Text, storys n' poems
Undertale - I demand my pointy thing. nimbusphoenix 558 159 what do you mean that's not an upside sheebal 2,598 359 Artistic Development Retrospective TamberElla 1,246 236 Takes whole lifetime Grypwolf 1,578 184 Lackadaisy Acting tracyjb 6,250 477 CREDITING REFS IS NOT A SHAME Fukari 2,740 357
The Lonely Whale's Cry for Love
The Lonely Whale’s Cry for Love
52 Hertz Whale:
Is Anyone Out There?
Each year he makes his migration south from the Aleutian Islands to a breeding area in the Pacific Ocean parallel to Central California, looking for a mate. Unlike other blue and fin whales, his more than 6000 miles a year round-trip swim is a solitary one. He does not travel along with the blues or the fins, because he is neither. He is most probably either a hybrid blue
Why Bother? A Moral Choice for Young Artists
In the wake of some truly disgusting activity in the gaming industry right now, I’ve been grappling with a moral dilemma concerning what I would recommend young artists do with their chosen career paths.
Phil Fish Hacked
Phil Fish, the creator of FEZ, is pretty much universally hated by people online. Recently he spoke out in favor of Zoe Quinn, creator of Depression Quest, who was herself under fire from internet thought police for “corrupting” games journalism’s integrity by sleeping with journalists to get favorable reviews of her game (allegations which later proved to be untrue). Because he spoke out in favor of Zoe Quinn, Phil found himself under a massive internet attack, wherein hackers compromised his SSI, passwords, Polytron's PayPal account, and other sensitive data.
In the wake of the attack, Phil Fish is now selling off the rights to FEZ and to Polytron. He left with this rather depressing twitter message: “I
Happy holidays from deviantART!
'Twas the night before Christmas, when all through dA,
Not a troll was stirring, nor Grinch in his sleigh.
Deviations were hung in digital Galleries with care,
In hopes that +Favourites soon would be there.
The n00bs were nestled all snug in their beds,
While visions of Daily Deviations danced in their heads.
And Fella in his 'kerchief, and spyed with his night-light,
Had just settled down to log-off for the night,
When over in the Forums there arose such a clatter,
Fella sprang back online to see what was the matter.
To the browser window he flew like a flash,
Tore open the tabs and refreshed the cache.
When what to his art-loving eyes should appear,
But an animated sleigh and eight commissioned reindeer,
With a little old driver, so creative and slick,
Fella knew in a moment it must be St. Nick.
More rapid than broadband, his reindeer were famed,
After all his favorite art
Our biggest fan
Hear me read it
I pity the sky.
Even when all else turns to dust,
And debris, and dies,
The sky cannot move,
Cannot look away,
Or do anything but weep ever after
And ache to wrap those it loves
In lonesome clouds and carry them away.
I pity the sky.
How to Insult Poetically
Once I happened upon a callow young lass,
Who apparently thought that it was cool to be crass.
And she turned her tongue upon the profession of writing;
Apparently she felt that it was in need of a smiting.
Though her raving and ranting made very little sense,
She seemed to be taking a rather harsh stance.
Apparently her pain was too great to be understood,
Far beyond the comprehension of this man from the hood.
So I stood there in swagger, clad in my bling.
While she behaved like 'Moon-Moon', in search of a thing.
She spouted some nonsense, some far fetched line,
About never idolizing the keen writer's mind...
If that is the case, then why ape my technique?
Why submit to several galleries; is your brain on the leak?
You are writing to be seen; you seek attention as I do,
What are we if not performers, is that not true?
Did you believe that you could use your past as a shield?
It counts, I'm afraid, for nothing, I feel;
For you see, I'm a killer, as bold a
Being an artist sometimes feels like being a gladiator.
Though the occasional flowers heal the superficial wounds or boost the ego after an exhausting fight, they do nothing to keep pain at bay when I go back to my cage.
Just like gladiators who die in the arena, spilling their guts out in the concrete and omnipresent dirt, just like the reality of the screams and wails covered by the cheers of the masses... so do I spill everything I feel on paper, for your entertainment.
