelte cat woman in tech fabric
And you in your baggier clothes
With your pointy shoulders insisting
From under the many layers
That you were still skinny underneath it all
We wore our matching black liners
And Brooks mittens
Yours a size larger so we
Wouldn't mix them up
We would bounce through the snow
Happier than any 10 year olds
There was not a trail we wouldn't claim
Not a destination to which we wouldn't pave
With our road to joy
During the magic of those two winters
We believed in infinity
In snowy la
This is for the Average Artist by WordOfChen, literature
Literature
This is for the Average Artist
It is painful at times,
Seeing those born with skill and talent.
They paint such beautiful things, using the barest of material.
Entire worlds are spun at their fingertips, all from a dot of paint.
I think sometimes, of how nice it must be,
To be able to capture such beauty, within the borders of a page.
To spin a tale from but the smallest of phrases,
To create a fantastic adventure from a mundane experience.
It is painful indeed at times. When I am seated in this room,
Surrounded by the dull hum of failure and regret,
I ask myself, with eyes burning in the mirror,
Am I finally ready to give it all up?
'No!' I say
I will not let it end
And Still They Reminisce Upon the Fury Long Ago by Loftydreams101, literature
Literature
And Still They Reminisce Upon the Fury Long Ago
July 4th 1901
Long ago
We braved winds of sulfur
Where the skies chimed death
Arching and blossoming with flame
Many lads stormed
For the arms of their finest hour
Meeting only, a hail of thundering misery
Crackling, at the edge of fiery and murderous unison
“Ready!”
“Present!”
“Fire!”
These finals words greet legions of young
They pummel the earth, spitting and groaning
Smoldering, at each harrowing and tearing volley
Droves about face and flee
As a second volley whips from behind
Many more dive into eternity
Butchered and scathed beneath the billowing horror
A foul stench
Is courted by the wind
While
Part 1: What is Drawing?
This is how I've come to understand the act of drawing. Its best to first set the semantics (the specific meaning of the words) straight, so there are no crossed purposes.
By 'drawing' I mean loosely the act of making visually representative marks on a surface.
Anyone can draw. Anyone can attempt to recreate what they see in front of them - or a scene they imagine - by making marks on a piece of paper. If you hear someone say "I can't draw", slap them for me. As long as they have a moving part to which a pencil can be taped, they can draw.
However, "attempt" is the operative word here... because that's all a