tectonic platesthey’re youtectonic plates by YogaTeacher
lidded eyes and touch typing
singing out braille songs across
that isn’t yours to love
land that isn’t mine to carry
i’ve stolen away into nights,
to cry for a world
that doesn’t want me, that
calls me a name that isn’t mine
that says it is home
a land, still, that we need
with force enough to collide
infertile soil and barren ground
the same, together
to make amends
to make amends
for the human race
that boils away like cancer,
inside the lungs of a
that never asked for consciousness
that never wanted us
to try to love it, to grow spores
and choke it with our
anxious, selfish ways of
i hope i’ve been better than that
to make amends
for the angels that didn’t know
how to love me
black smoke wafting
from those that left
what we know of being young
to make up for
a heart that didn
VoidI want to tell you what’s wrong,Void by YogaTeacher
But I don’t want you in that place
That void, helping me–
He says that I love you too much–
If you can get me out of this bed,
I love you
–If I can’t do it otherwise,
Well, I should
You shouldn’t be so much to me–
Not because you’re leaving,
Not because I’ll have to go home
And homes are not made
In the gristle of others’ lives
What happened to me?
What happened to wishing, alone,
To withstanding lonely, for the freedom
To walk on my own water?
What happened to proving you wrong,
To the joy of you knowing I was right?
When did it turn into bartering–
Holding you and splattering tears,
–Tears to help you grow
When far away?
What happened to not needing anyone,
To being my own favorite person,
To not caring not caring not caring
What anyone was–
To keeping myself company?
What happened to
My own muscles and fabric
Knowing how to keep me whole?
Miasmayou’re tripping on phone chordsMiasma by YogaTeacher
bled into hours of dial tone ringing
sucking out senses from one voice
recreating a world in the cochlea
which now vibrates with dizzy silence
your spirals unfurling
shaking – every word out
and tripping as your liquid soul
leaks out your ears
I thought it’d be better than this
of course I did
I know you better than that
me, here, fitting into this
crease in the wall
what you take in before weeping
is limbo – solace
leeched out from the cobbled wings
made, given to you
before you learn to fall again
you’re going down now
I want to inch my arms
slowly across to contain you
a new shell, a new fragile spiral
to keep your flesh from spilling
out across the carpet
millions of salt sea sand grains
you feel your hourglass slipping
you see yourself as time
something to rush up against and
at when it slows, crawls,
between iron gates to your future
her singing calls
prayer icarusprayer by YogaTeacher
has always been a god-send
to those who know better than to think he’s a god
those aching swan hearts thinking
nothing is more than what it looks like,
we are saved, for nature is strung together with
the fibres of our beings
the world is stardust, is our dust
no matter how we long to hold on
but it is there, there
doesn’t need to be more than we see
refreshing, inkwells of cool water poured on the papyrus of my
a boy who understands
what it feels, to drift apart in morning
falling from human, to globules
of water and blood
Residualtoday’s reason to keep living:Residual by brassteeth
i thought of this six word story:
here’s a pen, let’s end this.
i survive, a blossom that heaves through winter
like a lonely citystate, an intemperate Sodom
waiting for God’s discrimination. i see it
foaling its own diminishment
when it had no right to colour
me. and i’m reminded of how i
start each morning with an ambered prayer
and end the darkness with a glass bullet
that i have taught how to dance.
still i spin an echo, a copy of
desolation, the weight of a single judgment. i see
the sun spill out of the dull morning. muted and mocked,
caged in iron weights that tug my rusted temples.
i am reminded of how the crosses fell
to the valley floor in blood-speckled shards, amassing
an illness of splintered peaks. my mind, an angry
jury, the whispers start early, night falls fast. still now
my only wish, to find what eloquence
is left to me, as all my times, my paper
admonishments left screaming in streets,
This Poem Is Not About Youlittle sprouts shoot out from my old potato headThis Poem Is Not About You by Bark
some are thoughts, some schemes
some only bad dreams
about rotten mushy tomatoes
in the back of the refrigerator
little scoops pulled out from my old puddin' head
memories, some sweet, some obscene
some hazy half-dreams
about when the world was bright
and open fields
went on for miles and miles
fingers sticking to my old candy apple head
imprints left by people and things
some shiny and bright
some dented deep and dark
all smudged together
with a few brown-edged teethmarks
Will to FollowI would have gone with youUinenFirestar
Into the depths of darkness, and beyond
To save you from the loneliness, the pain
Never knowing if it could have ended differently
To save your sons, your legacy.
