A free form poem.

You sing the devotion song and
your people drink from your font
of well-meant falsehoods.
They sway in the breeze,
roses ripe for cutting,
so you reap. And I deal with it.

Brain revolting, hands shaking, heart beating
Sweating, aching, freezing, creeping thoughts
that I'm not enough.
I'm a failure. I don't deserve it. What if this goes wrong?
"Sometimes it can take awhile to find the right combination of medications."
And I deal with it.

The blood in the streets is cleaned, pristine,
likewise the crimes of an otherwise good man.
Heads shake and hands pray,
repeating robotic platitudes, but I do
nothing.
And I deal with it.

The sun shines high and the wind blows cool.
Our future dances and plays in the light.
We watch and her skin is soft, her hair yet softer, and I hold her
against me.
This too shall pass, my gut twists in knots.
And I deal with it.

Dark nights, dark thoughts
in front of a washroom mirror.
Lightning thunders, they come and go.
Drinking my hopes to keep them gone,
I tell myself, "This isn't you," but it hurts and it's true and I can't stop the dreaming of passing this down
And I deal with it.

i intended to actually post these like three days ago but that didn't happen because it has to be super fucking late for me to even want to post these and unfortunately they've now aged sufficiently that i categorize them firmly in the "intensely mediocre" column with everything i ever do. unfortunate, tbh. anyways here's stuff:

bűnös

UP AGAINST THE WALL, MOTHERFUCKER—
or i'll shatter your bones
and crush your heart—
to dance with me is to dance
a fine line that wrenches two worlds apart

for on one side there is a hall of saints—
on the other
the brimstone of hell—
and to stay on the side of the hall of saints
is something you'd best do well.

and brave souls that dare toe the line—
that cross it
are mighty thin—
and their ranks are made of anarchists
who commit most grievous sin.

UP AGAINST THE WALL, MOTHERFUCKER—
state your allegiance
to the vaunted line—
or soon you too shall join the ranks
of those who deserve malign.

fáj

when i was seventeen
the panic attacks began.
the nightmares.
the violence. the violence. the violence.

violence is a funny little thing—
insidious, slithering in through one grate
and out the other.
it always begins with little things,
little fantasies in one ear and out the other.
dreams here and there, manufacturing terror and hurt.
invasive thoughts, marching to an intensifying drumbeat.
one offs.

it's not normal to
want to hurt so bad.
it's not normal to
want to cut yourself everywhere,
is it?
to feel those feelings,
to bear them like a cross shackled on your back?
to wish some days you could cut to the bone
even though you're afraid of blood?
to mutilate yourself until you can't feel anymore
even though you know those feelings are irrational?
to wish you could die violently, publicly
even though you're afraid of death?

violence isn't a very funny little thing—
terrifying, inescapable and ever recurring
one night after the other.
it was the little things once,
the little fantasies that used to be but now
consume the dreams, the
waking thoughts, becoming a great crescendo.
every day.

when i was nineteen
the panic attacks were normal.
the nightmares.
the violence.

Burnt!

You embraced me with your apple-pie grin
as I tumbled through the door caked in sun,
and the larks and the orioles who titter their King George
behind us are snuffed with the slam of the castle gate.
We are alone in the fragrant silence of our shared universe,
your heartbeat against my cheek nuzzles
like the murmur of some public radio presenter.
I float along helplessly like a kitten held by its scruff
until the slasher-scream of a Janet Leigh smoke detector,
brutally gored by the twirling swirling aerial dancers,
beckons you away to some Burning of Washington, 1814,
its desolation likewise impeded by a timely sprinkle.
In the black ash-pile is the monomania of the Cosmos,
circling like a hyena for any vulnerability
to consume everything it touches
so that we all might become dark and vacuous like it.
The cosmos and its baggage are swept away,
its might and vastness no match for a love as true as ours.

This was my attempt at writing a poem in the style of Pamela Miller, a feminist and often zany poet from my native Chicago.

Please let me know what you think.

it's that time of the month again, now hopefully aided by the changes in sort which will give this thread a bit of a longer half-life. here you can share/provide updates on some of the projects that you're working on. they can be of any kind--digital, physical, work related, passion project, whatever. pretty straightforward, i think.

november thread • february thread • march thread • april thread • may thread • june thread

This was written for a themed flash fiction contest (the theme was Technological Dystopia) and ended up losing, but I figured it wouldn't hurt to share it here. It's not my proudest work but, as flash fiction, I think it works well enough. I hope you enjoy!

She was three floors from the bottom of the sunken tower when the crying first reached her. A quick swipe earned her a pair from the rack nearby and she continued her descent.