And just like the cuts of a sword through the flesh, going down with a shriek on the naked bone, are real, so are the nervous strokes of the pencil real, and the words are real, and the pain is real, and the love is real. And this is the only way I can do art, and you have it all, the gore and the sublime.
And I will keep doing it this way until I collapse in the dirt, with my guts spi
I have a black old sweater
some of you may know it
you've seen me wear it so many times,
too many... some might say.
it has a few holes
the sleeves are almost falling apart
there's a pink decolored spot
on the left side, near the stomach,
where bleach fell on it.
but it's my favorite sweater
and I still wear it very often
in fact I'm wearing it right now
while I write these lines
and though I don't attach myself to things
there are some that no matter how much you try
you can't completely replace
and you will always love
and you will always miss
after they're gone
or whatever it is
that puts things together
and takes them apart...
it left me
with a phantom
and you are still attached
to my body
when I dance
and make love
PERSONAL CATASTROPHE AND PROBABLE SOLUTIONS
Your life is headed for a disastrous end.
Everyone will die.
That is a fact.
You will die.
Your friends will die.
Everyone you know will die.
These are indisputable facts.
Your body will break down and crash in one way or another.
Your heart will stop.
Your brain synapses will cease firing.
100% guaranteed termination.
You and everyone you know has less than 122 years left.
The oldest person alive was 122.
Oldest person alive now is 115.
Death should be your number one enemy.
Do not accept it.
Do not welcome it.
The question is - are you willing to extend, improve your life and the lives of those you love?
Why haven't you done it yet? Do you think it's impossible?
Flying for us was impossible until airplanes were built.
Now, the question is- how do we stop the personal catastrophe of death?
The logical answer is - science!
We can slow death down using modern medicine, and we can stop and reverse some accidental causes of death.
Aging is one cause that we cannot currentl
i'm not an artist
we do not belong in boxes
and bags and books or
and we do not sit contently
in wordsworth and shakespeare
and blake, burns, and brownings
or in the cold stiff bones
of raleigh's of long ago;
detect, and re-select
a virus--a disease,
a germ in every verse and line;
the first signs of
foolish waitings under
bridges and scolding parents
and nothing to signify at all
we are the blood of nations
and the heart of men
and the love of every
rhetorist and sentimist
we dance through the ballrooms of
the age and chat with
we shake hands with heros
and the homeless, dirty
type that gum over 'hello's
we are and aren't and will be
silly verse and
naive philosophers and sweet oxymorons
waving hello from the shore;
forever onward and never ending
like the stars in an
I am gay.
I'm not a disease, I'm not a problem
I'm not an affliction
I don't need treatment.
I don't need help
I'm not sick
I'm not confused
I'm not a sin.
I am gay.
I'm your daughter
Your co worker
A complete stranger
I am gay.
I need love, just like you
I need smiles
I need support
I need a hug
I need a friend
I need a family
I need acceptance
I need understanding
I need you
I am gay.
I know what love is
I know what pain is
I know what hate is
I know what life is
I am gay.
And I need you to love me
The same way you loved me before you knew
I am gay.
And I have experienced hate
From more people than just you
I am gay.
And I wont change.
I wont give up.
I wont back down.
I wont pretend.
I wont lie.
I wont deny.
I wont hide.
I wont hurt.
I am gay.
And that's okay.
Untitled Tiger Project Part 1
The strange feeling came over the tigress Penumbra once again. Her paws tingled, her charcoal hair rose as if electrified, and her body felt faintly as if it were being constricted by the air around her. She flicked her ears in irritation, but she was too used to the phenomenon to express actual alarm. She didn't even bother to raise her head off of her single broad foreleg. The sensation would pass, as it always did, and she paid little mind to it.
It was the water leaking from the rusted pipe above her head that caught her interest, though. She had been absent-mindedly watching the pure water fall, drop by drop, from the peripherals of her vision. Now the rhythmic, predictable dripping slowed until it stopped. Then, in defiance of every law of fluid dynamics that Penumbra knew, the drops of water began to rise from the floor and slip back into the pipe. Penumbra stiffened and swivelled her head to watch.