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Deviant for 6 Years
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Literature
The Trial
Your Honour, I looked them up to know more about them, to know what I was walking into. I have been accused of stalkerish behaviour, for going through the means that have been made available to me by them! They have spilled their hearts into their machines, like children, naive, so naive, playing the game I will tell you a secret, but you can't tell anybody. My crime today is only remembering what I read, the mundanity of their lives all filed away in my head. Obliviousness should be the crime, Your Honour. They keep sharing the fucking secret, then, lurch when somebody else quotes it back to them.
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Literature
Keane
There it was, the seemingly inconsequential detail, the tiniest pang of disappointment that chipped away slowly, eventually at the pedestal I sat you on. I'd ask you, after, a million times, needing to understand the foreign word, what it meant when they called you 'bai'. Everytime while waiting for you to come to the phone, hearing the echo of your sibling say, 'bai, there's a call for you'. There was something about the way you dogged my question, the sound of your short laugh when you waved it off, I knew then, despite all my naivety of everything else in life, that there was a good chance I'd always remain waiting outside this little door you had locked.
And maybe more. One day in that blissful year, I swapped a school shoe with you, went home wearing one of mine, one of yours. A ghost of that feeling swallows the present me, the risk, the oddity, the statement of an eleven year old being one half of a whole. I remember the bounce in my step, the unconcealing beatific smile on my f
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Literature
Trial and Error
I speak in run-on sentences, some words of foreign tongue thrown in, thick words, and a thicker lump stuck in my neck. Think I'd have made my point? The run-on sentence makes all the sense to me, more even than the untame thoughts chasing each other in my head. I catch B's eye, the slightly surprised, slightly rueful smile there. B says, "What was that?" I smile back the same rueful smile, shake my head.
B considers then says, "I do know that there was something there that only you would say."
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Literature
Warrior
I stumbled on a picture of you, of when you were healthy, here. You look beautiful and sombre and certain. You look like you'd have been different from the others. You look like you'd have lent me the strength to stand my ground.
I was told, years after, that I looked like you. I think now that those who said it must have missed you dearly and knew that you'd been different from the others, too. Other genes have had their way in me and I don't look beautiful and sombre and certain like you did. All I have of you is a picture now.
I have kept safe the only memory I have of you. I had accepted the state of you without question, without emotion. Without fear, too, I think, but I must have been, afraid. I don't remember anything else from that day or time. I was a child among weeping adults. I was a child taken by the whiteness of the cloth they'd wrapped you in, the whiteness of the cotton they'd put in your nose.
I was six then.
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Literature
Naivety
I had stood at the tall, wide windows of our living room once,
and imagined how it must look like if the flood came,
how it'd be both quick and slow at the same time, how unrelenting it'd be,
surging through the maze of houses that lay sprawling behind my own.
The waves would be huge, and eerily calm my young self had wondered,
if living three stories above the ground would have me saved.
I had stood at the tall, wide windows of our living room once,
and imagined with much clarity how the flood would take me away, if it did.
I'd been hearing adults talk about it over and over.
They'd seemed so certain, unafraid, saying the city would probably go under water.
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Literature
Unguarded
The strange person from last night's conversation weaves in and out of my dreams, keeps me tossing and turning. I wake, and my chest weighs a few tonnes heavier than before the night, before I dreamt, before I had heard anything said, before, before. I stumble on and talk aloud, drowning out the whisper in my head and the thunder in my heart. But my steps take me, later, eventually, to the cool refuge of the bathroom, and I cry out the muffled, scared cries of someone trapped with a strange person in a crumbling dream.
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Literature
Paperboats
Where does the past live?
In the folds of a musty newspaper.
I fold a sheet in half and fold it again,
pulling the corners in the centre,
shaping a sail.
I know the first four steps,
I remember how the folds look.
Then my hands move as if
they suddenly know their way around
the folds and paper nooks better than I do.
Something subconscious and innocent guides them,
a memory from a niche of memories.
Heavy rain,
paperboats,
newspaper soaked, floating
feet splashing in pools of the rainwater.
Here, Now, 21, I pull on two folds,
and watch the paperboat of my childhood
of my childhood home
spring to life in my hand.
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Literature
Synonymous
Happiness: state of absorbing yourself so completely in mundane things,
it will make you think you managed to block out the pain for a while.  
Lust: developing an odd indifference/sudden disinterest to a lifetime of being a certain way,
like an uncharacteristic audacity to wander alone on a dark rooftop
and not feel afraid of shadows when you catch a glimpse of the sky.
Love: the feeling that you can tear yourself away from someone as close to you as heartbeat,
to put an end to both your hurt. Love is thinking that maybe distance would be your saving grace.
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Literature
Hourglass
the clock's steady
moving, and I can't be
deceived by what my eyes see
time's still slower than my heartbeat
because my work is,
piling and piling
and my heart is racing the numbers on my watch now
I can't move
I'm frantic so
there's so much time I had
then there is none at all
in a room where it ain't going to matter now
I'm crumbling
I've run out of time now
Time was going,
going,
it's gone now
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Literature
Trick of Light
Your shadow is a very untrustworthy fellow. He's always around but never to have your back. He's dark and lonely and full of things that linger in quiet alleyways (how his shape hurries on the sidewalk, head bowed and hiding). He's made of doubt and hesitation (when he hears footsteps look at the way he turns his head to watch over his shoulder in fear). Being around you he knows what it's like to be alone (he learnt that from you, the way to live as a recluse and stranger among his own kind).
Why is it a surprise how much you two are alike? It's when you step away from the warmth of the pale streetlight, and head away, that his fears and doubt and loneliness find their way into your body. And in the darkness of the night that follows, your shadow becomes, you.
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Literature
Leaving Him Alone
what does a person have at the end of the day
if not his faith and certainty,
take that away from him with a moment of doubt
and you leave him hollow, as if dead
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Favourites