With the aid of technology this process had been streamlined and systematized such that these checks were only needed once a month, but everyone dreaded them. She had drawn the short straw this time and, though it had been years since last she’d ventured to The Lab, she still remembered her last haunting experience. It wasn’t that she was a dissenter or rebelled against that which needed to be done. This was a necessary evil to save their species, but she was still a human being. Seeing them all like that, all tubes and tapes running from frail flesh, was enough to turn any stomach.

A pair of heavy iron doors sat ominously in her way as she bottomed out. She could see the white, crisp interior of The Lab beyond and pushed forward, swallowing her hesitance as best she could.

Before her lay a large room with clean white tile, walls and harsh, flourescent light. It smelled and looked like a hospital because that’s exactly what it was. 10 rows and columns of small, clear, plastic boxes stretched between her and the far wall. The muffs were doing their job exceedingly well, but she could still hear the awful racket bouncing around her memory. She took a deep breath, steadied herself, and started working.

Her primary duty was to make sure the machines were functioning correctly, mostly the arm that glided to and fro above the boxes, administering medicine or changing bags of various fluids as need be. She would also be checking the tubes for clogs that may have been missed by any old or worn out sensors; this was the part she dreaded the most. She flipped the lid on the nearest box and checked the left, then the right, and lastly the tube running into its belly button, and closed the box quickly.

It couldn’t have taken her more than 5 seconds but that short time was enough for the anguished face to plaster itself onto her mind. Everyone does their part, she reminded herself, from the start to the end. It didn’t serve a purpose to bemoan that which she could not change. She moved on to the next crib, hoping this would go by faster than she expected.

Halfway through her checks she hit a snag. There was a clog in Crib 54. She could register the fault in the system and it would fix it on its next hourly cycle, as were her orders, but it was such a small clog. The tube simply needed to be changed, and as a nurse she was well-versed in the procedure. In that moment it was decided.

The tubes themselves were specially designed to be thin and flexible, but rigid enough to fit the shape of a tear duct. Her first task, after finding a pair of gloves, was to gently remove the tube currently in the eye. She hovered over the crib and gently pulled the tube out of the right tear duct. It came slowly, millimeter by millimeter, each bit covered in more goop and mucus than the last. It wound its way up into the sinuses which meant, by the end of it, she had pulled at least five inches of tubing. This she discarded.

Next she had to insert the new tube (these were kept in abundance in a draw underneath the crib). She grabbed one, snipped it to length with a pair of scissors hanging from the IV stand, and took a moment to recent herself. Inserting the tube while the child was crying would be much more difficult than removing it.

As gently as she could she reached down and, with her index finger and thumb, pried open the eye of the little one. With one came the other, the muscles young and unwilling to work independently, and she found herself staring into a pair of brilliant green pools. Her heart melted and, for the briefest moment, she thought of taking it. She could smuggle it out. The bed being empty would trip the system but she could clear the error and explain it away somehow. But no, that was silly. This wasn’t a decision for her to make; things were done this way because there was no other choice.

She pushed the tip of the tube into the tear duct confidently, shoving the traitorous thoughts from her mind as the child’s cries were renewed with pain. She was here to do a job, cold and emotionless. It wasn’t her place to question the way things were done. The tube went in without a hitch and the child’s eyes snapped closed again once she released them. The little bundle of agony before her squirmed and she saw the tears begin to flow anew. With swift, definite movement she closed and latched the lid.

The rest of her checks went smoothly, but she couldn’t shake the uneasy feeling that now ran rampant in her gut. She hated Lab duty, and she expected that would always be the way. With a heavy heart she signed the documents needed to record her visit, noted the tube change in the work log, and left The Lab through its heavy iron doors. The trip upstairs would be long and tiring, but at least she could try and forget ever having been here.

Today I found a girl

Who was pretty nice

To me.

She made me stop and talk

And rest

and breathe.

She said your stomach growls,

Your legs

Are weak.

How’d you like to come

And sit

With me?

.

And my how time it flew

And passed

Us by.

Lunch turned into tea

Turned in-

to night.

The way her body curved

It shaped

My mind.

And then her laugh,

Her smile,

Her eyes.

.

Would you mind if I stayed

For an hour or two

Or three?

We could sit and talk

And laugh

And crawl between the sheets.

And maybe I can stay the night

Or two

Or three?

And you’ll hold onto me.

And we can spend forever

Cus talk

Is cheap.

And maybe nights will

Slowly carve a curve and crash on

Into weeks.

