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Perfect and Mighty

this is about forgettingThis is the thing about forgetting:
                For weeks you bury your face in the clothes you wore when he was near and the smell is a comfort and a torture.  You decide that the torture is not worth the comfort so you leave them draped across the back of a chair and place things on top of them to stop yourself until one day you shove your hands through the pile until your fingers wrap around the fabric and you yank it free only to realize it was pointless.  Even his ghost is gone.
                The next thing that leaves is the way his voice looked in the dark.  Those few sentences become blurred and rough around the edges.  What you remember drops in your stomach in a different way. 
                You run your fingers over your

for all intensive purposesi am accused of being
a category five--
    but i will not excuse the way my skin aches.  
i want storms.
    i remember the way Katrina screamed &
    if you press your ear to my chest you will hear the same.  
the moan turning into a pitch, the pitch
screaming until the throat is too raw to be
more than a whimper.  
the way it stops
and pauses,
silently racked until it bursts forth once more.  
i will not apologize for being demolition.  
scars exist on every woman
too powerful to contain herself. 
LW: (title page - epigraph)"Camus said that the only true function of man, born into an absurd world, is to live, be aware of one's life, one's revolt, one's freedom.  He said that if the only solution to the human dilemma is death, then we are on the wrong road.  The right track is the one that leads to life, to sunlight.  One cannot unceasingly suffer from the cold. […]  The track he followed led into the sunlight in being that one devoted to making with our frail powers and our absurd material,  something which had not existed in life until we made it."- William Faulkner
"Betrayals, even your own, can surprise you.  They can make you do things."-Lorrie Moore

Foolish and Cute

The Library“This has always been my favorite room.”  Greyson's heavy boots echoed as he circled around the room.  Aside from his footfalls, the rest of the extravagant home was silent.  He gingerly hooked his finger into the bindings on the old books that were so carefully placed on the ancient bookcases, caressing the spine on each one.  “Even as a young child, I loved this room.  Uncle Damascus would tell Lydia and I the most adventurous stories in here.  Father told us not to listen to his tall tales and that Damascus wasn't his real name, but it's the only one we ever had for him.  I'm not even sure how he got the nickname.”
His eyes flickered around the room.  The dark wood paneling and floor to ceiling bookcases weren't the only attraction.  The second floor of the library had ornate stained-glass windows.  Each depicting a different vision.  Uncle Damascus once told Greyson that each Master of the house designed
Breakup SpeechIt's not you, it's me. I know it's the oldest excuse in the book, but hey, when it works, it works. Did you really see this lasting longer than a couple months? When does anything last longer than a couple months with me? I hope we can still be friends.
Yeah, 'cause everyone wants to be friends with the ex-lover. Like it ever works.
You know me. You know the type of person that I am. I've never been able to settle down. My heart wanders like a nomad. It seeks shelter where it's offered but only stays long enough to get warm. Attachment isn't an option for me. My mind is too warped. It's too dark to ever let someone in. Truly let someone in.
No, fuck! That's all wrong. It's too personal.  Too emotional.  Let me try again.
I don't want to do this, but I'm only going to hurt you if I don't.  And that's the last thing I want to do. So I'm ending this before it goes too far. I completely understand if you never want to talk to me again.

That w

Behind Blue EyesShe lay on her bed, unable to even get out of it and walk around her own home.  Having had visitors most of the day, she was grateful for the peace and quiet her empty room gave her.
Looking across the room to the long mirror on the back of her bedroom door, she saw her brilliant blue eyes sparkling back.  Not a day went by that she didn't look in that mirror and see those soft eyes returning her gaze.  Not since she bought that mirror all those years ago.
As she looked at her reflection, she wondered if her eyes had always been that shade of blue.  The night she was born, when she opened her eyes for the first time and looked at her mother, were they a crystalline blue?
She couldn't remember.  She couldn't remember many things these days.  Old age had taken its toll not only on her body but on her mind as well.  She was unable to remember many things, but the few memories she had were truly cherished.
As a young gir

edgea bundle of nerves and feelings
a complicated mess you can't help
but want to fix and make beautiful again
heartache surrounds her unfairly
circles her mind and claims her soul
she deserves special attention
a strong spirit, unparalleled
unmatched in beauty or ink
if she only knew how wonderful she is.

Go Somewhere Else Entirely

Journal Entry: Wed Jan 21, 2015, 11:21 AM

Sup, slick,

Notice me bein' all active an' shit. I joined a group and all. So I suppose that means I'll get back to the ol' critiquing business. Might as well, since otherwise I've just been a useless bum. Moderately useless. Sometimes I do laundry and have been known to pet dogs without provocation.

Honestly, I'm writing this journal out of sheer boredom (and possibly some procrastination maneuvers) so if you were waiting around for some point or something now would be the proper time for you to jump ship because I am just going to ramble for a bit. I do however promise to attempt to stay out of the existential and therefore into a tailspin about my failings as a functional human being and everything else. Though you familiar with my lack of self-discipline may remain skeptical, well, I have no real argument against it. This most likely will revert to gross indulgent sobbing.

So I might start writing again or something? I mean aside from the mess I posted a few days ago. I mean something substantial. Arguably nothing I have ever produced has had substance, but let's ignore that very real possibility to prevent that tailspin I mentioned earlier.

