| "We are weighed down, every moment, by the conception and the sensation of Time. And there are but two means of escaping and forgetting this nightmare: pleasure and work. Pleasure consumes us. Work strengthens us. Let us choose." -Charles Baudelaire |
Pick Up The Pieces
Newest Deviations
Somerfieldbox stacked up with words complicated and a different pattern and sequence your cunning smile, asphyxiated another misjudge prequenceSomerfield
hey comes the voices form the stacks and another scream to follow on what's going on from the packs? dreams, deluded and torn
by ~aliems
Its In The Blood...a man's obscurities polished to perfection his life's obscenities highlighted by selectionIts In The Blood...
he opens his mind to a certain degree with a flick of savagery in his cold eyes one hand on gear, thinking he'll be free unknown of the dangers that lurk in the skies
put one hand on the wheel and turned it for victory burning clouds envelop his whole being in a burst of rays seconds before by stating his passing, his wholesome valedictory one man who lost it all, in a sea of fire, crossed his heart and still he prays.
by ~aliems
Love Me Like...love me like...Love Me Like...
you love the birds and you love the bees like you love the herds and you love the seas
like you love the sun and you love the season like you love some fun like you love some reason
by ~aliems
Pick Up The Pieceswe both know it won't last forever so before we end this debate let's just hold hands and hope we'll never have to think about this before latePick Up The Pieces
words i say mean so much to you and words you say mean so much to me but we both know we can't say "i do" we can never say that we'll be free
so i hope this time i do it right because everything so far has been wrong i wont give this up without a fight i'd go as far as writing a song
as long as this lasts, let us cherish the moments we are having together and hope that our love will not perish &nbs
by ~aliems
| "Were I called on to define, very briefly, the term Art, I should call it 'the reproduction of what the Senses perceive in Nature through the veil of the soul.' The mere imitation, however accurate, of what is in Nature, entitles no man to the sacred name of 'Artist.'" -Edgar Allan Poe |
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Journal History
- Dec 25, 2009 [2009.12.25]
- Dec 12, 2009 [2009.12.12]
- Nov 26, 2009 [2009.12.26]
- Nov 12, 2009 [2009.12.11]
- Nov 9, 2009 [2009.11.9]
- Nov 7, 2009 [2009.11.7]
- Oct 25, 2009 [2009.10.25]
- Jul 31, 2009 [2009.7.13]
deviantID
| The warder he gazes o' the night On the graveyards under him lying, The moon into clearness throws all by her light, The night with the daylight is vying. There's a stir in the graves, and forth from their tombs The form of a man, then a woman next looms In garments long trailing and snowy. They stretch themselves out, and with eager delight Join the bones for the revel and dancing -- Young and old, rich and poor, the lady and the knight, Their trains are a hindrance to dancing. And since here by shame they no longer are bound, They shuffle them off, and lo, strewn lie around Their garments on each little hillock. Here rises a shank, and a leg wobbles there With lewd diabolical gesture; And clatter and rattle of bones you might hear, As of one beating sticks to a measure. This seems to the warder a laughable game: Then the tempter, low whispering, up to him came: "In one of their shrouds go and wrap thee." 'Twas done soon as said; then he gained in wild flight Concealment behind the church portal, The moon all the while throws her bright beams of light On the dance where they revel and sport all. First one, then another, dispersed all are they, And donning their shrouds steal the spectres away, And under the graves all is quiet. But one of them stumbles and fumbles along, 'Midst the tombstones groping intently; But none of his comrades have done him this wrong, His shroud in the breeze 'gins to scent he. He rattles the door of the tower, but can find No entrance -- good luck to the warder behind! -- 'Tis barred with blest crosses of metal. His shroud must he have, or rest can he ne'er; And so, without further preambles, The old Gothic carving he grips then and there, From turret to pinnacle scrambles. Alas for the warder! all's over, I fear; From buttress to buttress in dev'lish career He climbs like a long-legged spider. The warder he trembles, and pale doth he look, That shroud he would gladly be giving, When piercing transfixed it a sharp-pointed hook! He thought his last hour he was living. Clouds cover already the vanishing moon, With thunderous clang beats the clock a loud One -- Below lies the skeleton, shattered. -The Dance Of The Dead,Johann Goethe |
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many thanks for the fav.
I really appreciate it~ =]
Bye bye.
msg DarkSena
--
~自分は全部忘れてたんだから~
生命は実際に完全な苦痛である。
--
"Once you have tasted flight, you will forever walk the Earth with your eyes turned skyward. For there you have been, and there you will always long to return." ~ Leonardo da Vinci
i dnt think they're good, but I'll put them up.
hpw do you put friends on here?
i had my friend do that.
i'm srry! at least ur able to learn stuff u need to know in the future
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