The Simple Things: I Crochet by Cataluna-Woods, literature
Literature
The Simple Things: I Crochet
Wrap it. Slip it under. Pull it through. Wrap again. Pull it through. Wrap once more. Pull it through.
It's a simple thing. A simple pleasure. It's the movement. It's the creation. It's the moment.
The moment you find the yarn, the moment you find the pattern. That moment that you begin it and every second up until the finishing stitch. It's every moment that you slip it on or pass the finished product. It's the pleasure that comes from creation; that pride of not-quite perfection.
I crochet. It's not the only hobby that holds my interest, but it is the one that holds the special place in my heart. It's the one that makes me giggle and mak
She stormed into the house, door closing noisily -but not slamming- behind her and made her way towards her bedroom. School had been a disaster.
She hadn't heard a word the teachers had said, hadn't caught a single one of the various assignments given, thanks to a certain someone whispering in her ear. To make matters worse, her friends and teachers kept her from really listening to him as well, so in the end -nothing- was accomplished.
Her bedroom door flew open to reveal a tall, lanky blonde stretched out across her bed, perusing one of her poetry diaries at his leisure.
"You bastard." If voices had shape and weight, hers would have flic
I've got a sacrifice in my pocket.
Just a little one. I swear it doesn't matter to anyone.
Not even myself, to be honest. Though... I suppose then, I can't call this my sacrifice, even if it's the one I'm offering tonight.
A life gone wrong, a life taken before it's time... Call it an omen of things to come. In its death is meaning, for even terrible things can have purpose. Even if that purpose is merely to serve as a reminder... So call this a remembrance.
A sacrifice for the sake of remembrance. A life to signify the lack of such... Though no one will see it that way. No one will see the loss, only the gain that it signifies in their w
Note to God:
Chance of rain: 15%. Chance of wearing white shirt: 80%. Chance of rain when white shirt is decided on: 100%. Not funny.
Note to God:
Having boyfriend dump me on February 12th: Also not funny.
Note to God:
Being grounded for three weeks and not being able to go to prom because of something my little sister did: Still not funny.
Note to God:
Having Chemistry teacher throw a pop quiz on the one day I didnt do my homework because my little sister stole my book to get back at me for yelling at her about my getting grounded: Again n
It was raining.
Its an easy day to remember Not so easy to forget.
I remember it was raining.
One of those slow rains
The kind that dulls the world
Blunts the senses, but not emotions
No, the feelings still linger,
Still leave you open to the depths of their hunger
And you cant look away from the gaping hole
There were flowers.
I remember their vividness
How they stuck out
Roses with petals like crimson velvet
Being pelted by those raindrops
Bashing their heads downwards
Even the roses were in mourning
Forced into it or not
They were just like the rest
Inspiring more than Poetry. by Cataluna-Woods, literature
Literature
Inspiring more than Poetry.
A feather brushed over her cheek and pale eyes flickered open to reveal life. As the light hit them, they snapped back shut. Nm, if youre going to sneak in, at least hit the switch before you do it.
His laughter was the response she got. And if Im not being sneaky? She groaned and turned over. Then have the decency to turn off the light anyways. Cel sat on the bed with a bemused smile she could hear but not see. I see. Well, this visit has nothing to do with stealth or decency Im afraid, strictly business this time.
Then fuck off, I have business of my own to take care
Mind Forged Manacles by Cataluna-Woods, literature
Literature
Mind Forged Manacles
This problem cannot be solved by the same level of thinking that created it.
I wish other people could understand that
I wish you could see whats become of this world
I wish that any of this mattered
But the words of a child mean nothing to deaf ears.
See not, hear not; see them, ignore them.
That is how it goes.
Doesnt matter how warm the world gets, how cold it gets, how filthy it gets, all that matters is the here and now, even if thats whats suffering, our salvation comes from the future we cant be bothered to create.
You want a solution. Here it is: Quit being the problem.
We want
It had been years since she'd tried writing, having done it as a little kid, then stopping when the first person told her what she wrote was crap. She hadn't picked up a pen except to do homework since.
Some might say she didn't take criticism well. She probably would have shrugged at them and said it didn't matter anyway.
When she looked back on this particular moment, she would never know why she had sat down at her computer, pull up a blank document, and start to write... She would never put a finger on what possessed her to not start on the homework due soon... But start a story to vent the day she'd had.
It hadn't been a horrible day.
The world slows,
Not grinding But like a viscous liquid that meets a barrier.
No, not a barrier A small opening within an hourglass.
It slips through, squeezing, straining every drop from one side
To the other.
But that transition is oh so slow
Deliciously so
That uncertainty Will it go?
Will it succeed?
The world slows
The clock finds it difficult
To move that hour hand
Even the minute hand is sluggish
Grudgingly one day passes into the next.
4/24/08
Extinction.
(slower) Extinction.
Ex-tinc-tion.
Ex.
Tinc.
Tion.
Shun.
Shunning their lives.
Their place.
Their right to be.
Tink.
Tinkering with what we shouldnt.
Ex-actly what we already do.
For convenience.
For trivialities.
For greed and ambition.
Extinction.
Of beauty.
Of magic.
Of our world.
Ultimately,
Of ourselves.
11/28/07
The Canvas is Spoiled Now by Cataluna-Woods, literature
Literature
The Canvas is Spoiled Now
The canvas is spoiled now...
You know I hate to say it,
I worked so hard on that piece
I throw myself so far into my art
To create the ultimate beauty
That somehow always escapes me.
And I know you hate to see it,
Though you always shower compliments
On ugly barren landscapes,
On fields of mangled corpses,
And terrible, rotting dreams.
But the canvas is spoiled now
With tiny little splatters,
And long dripping lines
That never quite wash out
No matter how many times you try.
Yes that canvas is spoiled now
So I can only recommend
That you find someone else
I'm sure you'll have no problem...
God knows you have no choice...
It had been years since she'd tried writing, having done it as a little kid, then stopping when the first person told her what she wrote was crap. She hadn't picked up a pen except to do homework since.
Some might say she didn't take criticism well. She probably would have shrugged at them and said it didn't matter anyway.
When she looked back on this particular moment, she would never know why she had sat down at her computer, pull up a blank document, and start to write... She would never put a finger on what possessed her to not start on the homework due soon... But start a story to vent the day she'd had.
It hadn't been a horrible day.
Gloria Fidelis is a well written story by Adam Kamerer that's available as a web novel updated three times a week.
It's steampunk fantasy, quick-paced with characters that are well fleshed out... My favorite is the villians, but I'm a fan of villians.
I highly recommend that you check it out and discover the thought provoking storyline within.... I'll just butcher it if I try to describe it any further, lol.
Seriously.
http://gloria-fidelis.lunaticpress.net/
Go read!
Or I can commemorate by doubling my amount of deviations in a single night. Hee. Most are somewhat old, though the poems are fairly new... Enjoy!