You know I would
How my heart bleeds out to hear you say again
Can’t I steal away the cold and bitter vengeance
The liquid flame, the haunting memory?
And didn’t you already pay the werguild?
In killing rage, she tracked you down
Thiassi’s doom, you met her challenge
And she laughed in spite of rightful pain.
How is it fair, what they did to you?
How can they say it is right?
Now you, and not they, are scorned and mocked
Called traitor by those who claim love for your brother
Cast into the shadows, forgotten.
I would have gone with you
Down the spiraling roads of madness
If you’d have my company, if it’d ease your pain.
Against the tide of Ragnarok, there can be no victory,
Where blood and death and tears are everlasting legacy.
Boldly Facing The Futurespyed
Artist Credit DanielaUhlig
Many of you have been in this community for a long time, but whether you’ve just joined or you’ve been a member since day one, this is your first impression of the new DeviantArt.
Change is not something that we take lightly, because it affects our collective identity. It was important for us to define who we are and what we’re made of at our core before we changed anything. We all have our own understanding of what that means, but the process of getting that core story down on paper took almost a year.
The result is “Bleed and Breed Art.” This is our center of gravity and our reason for getting out of bed in the morning.
It is the guide and the justification for everything, including our business partnerships, the development of the new app and the design of our new ide
*Written for my blog, illianfragments.wordpress.com/ , and copied over here. I've been ghosting here for a long time, not sure if that will change, if dA is something I'll come back to and be invested in ever again.
As applies directly to this site, I made my Loki cosplay and wore it to ComicCon last year, and it was and is so beautiful, so detailed, and so precisely perfect. Rather than simply talent, I'm amazed with how detail-oriented I can be, and how driven when there is cause to be. I may soon post pictures, the few I have.
In other news, I am currently 18, going into second year university in BC, taking Creative Writing and Psychology. This summer, I've rewatched the entirety of Orphan Black (I can not speak highly enough of this show and truly recommend it - I tend to believe that there is enough good literature and film in the world that there is little that needs be rewatched or reread, and much that needs to be newly taken in, but Orphan Black has proven to be in the small percentage that I trust to be as meaningful the second time), and read and watched much besides. I've also collected every scrap of semi-insightful scrawled writing in one place, should I choose to transcribe it.
I’ve been away, I know that. My psychologist is saying it might be a good thing, and brings up how much pressure I put on myself. It’s interesting to see, the balance of pressure and of letting go; cycles of contract and release that fill out inside my head. I’m not sure how much I’ve done in the last little while, if it could be considered a lot. I spend a lot of time and energy catching up, moving into the recent past and trying to catch sight of the webs of movements, to then sort them out. I don’t want to say I have decided anything, figured it out to move into the future. Life is how it is. I thought, just now, of all those things people tend to regret when they die, that they’ve run out of time for. What am I sorry for? Having just finished To Kill A Mockingbird, it comes to me that children know something, they know how to fill out their days and not dwell on it, not think of having wasted time. I have spent a lot of time, and I have also gotten a lot done. These are two different scales in my mind, and achievement isn’t something to be measured against time. Time does its own thing, and achievement is measured against the self.
I won’t ever be a reliable person, in regards to deadlines and checking off lists and knowing what to do when. Recently, I was overcome with shame at a stupid mistake I made, a place where I miscalculated the world, and it complicated things for me and made me both disrespectful and irresponsible. Loki came back then, and it was comforting to have my god, a love who had disappeared from mind for a few months, stepping in to assure me. Moving forward is good even if my trajectory is wavering and I struggle.
It is not hard to be a person. Looking forward, I don’t fear the coming year. I don’t fear my prospects or my sanity. I believe in my ability to talk, to make acquaintances and develop friendships. I believe in my psyche, that I can go alone and enjoy as much with myself as someone else. I believe that the friends who now surround me are strong, are good, and offer something.
There’s an odd incompatibility in what I am saying and what I have been. I can be volatile, I can despair, I can obsess and lose control from obsessing. I don’t know how to stay happy. There is great strength for me in the idea of the Phoenix, a creature that burns up, and falls away, and is then reborn. I don’t know that shape of my life, or who I am within it, but there are two things I am aware of: that in some way, I’m always trying, and that I never cease to come back to a place of possibility.