There runs a ship with tattered sails,
Fore and aft and main,
And gossamer, gossamer, Spider’s Web
Is what they call her name.
With seven eyes all white with death,
And extra in the sky,
Gossamer, gossamer, Spider’s Web
Is watching far and nigh.
She casts her net and brings in stars
And lurks beneath the waves,
For gossamer, gossamer, Spider’s Web
Shall ne’er a good man save.
So find her sailing in the fog,
Where none may leave alive,
And gossamer, gossamer, Spider’s Web
On your soul she will thrive.
i am unoriginal.
there are scars on my back where i tore off my wings because wings have been done before
there are circles under my eyes the colour of tar because sleep has been done before
there are calluses on my fingers and scars on my hands because healing has been done before
so i call myself original by abusing myself,
so i wall off my workshop and put down the pen and turn on the shower and wash myself away,
so i sit down and write because i loathe what i have done
and i loathe what i am
and i loathe what i will be for all eternity.
because of my narcissism,
i am flightless;
because of my stupidity,
i am insane.
i will wash myself
i have fallen into hatred with myself.
i have fallen into moods that define my life
and i tell them to go away
but they are latched onto me.
i have fallen into a sinkhole of abandonment and shame
and every day it would be nice if someone threw down a rope for me.
instead i am left alone.
i have fallen and must work my own way up and find my footholds
and when the wall runs smooth i will chip at it myself.
i have a strength in me more than i know
and i am determined to unveil it.
then, when i am out, they will say
"o, i helped you"
and i will say
"no."
no, you did not help me;
you did not throw a rope
you did not loan a hand
you did not
alone on a summer night by ancientforever, literature
Literature
alone on a summer night
i want there to be a support group for lonely people:
people at the end of their rope
people who have lost all of their friends
people who never had any to begin with
(and no one ever had any to begin with)
.
i want there to be a support group
for the people who have gained everything
and lost it all again
for the people who don't know where to turn
for the people who have taken too many turns
for the people who can't make it another year without telling someone
(i want to die,
i want to live,
i want to cry)
.
i want there to be a support group
because too many people say
"suck it up"
because too many people say that it could be worse
y
Having Asperger's Syndrome is watching everyone around you make beautiful things, and you want to make them too.
You sit there and stare at your hands and curse your clumsiness, and you begin to hate yourself for every little mistake.
After all, if they're so accomplished, why not you?
You're stupid. You're useless. They're not.
It's obvious.
Having Asperger's Syndrome is knowing that you can only tell people you absolutely trust.
If it gets out, there's a whole new slough of insults for you - 'retard', 'idiot'.
You ache to say to the people who would call you these things:
"I'm not an idiot! The only ritard I know is a ritardando! Get away
I never realised
quite how many people hated me
simply for what I was
so I tried to change
and the change cut me away from my bones
so I stopped
but being myself never worked -
they still hated me
"you aren't natural"
so what am I
an android?
I thought I held a spyglass to my eye;
Instead, I found jade glasses in my hand.
I thought to have a lark before I died.
Instead, I found myself forced to disband.
the rain falls on my shoulders and adds to the weight of the world
everything works to remind me of how sweet it once was,
and sweet indeed it had been,
honeysuckle to the complement of murder
to the complement of life
we are nearly entirely water,
water in our veins, water in our minds
what harm can be done by a little bit more?
There runs a ship with tattered sails,
Fore and aft and main,
And gossamer, gossamer, Spider’s Web
Is what they call her name.
With seven eyes all white with death,
And extra in the sky,
Gossamer, gossamer, Spider’s Web
Is watching far and nigh.
She casts her net and brings in stars
And lurks beneath the waves,
For gossamer, gossamer, Spider’s Web
Shall ne’er a good man save.
So find her sailing in the fog,
Where none may leave alive,
And gossamer, gossamer, Spider’s Web
On your soul she will thrive.
i am unoriginal.
there are scars on my back where i tore off my wings because wings have been done before
there are circles under my eyes the colour of tar because sleep has been done before
there are calluses on my fingers and scars on my hands because healing has been done before
so i call myself original by abusing myself,
so i wall off my workshop and put down the pen and turn on the shower and wash myself away,
so i sit down and write because i loathe what i have done
and i loathe what i am
and i loathe what i will be for all eternity.
because of my narcissism,
i am flightless;
because of my stupidity,
i am insane.
i will wash myself
i have fallen into hatred with myself.
i have fallen into moods that define my life
and i tell them to go away
but they are latched onto me.
i have fallen into a sinkhole of abandonment and shame
and every day it would be nice if someone threw down a rope for me.
instead i am left alone.
i have fallen and must work my own way up and find my footholds
and when the wall runs smooth i will chip at it myself.
i have a strength in me more than i know
and i am determined to unveil it.
then, when i am out, they will say
"o, i helped you"
and i will say
"no."
no, you did not help me;
you did not throw a rope
you did not loan a hand
you did not
alone on a summer night by ancientforever, literature
Literature
alone on a summer night
i want there to be a support group for lonely people:
people at the end of their rope
people who have lost all of their friends
people who never had any to begin with
(and no one ever had any to begin with)
.
i want there to be a support group
for the people who have gained everything
and lost it all again
for the people who don't know where to turn
for the people who have taken too many turns
for the people who can't make it another year without telling someone
(i want to die,
i want to live,
i want to cry)
.
i want there to be a support group
because too many people say
"suck it up"
because too many people say that it could be worse
y
Having Asperger's Syndrome is watching everyone around you make beautiful things, and you want to make them too.