Again, if anyone were to pay attention to any of my habits, you would have reason to raise an eyebrow at such an outlandish claim. The Terror? Writing? Her? That piece of shit couldn't write her way out of a third grade creative writing class. In this you would not be mistaken. If the school I went to had been in the habit of failing third graders. 

I think I got off the subject somewhere. If I had a subject to begin with. I do recall saying there was no legitimate point to this journal so I suppose than there is no reason to stay on subject if there actually was one.

Circular logic. The first step to recovery is acknowledging you have problem.

It has occurred to me that this renew vigor for writing will fade shortly. IN FACT, I have anticipated such a thing. What do I intend to do with this knowledge? Nothing probably. I mean I wrote a journal. That seems like a lot. I mean at least I recognized I wanted to write. Yes, I am actually a piece of shit parading as a writer. You have caught me. I am nothing. I am garbage. 

Hold up, tailspin.

Back on track. Maybe I should make a schedule or something. The problem with my old stories is that every time I make one I enjoy it, but in a very short amount of time I start to see the flaws in the world everywhere. I had not built it enough and I could do better. So I kind just drift away from it. I need to set laws and physics and societies and histories. "Worldbuilding" or whatever kids these days call it. And I have. And I do. On such extreme scales with such minuscule details. Probably on dangerous levels. Sometimes when I'm falling asleep I start designing cities. Sometimes I wonder about the sex lives off an insect I invented. This insect doesn't even have a place in the fucking story. I don't even have a fucking story. Jesus fucking Christ. This is all such mother fucking bullshit. I so sick of this shit. I have no focus and I'm drowning and I can't fix myself and I don't know how and I can't get doctors. I don't know what else I can fucking do. Fucking shit.


Get it together, soldier. You made this god awful mess and now you have to lie in it. 

Alright. So. Um, what. Ah. Hm.

Fuck it. I'm just going to be a poet.

Roses are red, fuckass.


The Terror.


TheTerrorOfTheDeep's Profile Picture
United States
Hi. I am easily excited.

I only understand three languages: English, Waggle Dance, and Fear.

Hey fuckers. You thought I was gone, didn't you? But I'm not. Wanna fight about it? 

5 deviants said Yes. I'll beat your ass motherfucker. Let's dance.
5 deviants said No. You're drunk. Go to bed.
2 deviants said Fight me.
No deviants said Fuck you, Mary. I know my limits.


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SocietalOutcast Featured By Owner Jan 19, 2015  New member Hobbyist Writer
I'm experiencing heart palpitations just thinking about venturing into the depths of your Gallery. I'm going to tie a rope around my waist, the other end fastened to the old claw foot bathtub down the hall, a tub which hasn't budged in a century.

I might discover paradise or hell there... ;)
TheTerrorOfTheDeep Featured By Owner Jan 19, 2015
Ah ha, do not get too excited. I took my favorites down. If what is there does appeal to you. Let me know. I would considering letting you read what I hid.
SocietalOutcast Featured By Owner Jan 19, 2015  New member Hobbyist Writer
I'll do so. (I've been known to make writings secret myself, but I'll never destroy a story, as I once did. That I regret.:()
TheTerrorOfTheDeep Featured By Owner Jan 21, 2015
I have destroyed many stories. Many. Sometimes I regret it just because I lost certain ideas. I don't regret destroying my first novel.
(1 Reply)
VFreie Featured By Owner Jan 18, 2015
Hi, and welcome to :iconthewrittenrevolution: theWrittenRevolution!
There are lots of things you can get involved in:

Bullet; Red we post monthly writing prompts (that include prizes, and a chat event during the month to help people with their pieces),

Bullet; Black publishing opportunities from other sites (whenever we come across one!),

Bullet; White we have a monthly feature that includes a deserving member, two of the best critiques we've seen during the month, and two helpful writing resources,

Bullet; Red a monthly affiliates feature of two Literature groups,

Bullet; Black and a biweekly-ish article in which one of our admins gives an in-depth critique to one of our members' work that hasn't received much feedback.

We'll soon be reviving our chatroom with weekly activities, so stay tuned for that too. :D (Big Grin)

We also have Facebook and Twitter accounts. On our profile page you will find links to the latest of all the activities I listed up here and to our social networks that will help you keep updated, so feel free to look around and ask if you have any questions, we're here to help!

Welcome to the revolution. I salute you!
IrrevocableFate Featured By Owner Jan 11, 2015   Writer
My flawless goddess, oh how I cherish you. ♥
TheTerrorOfTheDeep Featured By Owner Jan 18, 2015
And I you. No one, mortal or immortal, could change that.
IrrevocableFate Featured By Owner Jan 18, 2015   Writer
:tighthug: Likewise, beautiful, likewise.
Sammur-amat Featured By Owner Jan 9, 2015   General Artist
hello there, lovely person! :huggle:
this is to inform you that i have made use of one of the titles of your poetry in my title poem over here: :love:
i hope that this is alright with you, pray that you enjoy the read, and thank you for your inspirational artistry! :eager: <3
TheTerrorOfTheDeep Featured By Owner Jan 18, 2015
<3 I pleased you were able to make use of it. 
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