|Deviant Login||Shop||Join deviantART for FREE||Take the Tour|
i don’t know what to choose
i don’t know what to pick
either way i know i’ll lose
and wind up very sick.
who should i believe
when i am only me
what tricks are up their sleeves?
they know i cannot see.
i want to keep my head high
but i’ve been really down
there are no more blue skies
and i kind of want to drown.
everyone is mad at me
i’m trying to fix the error
but i’m mad, too, you see
cause i can’t escape my terror.
i’m trying to stand up straight
but i want to lie down on the ground
what kind of future awaits
if i give up without a sound?
American Media Sells Rape Culture EssayESSAY
American Media Sells Rape Culture
There is a warped perception of women and sex in America due to inaccurate and
fantastical portrayals of female sexuality in the media—media being one of the most influential forms of marketing and entertainment in the country. “Sex sells” is a popular saying in the media industry, and it proves to be true in film. The way women are represented in media is almost solely as sex symbols—female characters in movies are created to be undeveloped, emotionless ‘sex kittens’ who seem to beg for sex in every scene, and this effects the way both men and women perceive real women—the perception, in the end, is usually negative. This is a key example of what is called rape culture. Rape Culture is a relatively new term that umbrellas the many rape myths, misconceptions and media content in society. This includes the shaming of
Dream of a Shirtdrunk writing of a dream of a shirt
by r. spring
in my dream last night i remember the distinct feel of button up shirt cloth
on my cheek. (it was the pillow fabric of course) and it was warm with a
heart’s beat that i know of personally. it was a dance with this warmth and
safety to a little sanjuanitos song that was previously stuck in my head.
i tried to recreate this dream when i woke up but i had 10 minutes left to sleep
and it was just too hard to feel the warmth again on my pillow where, then, it
was cold and damp with sleep. there were lights on strings and dirt floors and
the sky was black and i wasn’t afraid of its darkness because i was attached
to the light, airy, warm cotton shirt—swaying, swaying to a tinkling folk song.
and i was so content all over that i didn’t feel sad. today in therapy i practiced
my first meditation. in my head i saw my pale skin, my green eyes, my black
hair, voluntarily succumbing to its real and valid beauty (for once) and
Two Little Headstones on a Hill With Hummingbirdsby r. spring
There are two little headstones on a hill,
Two pale marbles sitting sweetly still,
Among low, swinging, perfumed plum trees,
Among the gentle humming of the bees.
Beneath tall, yellow chrysanthemums
That beg the stones to come dance with them;
Encased with lilies and droplets of dew,
And are huddled close together, too.
Above the grass so green and soft;
The butterflies shy about aloft—
The sky, cyan, unfolds behind them,
And each have bits of thread to bind them.
This morning came the hummingbirds
To echo back their emerald words—
To tie blue ribbons around each grave;
To beckon the breeze’s petaled waves.
And then at night when the birds sleep—
And the flowers close themselves to keep—
The maggots, moths and worms appear,
But these are only friends, my dear.
For love doesn’t end above the stone—
Death is no death, for we aren’t alone.
I Know YouNot so serious
Not so fast
A little bit
I knew a certain smile when I saw it
I saw it standing in the doorway
I figured you would come
I say words in nylon darkness
But it's more than words, I know
I'm not so serious
Of you catch me unafraid
I'm not so fast, just curious
I awaken in this shade
No more vacancy
The only way I know how
Of course, of course it should be known
I love you and this means yes.
Give Up A Hope"give up a hope"
give up a hope
just one today
you wanted your family with you
you wanted to be at peace and pray
you wanted to show off your heritage
but destruction paved the way
family is the hope i’ll give up today.
give up a hope
just think of another one
you wanted to make ends meet
you wanted more time in the sun
a little more time of day
but nothing will ever get done
time is the hope i’ll give up today.
give up a hope
how about a few more?
you wanted success
you wanted praise galore
but your family left you
and your heart is sore
success is the hope i’ll give up today.
give up a hope
there are more, you know
you wanted a childhood
you wanted to grow
you wanted to tell someone
now reap what you sow
innocence is the hope i’ll give up today.
give up a hope
breathe the last one
you wanted a future
but there’s no where to run
only slow-motion darkness
and it’s only begun
only petrified night-times
and hectic, fruitless mornings
i can never be bjork
i am a Heian princess
i am invisible me
i am loved
hidden and despised
crazed and conceited
alone in his arms
singing without sound
i can never be bjork
i am a water droplet on a paintbrush
no more water colors
too many tears
the legacy of Crylie
i love him i love him
there’s no more after that
i can never be bjork
i am a Heian princess
Note to JarrettI hope I care for you
Like you care for me
I feel not all there
And if I’m not how can I help you?