Waldeinsamkeit III by cucumber-love Waldeinsamkeit III :iconcucumber-love:cucumber-love 14 0 Stormy Mountains by Burtn Stormy Mountains :iconburtn:Burtn 663 44 Greek Calligraphy 4 by Marahuta Greek Calligraphy 4 :iconmarahuta:Marahuta 16 6
Journal
Drones



Archive

Drones

Foreword
by techgnotic
Choose any media or medium and there is no question that Drones have become the white hot center of debate for a multitude of deeply consequential concerns for the entire Earth Sphere. No matter the digital end point or theatre of conversation, whether it be politics, war, privacy, pop culture, or the rise of machines – Drones or UAV's (unmanned aerial vehicles) are the current catalyst du jour in any number of flashpoint discussions. From the front page headlines of news outlets around
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:icontechgnotic:techgnotic 774 1,816
Literature
A War I Had Lost
the memories go into boxes.  pieces, one by one, of my life slowly fall into the building pile.  childhood, friends, crushes, dreams, and such all stack high: all the debris from a war i have lost.  I take a match, look at the wood slowly burn, glance at the memories.  With a breath, a sigh, I let the match fall to my feet, landing in my combustible emotions, a trail the comes from and ends at the picture of myself at the bottom of the pile.  behind lay frames of those people whome i held dear, those who appreciated me, those that i loved for years, and some for days.  Each of them was lost in that war.  each of them was...they each were a part of me.  I barely walk away with myself, almost guilty that i am alive.  my trail of tears lights them up, one by one, crisp and burning to ashes in the wind.  what a familiar sight...  the flames picked and poked their ways into the rubb
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sometimes by cucumber-love sometimes :iconcucumber-love:cucumber-love 15 2
Literature
Dreams and Nightmares
Most of the time, it would be nightmares
Thieving away my sleep; in the middle of the night
Unforgiving and acidic they would be
Nipping every bit of my body and departing sore
You told me they never last long
But I lived an eternity in them
Each night without you
Chasing endlessly for a way back
Reality though was nothing like
Those cold ones I witnessed most nights
You were near and ended it all well again
You made the reality worth coming back to
But that was then, and this is my now
I dream of you, I dream of us
Together eternally, outliving the nightmares
My world has been tossed upside down
Now harmless dreams of you, wake me up
To a bitter nightmare I have been living
With a vague sagacity that I might be
Able to twist my world over again
It was your absence that kept
The time to pace so slowly, I know now
Because it's been ages since we fell distant
And I still haven't found my ground.
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PadfootPatronus
AK
Artist | Hobbyist | Literature
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:iconbraenuun:
Braenuun Featured By Owner Dec 19, 2012  Hobbyist Traditional Artist
hai dere, gracie pour la watch lol
to what do I owe the honor?
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:iconpadfootpatronus:
PadfootPatronus Featured By Owner Dec 20, 2012  Hobbyist Writer
Honestly? You wrote about one of your pieces: 'The young want to fall in love, so I wrote the direction manual'. I thought it was funny. You write differently than most people I have read on DA. Less obviously poetic, but there's this diary feel to few of the pieces I read of yours. With a whole army of deviants watching you, I love the way you react to the addition of one more.
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:iconbraenuun:
Braenuun Featured By Owner Dec 20, 2012  Hobbyist Traditional Artist
well, theres really very little feedback from anyone about anything that i write. I relish the oportunity to interact on dA, especially with new others who might prove worthy of being a strong ally in the world of poetry/writing/being a person and so on and so forth. everyone piddled out and lost interest, and thusly, I had to. If you notice the massive amount of deviations i have, the rate at which i have submitted has dropped exponentially, due to schooling, and the lack of people who care about my writing. I need people to care in order to continue. i need that for inspiration to stop playing games, or reading a book, or listening to a professor long enough to focus and produce output.

That in this sea of attempts toward art (that'd be the whole site), you found my things of interest and of worth. For that, I am always excited.
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:iconamux:
Amux Featured By Owner Oct 12, 2012   General Artist
:party:
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:iconamux:
Amux Featured By Owner Oct 12, 2012   General Artist
a very happy birthday to you :D
May Allah continue to bless you in endless ways :tighthug:
miss ye STILL! loads buddy
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:iconpadfootpatronus:
PadfootPatronus Featured By Owner Oct 15, 2012  Hobbyist Writer
Amux, thank you mucho darling! :D
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:iconamux:
Amux Featured By Owner Oct 16, 2012   General Artist
:blowkiss:
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:iconmeinesehnsucht:
MeineSehnsucht Featured By Owner Jul 27, 2012   Writer
Thanks for the watch.
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:iconladywen:
LadyWen Featured By Owner Mar 28, 2012   Photographer
Thank you for the Watch! :)
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:iconestallidos:
estallidos Featured By Owner Mar 10, 2012   Writer
thank you for the watch :heart:
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