Is that blob you found in lobster meat
disgusting form or delicacy?
And if you take the petals from a rose
and chop them up, will each piece grow?
When it snows outside, and cold wind blows,
and chills your nose,
do you wish for the time when warm things know
to come out of their hiding places, heavy cases
and secret spaces;
do you wish for when these things know
that it is finally safe to come out
and join the living?
Cut it up, put it in a box
save it because it looks pretty
admire it as it slowly suffocates inside its imprisonment
a self built cage
a burning rage
and a desire to set the city on fire
with a spark of ideas
debating anthe
I want to be known. I want to be famous. I want to be noticed. I want people to see me and think, “She looks damn good.”
I want my art to be amazing. I want to know what my art is.
I want someone—something?—to tell me what I should do. “In the future, you’ll be great at doing this. Start now.” Or: “In the future, you mess up. Here’s what you should’ve done.”
I want my art to start looking good. No, great.
I want people to tell me how good I am. No, how great.
I want to be complimented all the time, yet never lose my humility. I will always be gracious and polite when accep
It’s hard to be alive.
It’s hard to be alive when you invited your friends over all the time last month, they didn’t wanna come over, and now they’re hanging with four other people, posting they had a great time. That they want to get together again.
That kind of thing fills me with bitter rage.
It’s hard to be alive because that’s always been the case for me. I’ve never had good, long-lasting friends.
It’s hard to be alive because, often times, it’s my fault that I haven’t had many friends.
It’s hard to be alive because, often times, it isn’t my fault I haven’
My Rant on the Idiot in the Play by snowchime, literature
Literature
My Rant on the Idiot in the Play
My mom said singers were the WORST. Not at singing—well, maybe—but that they were the freakiest, most neurotic people one could EVER meet.
"They are insecure and crazy. I should know; I was one," my mom would say—says. She isn't dead or anything yet.
And you know what? I agree.
Although there's this really weird guy who's not a singer, but an actor. (Note that in my school most of the actors are "singers"—they sing but aren't terrific, yet think they're the biggest crap in the toilet of God.) His name is—ha, you really think I'll give out someone's name?! Oh, please. If I'm going to gossip, I'll leave names out. You're welcome, Steve.
(No
Yvaine Harding ran, rain pelting her bare shoulders, feet pounding against the earth. She jumped over a fallen tree, wind whipping past her ears, and landed.
The deer she was chasing was ahead of her by just a few meters. She only had a bow and a few arrows strung across her back. No gun. If she could only get close enough, she would be able to make a clean shot.
She skimmed over the ground, feeling like she was flying through the trees, all the leafy green. One step, two steps, and she was close enough to shoot. Smooth as a fast-flowing river, she drew an arrow, hooked it onto the bow and let go.
It hit the deer's calf. The deer went down
Super Corrupt Meeting of Super-Secrecy by snowchime, literature
Literature
Super Corrupt Meeting of Super-Secrecy
All: Happily met, the happier for thy son.
Page: God, I hate these tacky code messages. Can we have a quote from I don't know, an Eminem song or something?
Darrow: How can you own Versalife?
Everett: Alright, let's get to business. Today we're discussing
The rustling of papers can be heard.
Everett: Sarif, including the Offer and tying up Operation Perihelion. Also, a bit about Hyron and the UN vote. Which do you want to start with?
Zhao: Hyron. The suits aren't working right.
Everett: Explain.
Zhao: It's the bonding. The suits are working perfectly; it's the bodies that aren't.
DeBeers: I thought Darrow and Page were su