You deserve to lean on me in your darker hours
I’ll provide my ghost for you
If you ever need me
Know that I think of you
Dream of you
An Old Woman Dying Young"An Old Woman Dying Young"
to burn out like a star
who has plunged into excess
smoked away talent
taken on the wrinkles of loneliness and death
to wash out, like cheap ink from cloth
a gaudy, grotesque, joke of a color from birth
a disfigured image of a young girl
a numb feeling where laughter was
to plummet from the bridge between anger and fear
forever forgotten after burial
ever until then hateful and sick
ever until then cold in every situation
ever until then dead before death
she who forgot girlhood so young
she who never has known a father’s caress
she who never has achieved a place in Heaven
she who never has escaped the comfort of Satan
she who worried about the loss of love
so she never felt it was deserved
she is crumbling like a scrap of velvet in everyone’s hands
they must watch her die
Page 248Miss Mallory was in the library as usual
The ghostly silence of the library was musical
Again and again she searched for a new book
A black tattered novel was what Mallory took
"I don't recall reading this one" she said
There was no title, but a red symbol instead
As she opened it, dust exploded in her face
And the black book landed on a random page
Page 248 was blank, not a single word to be seen
"What's this? How odd. Whatever does it mean?"
She placed her palm onto page 248, very curious
In Mallory went as the book snapped shut, victorious
Falling, falling, and falling, into some unknown void
Her mind was losing it, her precious memories, destroyed
Swiftly and silently, poor Mallory disappeared in a wink
And onto page 248 was her life, written out with black ink
The black book flew back to its dusty home, the top shelf
Where one day, a curious soul would grab to read for oneself
An advice for the readers: "Beware of page 248! You ought to!"
"Don't be hungry for a book, for this book
Suddenly SPIDER!Big hairy scary spider just ran at my naked feet.
I screamed and lifted my toes and now it's under my seat!
And now I'm scared to move
And now I'm scared to stay
Where did that hairy scary
Emerge from anyway?
Memory LossMemories... my soulful melody
Intertwined within a grand symphony
Though the experiences remained ever-lasting
I neglected to reflect upon their meaning
As I continued on, living in irony.
Nonchalantly, I continue the journey
Unaware of the terrifying reality
Truth begets hate, then understanding
Abolished of my stupidity
I will come to terms with my destiny
Clinging not to fear of dying
Yet regretting what I am becoming
Something fading into obscurity...
PortalThe birds are about
The clouds are out
So let's go and find
Some sort of mind
That does not care
But to where we want to go
And golden sunshine
Paint the way for us
Let's see where it takes us
To a faerie field
Full of daytime wheels
We can spin to wherever
Acrid blossom bells
Wave goodbye our cells
So let's not disappoint
And in their bright wave join
As our minds overflow with chance
Our feet are lively
Our smiles are wide
Do not hesitate
But to smell and taste
Like children's memories
Cruel mares can slumber
With all the other
But far aflutter
That picks at our aspirations
Storm fronts behind
Their intent unkind
So let's keep running
And never stop shunning
The past for all its pain
Our purpose so delayed
Become battle calls
To challenge in our midst
The devil's wrist
Nipping at our heels
To try and peel
The veil from our pictured
A Message to HeavenDear Great Grandpa, I wonder how you are
How is heaven, do you remember me?
No matter how many stamps, you are too far
But at least my letter is for God to see
Its been years since you went away
But maybe you will read this somehow
Because it is too late for what I want to say
But back then I knew less than I do now
Dear Great Grandpa, I have to ask you
Because you never seemed to talk much
And I guess I was the same too
I want to know about your life and such
They say in November your first breath was took
How was it growing up in the changing past?
For that world is just black text in my school textbook
And I only know of the eight years that were your last
Is forever lost wealth depressing as the name?
Was it like an apocalypse when the whole world fought?
What joy you had when the chains wore out their fame?
Did the future fantasies come faster than thought?
How did it feel to live in new land?
Or when the colors splashed on the screen?
Were the sparkles and fashion beyond understa
Mister FoxA gentleman, Reynard, they say,
Is quiet where he walks,
His silent smile will change your day,
That’s why he’s “Mister Fox.”
And should you listen for his pace,
His quiet, sooty socks,
Are soundless, still, or in his race,
The feet of Mister Fox.
Coming to the wedding door,
With timid glee, he knocks.
Who hasn’t invited him before,
That charming Mister Fox?
A cunning lad, always so mellow,
I know to knave who mocks,
The kind and somewhat silly fellow
They know as Mister Fox
Some afternoons with tea and bread,
He sits down at the docks.
Admirable, his coat of red,
And red is Mister Fox.
