Art from the heart and soul

hey, i'm new here and i wrote this during a relationship i am currently in. I dunno if i'd call this a poem or whatever, its just a bunch of thoughts and feelings.

His smell laces my pillow cases
The shadow of his fingertips still trace the frame of my body
And his kiss continues to linger on the soft surface of my ivory skin
My bed serves as a crime scene of true or false feelings
A passion that may have been fabricated for selfish human instinct
My head spins in doubt
My soul sits in a bowl of fruit punch "love"; the sweetness makes the mouth surrender but decays the tooth to rot
Drunk with "love"
Fear of the hanger over which is about to set in
My emotions are like a broken sail
Crumbling at the touch of a human hand
Tearducts as dry as the Middle Eastern desert
I lay here numb in our grave of warm sheets and pillows wondering if he'll come back to me...

( can it really happen?Collapse )

( PaintingsCollapse )

So, I'm not sure why I'm here or not, but maybe I just needed another place to just...vent? Maybe? I dunno. I wrote this a while back, but I thought I would just post it here.


( You can hate it, you can love it...Collapse )

chained and caged
bound with no escape
lonely and weary
walking in the dark

The coldness matches
the paleness of my skin
the pain is the only
reason I know I live

bitter solitude no wings
to fly staring in to the night sky
dead prayers fall from my lips
salty trails fall to my finger tips

The icy breeze cuts me like knives
the gods know how hard I have strived
The isolation precis my heart.

This is an experimental page for an ongoing communal narrative (or anti-narrative) which can include any narrative (or non-narrative) form such as prose, poetry, lists, scripts, tables, images and surveys, etc. It is intended for anyone willing and interested in contributing to an ongoing piece of art (with periodic digressions). There are no restrictions but that contributions be a part of the ongoing story. It is hoped to develop a fusion of widely varied voices and styles and media within a somewhat coherent framework. The ridiculous is highly welcome. Please edit your contributions.

The idea is that the story is not planned, it evolves. So, if one writer or artist introduces a character or theme the next writer or artist can develop it, or not, as she or he chooses, as long as there is some kind of coherent link that makes it 'readable' (in the broadest sense of a readable 'text').

The idea partly came from a party scene in Louisa May Alcott's Little Women, where characters' personalities are developed, and contemporary reading habits explored, through a joint storytelling game. I was thinking along the lines of Pynchon or Rabelais or Perec or something anti-novelistic when I thought of doing this, but perhaps an avante-garde soap opera could also be an apt description. I am reminded of a drawing game I learned in primary school where each child draws a section of a body, folds it over to conceal it, and passes the page onto another child who contributes the next section, and so on, until the page ends and an inconsistent creature is revealed which doesn't conform to any kind mould other than that the pieces fit together. Also think: serial, like Dickens or Conan-Doyle, where each contribution to a larger story is written periodically (The Pickwick Papers), or each short story contributes to a larger reality (the myth of Sherlock Holmes), but with different authors (as in a television series) and, of course, with different media.


Illustrators, digital artists, graphic novelists, photographers, cartoonists, poets, writers of any genre, scriptwriters, non-fiction writers, copywriters, painters, embroiderers, sculptors, artists of any description are welcome
and encouraged to participate.

http://www.livejournal.com/userinf…

Starting work on my first zine, accepting submissions of anything--poetry, short fiction, essays, art, photos, ads for other zines, etc etc etc. Submissions can be e-mailed to selfcallednowhere@houston.rr.com or mailed (ask for my address).

"Upon Arriving in Newark"

We swooped in over a river
I don't know what river--
It was brown and hemmed by smokestacks.
24,000 comedy routines on Jersey
Flashed before my eyes
And I believed them.

The "Welcome to Newark--America's
RENAISSANCE city!" sign
Was juxtaposed with a grimed and graffitied stone overpass
The irony was not subtle.

Sinking into the deep blue seats of the taxi
Bridge sides high enough to prevent seeing
That River
The blown-out factory windows leered at me
And I glimpsed how people become desperate.

This place has grown a bit since I last visited.

I'd just like to say thank you to you all for posting your art, whether it be written, drawn, or something else ^^

And I'm so glad that there aren't any flamers here, I think sometimes, you really need a place to be able to express yourself, and sometimes that type of expression can come in forms that stem, from depression. Most people seem to think that doing art that is depressing and gloomy is not a good thing, but I think it helps to express it in some way shape or form.

Thank you all for sharing ^^

My blood pours onto the page
From the veins you slit
Using my hand
And my razor.

I hear the voices loud
but the words fall
breaking against the wall
and lose there meaning.

In my mind I know
the one's I love
one will see me
as Judas and will
senates me to death

I have stood between
them feeling the blows
of both to save my heart
and my way of life
bring the pain myself

I have tasted the
blood of there strafe
for to long I drink
myself on to the
floor wondering which
will tie the noose
around my neck and hang me
from the tree and then disembowel me

Maybe they both will
stab me thinking that
I sold them to the other for
a number of silver coins
they rub there hands down
my back to find the spot
at the moment they think
stick me with there fiery
swords that are hot
with anger

Why don't they Just
stick me in the heart
the Guilt and darkness
over takes me they tire me
a part.

they sentence me to
hell must I give one
for the other the tears that drop
form my eyes did Judas cry the
same kind of tears before his doom
eaten for entreaty by satan never
knowing forgiveness but raped
forever in his own guilt and
darkness and pain

am I the betrayer
trying to keep the peace
making one see the point of the other.
I fear to speak my mind afraid to be
thought to be taking sides in a pointless
battle we all know the out come.

even know they walk away with
smiles I know they hide the
daggers behind there backs
as they part I meet there
gaze my fate is sealed.

why can't they just let
go and put this behind them
why must they let the wreath
over take them.

By the gods please spear
me this pain is this
a punishment for
caring and loving
but now all I feel
is pain and fear.

Being Judas is a
dark,painful lonely
path with one out come
death,death of the soul.