|I came to DA after so many people I knew from another website got accounts. After getting an account myself and staring at pretty mudkips I started developing an interest in art.|
Girl in the WarIt did get easier, once I started to imagine things were moving fast, too fast to fathom, too fast to see the stars but only feel them intrinsically on my skinlittle pinpricks, little bubbles of air to touch my cheeks or take my breath. Or, you know. The sort of rambling things I was letting myself think, so long as it kept me distracted and living.Girl in the War by Judah-Leonardo
The window was damp with me leaning against it, and in that position the teeth-rattling rumble of the ol' greyhound's engines was churning my stomach much the same way a headache had been thrashing behind my eyes for the past month. I rubbed my ragged sleeve into a patch of fogged glass and turned away from the dark outside and looked instead to the darkness within. A few lights pricked the arid gloomreading lamp, a cell phone or so. It was a heavy sort of stifled, in here, and it smelled like old cloth and travel and musty seats. Someone was coughing.
But cold. Why is every freaking bus always so cold? I hunkered down, tugging
WingsIcarus eats his breakfast in front of the TV.Wings by LyttleBlankyta
Balances his Wheaties on a butter knife
Big and strong on jagged silver cliffs.
On cloudy days, he watches fireflies
Blinking in Morse Code,
Hollering help to the tree sap they're trapped in.
He scoops ladybugs up in the crook of his elbow
To count their spots backwards,
To ask them where they've been.
He doesn't understand the morning news.
He feels it like a nosebleed,
Like a thick intrusion,
And when the worry clots on his lip, he trembles.
He says, "Papa, I wanna paint the world for you,
But it just won't sit still"
Icarus doesn't want to be in charge of hiding the universe from itself.
He's sick of kicking people out of his clubhouse.
He's got sixteen feet of imagination
Wrapped around the war monsters in his closet,
But he still can't imagine why the quiet is so tragic.
He can't figure out why he's got to hold his own hand
On the subway.
See, Icarus watches the world like an opera in ancient Greek:
He feels the words but he can