He has no need for petty things,
Like gold or diamonds or stocks.
More precious are the songs he sings,
The sociable Mister Fox.
After your feet slips off the stirrup,
And you fall on the rocks,
What friend comes by to help you up?
Who else but Mister Fox?
Sometimes his wolfish claws aren’t neat,
Or his grin has teeth of crocs;
But no-one’s words are soft and sw
Romance del MalqueridoEra por el tres de mayo,
y apenas amanecía
era por el tres de mayo
cuando esto acaecía.
"¡Antonio, abre la puerta,
Antonio, córrela abrir
pudiese ser tu padre
el correo o la Guardia Civil!"
"Que no es correo, mi madre
Ni es mi padre querido
Es la imagen terrible
de tu yerno, el Malquerido"
"Calla, Antonio cállate
Cállate que no vá contigo
Retírate a tu habitación
Bien dices que soy malquerido
Me malquiso esa tu hermana
Mirándome con desprecio
Me quiso muy mal tu hermana
Que para mi no tenía precio.
Ahora deja que pase
Que he de teñir estas telas
Teñirlas de carmin profundo
Con la sangre de Manuela"
"Mira que dices, Felipe
que a mi no me lo dirías
Cura que dices Felipe
que tu foso te cavarías"
"Yo me cavaría mi pozo
Tal como estoy, con gran gozo
Mas te dejaría, Felipe
Tal como eres, envidioso"
Diciendo esto el Antonio
echó mano a la navaja
y de un golpe certero
hasta el corazón le taja
CrossroadsIf you came to a crossroad without signs, which one would you follow?
Would you walk to the left, where there are pretty flowers decorating the roadside,
To the right where you can glimpse little traces of glimmering gold in the cracks,
Or would you walk straight ahead on the dusty path full of pebbles and holes?
If I told you that things aren't always what they seem to be at first glance,
Would you think me superstitious, shrug if off and walk the path you like,
Pick the path that seems to be the most pleasant and entertaining to you,
Or would you stop and consider what I might be trying to tell you.
If I told you that a guide informed me of the roads you stand before,
Would you believe me if i said those pretty flowers on the first path are poisonous,
And the gold in the cracks will poke into your soles and tear up your feet,
Or would you believe if I said that the rocky road is not hard to walk on?
If you came to a crossroad without signs, which one would you follow?
Would you belie
The Weirdling Bard of AlgonquinosCome gather 'round the fire,
kind and honest folks,
to join in warmth and fellowship;
perhaps to laugh and joke.
Such plain and simple pleasures
are the things that mean the most,
in these times of bitter strife,
afflicting fair Algonquinos.
If you've a quaff of wine to share,
with a lonely poet and bard,
or perhaps a dram of whisky,
for the years and roads are hard-
we'll pass the wineskin, and share the pipe
and savour the comforting woodsmoke smell-
so children young, and children old,
hear the story I would tell.
Eight centuries before the Bluecoat King,
lived a prince of his earlier line;
who turned from his destiny to answer a different call,
that he simply could not define.
He saw his inheritance a throne of ruination,
should the peoples stay their present course,
wisdom and learning replaced by pride in ignorance,
and wildest superstitions endorsed.
Hatreds knife-edge keen, and harvests lean,
and every transgression paid in hot blood-
teachers and builders, and those who strive
Graves of Indians and Mexicans"When in the Cemetery of Indians and Mexicans"
by R. J. Spring
I sat beside Maria Rosa
But it was only her rock.
And above her head was a crown of flowers
And below her a linen frock.
Her skin, I expect, is like a bone
Her yellow broken teeth, a grin.
Her eyes wide open, cheek bones high,
And her soul far from within.
Her long, black wild hair is braided up,
Her toes are curled in her woven feet.
Her hands folded in a grim caress,
Rotting Tehuana, attends the Holy Meet.
The wind blows corn meal scent and sand
Across me as I sit and feel--
Behind me lies an Indian man
Who's body is a leather'd peel.
Whose brow is beaded with cyan,
Whose mouth is tight and wise,
Wrapped in a blanket of his clan--
As dusty as the red sunrise.
Whose eyes are puddles in his head,
Whose feathers point above him,
I wondered at this Native man--
And if Maria loved him.
Perhaps they danced for the rain,
Perhaps they gardened the rose-red,
Perhaps their kin did not accept,
Perhaps that's how they wound up dead.
Keep in Touch!
scheinbar is a much-loved and well-known deviant. Just one look at her gallery, filled with enchanting photography, will have you mesmerized. A deviant for over 7 years, Christiane can always be found posting inspirational features as well as regularly commenting on other deviations and encouraging and empowering her fellow deviants. We are inspired and insist that you too stop by and congratulate ... Read More