You sit there and stare at your hands and curse your clumsiness, and you begin to hate yourself for every little mistake.
After all, if they're so accomplished, why not you?
You're stupid. You're useless. They're not.
It's obvious.
Having Asperger's Syndrome is knowing that you can only tell people you absolutely trust.
If it gets out, there's a whole new slough of insults for you - 'retard', 'idiot'.
You ache to say to the people who would call you these things:
"I'm not an idiot! The only ritard I know is a ritardando! Get away
I never realised
quite how many people hated me
simply for what I was
so I tried to change
and the change cut me away from my bones
so I stopped
but being myself never worked -
they still hated me
"you aren't natural"
so what am I
an android?
I thought I held a spyglass to my eye;
Instead, I found jade glasses in my hand.
I thought to have a lark before I died.
Instead, I found myself forced to disband.
the rain falls on my shoulders and adds to the weight of the world
everything works to remind me of how sweet it once was,
and sweet indeed it had been,
honeysuckle to the complement of murder
to the complement of life
we are nearly entirely water,
water in our veins, water in our minds
what harm can be done by a little bit more?
Challenge Prompts for Writers by TheBrassGlass, literature
Literature
Challenge Prompts for Writers
1. mastery
2. a flooded field
3. what she keeps in
4. too precise
5. the most cutting criticism
6. tissues
7. ghost fingers
8. eloquent
9. the disease that is not a disease
10. her greatest fear
11. wasp
12. moon eye
13. her feet are dragonflies
14. lights in the trees
15. the dead hawk
16. disaster in the snow
17. a memento
18. oceans
19. failed attempt
20. his rabbit paw
21. their unspoken understanding
22. that smell conjures memories
23. the room
24. jar of olives
25. wine and sea
26. earrings
27. wander through the fair
28. the wrong man's hand
29. owls
30. unexpected call
31. sudden rain
32. clever fox
33
I'll review something in a few days or so. I just needed to let you guys know something:
Remember way, WAY back when I reviewed the horror that was Prison at Home? And how I wished that the writer of that dreck read the review and tried to call me out on it?
Well guess what?
After over a year of that review being up, she finally PMed me today, saying that she read it.
And you know what?
She LIKED it.
She called me a "comical genius", completely seriously, and that she laughed at the review. She even called her own story a piece of shit, and that it deserved all the hatred it got.
...I'm stunned. I'm legitimately stunned.
.....
That i
A young girl by the name of Clementine waited in her room for her nanny, who was to help her into her ball gown. She was a lovely girl with waist length, straight strawberry blonde hair and pale blue-grey and hazel speckled eyes. She had thin, soft pink lips that she hardly ever formed into a smile. She reached the height of four-foot and eleven inches and was rather thin. Her breasts were rather small unlike her mother's and her hips and shoulders where thin. She was almost as attractive as her mother the widow.
"Young lady Clementine. It's me, Gertrude, may I come in?" her nanny asked from outside of her bedroom door. The old woman didn't
You came to me in a dream
But you never came back
Where did you go
I dont know
But I hope that someday you will come back
And find me
Then we will be together
For all of eternity
Working on a Music Album by Rxethecreature10, journal
Working on a Music Album
I have started, after long months of wondering what I wanted to do, I got the idea. And I'm already writing songs (I just finished one tonight).
So...here are the songs:
- Rewire, Reboot, Restart-Vocals performed by Roxie Rex (Lyrics video here:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8KdGERp3nMs&feature=plcp )
- The Highwayman-Vocals performed by Roxie Rex and Nettie McCarthy
-Blue Bloods-Vocals performed by Roxie Rex
-Scorpius-Vocals performed by Nettie McCarthy
-Gemini-Vocals performed by Roxie Rex and Nettie McCarthy
- I Close My Eyes- Vocals performed by Roxie Rex and Nettie McCarthy
- Cold, Unbearable World-Vocals performed by Roxie Re
I'm an amateur poet and novelist working off a new computer. Seventeen and a half. Genderfluid. A little bit too emotional and attached. Enjoy your stay.
Favourite Movies
Beetlejuice, Disney's Sleeping Beauty, various.
Favourite Bands / Musical Artists
...a lot.
Other Interests
Reading, writing, drawing, and many other things I could easily bore you with.
It's been years.
Hell, it's been lifetimes.
I don't know why I logged into this account again. It's the year 2018 and I'm worlds different than I was in 2010—or even in 2013. I've lost most of the friends that I used to have, to time, to growing up, and to differences in who we are as people.
I'm 22 years old now. That feels weird to say. I'm in a committed long-term relationship, and I'm probably the happiest I've been in my entire life. I know that no one I used to talk to will actually see this. They're all too busy with their own lives to log onto dA after however many years. Maybe this is just a bit of guilty hope, me wanting so
Hey guys. I know I'm not on here a lot any more and I'm probably not great for publicity, but I just wanted to spread something. (No, it's not the flu.)
The darling Kushybutt (https://www.deviantart.com/kushybutt) is in a spot of trouble financially, and she has open donations and commissions to help out - please, if you can, take a second to look. If you can't donate yourself, I know some of my watchers are eons more popular than I, so please, please, please spread the word and see where you can get this.