Maybe we’ll be cuddled

On the couch or sipping

Sex on the beach

Maybe I could stay

For life, just

You, and me.

i got fire in my blood

Wild Turkey and the nicotine

might just call my doctor

have him put me on amphetamines

driving past the memories

i'm pushing on 100 speed

crossing single-white lines

with a blade til my bones weak.

cold-brew hipster

gothboi fantasies

hard to think straight when

my thoughts are attacking me

here i let the voices out

inner demons writing rhapsodies

before i go and swing from

a noose and a dramatic tree

.

can't decide what i want between

freedom and consistency

i say i want it done

but i think i want her missing me

last week i bought a gun*

this week i went to therapy

when will i be free from all the

thermo-manic tendencies?

.

drowning in my bed

breathing wild turkey

i couldn't feel if i were dead,

but i like the way she hurts me

i've come to know the pain

it's like a second home to me

liquor novocaine

im falling from autonomy.

if mecca was a bedroom

girl you were a God to me

and laying here alone is

a wicked act of blasphemy.

never knew you were a snake

feeding hate from an apple tree

I'll chop it down, and build a tomb

so you can hold me,

as an effigy

(* didnt actually buy a gun. me no like. literally 0 plans to.)

short one. wrote it sober, so i couldn't (didn't?) really expand on it.

either way, just bought a bottle for the first time since shit happened but i don't plan on going too crazy this time.

then again, do i plan half the shit i do? or am i just constantly fumbling my way up through life.

either way here's some shit about math.

enjoy.

You said I was the one

But that was only when you managed

To get some rest, and breathe, and

Keep yourself from going rabid

But must of the time you

Wore your claws out like a savage

So if we’re being honest I‘m the

.08 on average.

i'm bored and entirely too fucking tired to still be up, so here's a thing i wrote in a little burst like an hour ago. see also enikő, the considerably longer weird shit i wrote in a similar burst.

I. űrrepülés
having once been the dreamer of many things,
having once been an eternal creator,
having seen the birth of great star systems and galaxies
and life itself
only to be snuffed out
with ignominy
i feel compelled to explain why i too must
inevitably follow them

hurt
is a funny little word. it seems so easy to come
to a common agreement on what it means and yet,
if i told you it hurt
would you really understand that?

would you understand the feeling
of hopelessness,
the vast indignities of having to see
your every piece of art,
your life's work
snuffed out
like the stars?

II. űrlény
you can't play god
with the people in your life,
but that never stopped me from trying,
from creating those great star systems
that people care about.
from creating life where there is none.

and that never stopped me from failing,
and the stars becoming great cataclysms—
black holes destroying the life around them
without regard for its beauty.

you might say it is callous
to try to move the heavens and the earth
and to die when they don't arrange the right way,
but,
i would rather die than be that hurt person again
watching the stars go out one by one.

In the shadows

Like a ghost you hide

In the single most foreign

Corners of my mind

Therapy and pills still

Can’t subside the angelic choir

Of your pretty lies

Promises you made,

The bones I broke

You once took my breath

And now I choke

Jesus let me breathe

Is there hope for me?

.

Now I desire

The obscure

All that reminds

Of being yours

Your oils, poison

My waters, pure

Your love is cancer

There is no cure.

.

I watched my grandfather take his final breaths as he kissed my head and you held my hand. Not two months later you foresaw our end, and decided not to keep me, even as a friend.

And now you’re off, marriage in the plans. I pray your time falls like the sand and hits the bottom of every glass as fast as it can.

I have no home. I’m lost and cold. You promised me a home would grow. We got a dog, and had planned for more. Mouth of this world, a fish at shore you took my breath and killed me slow.

I’m suicidal, I have no hope. I’ve not a gun, don’t have a rope. The only reason I’ve not a note, I’d end it all, I’d end it all.

---

I just want to feel pretty.

Pretty loved and pretty free

But for now I keep to getting

Pretty drunk, it isn’t cheap

But I can afford it/‘s kinda sweet

Too bad you’re not round

To drink with me.

I’d fill the bottle

We’d watch the office

Instead I scar

Until I am solid

An ugly rock

A useless object

I’ll break my stones

And build a coffin

And die in your name

Die in your name.

tw: self-harm; suicide; lost love.

i hit my cigarette

like an abuser hits her wife

because i'm a fucking coward

to afraid to take his life

i've felt love before

i beg it through the strife

but i only find a heart

at the wrong side of a blunt and useless knife

.

and it's only mine

at least there's proof

that i can feel

when blood protrudes.

but that's not "work appropriate"

so i get tattoos

what a shame i can't get paid to die.

i got a job

i got on meds

i got a car

still wanting death.

still here at night

alone in my bed

still hear her voice

ring in my head

“why do you look like i abused you?”

.

i bought a bottle

i bought some cards

can’t kill my thoughts

my god it’s hard

just make it stop

“i don’t think i love you anymore.”

.

anxiety’s

taken over me

every interaction

i worry

did i act weird?

what do they think?

i guarantee

they laugh at me

can’t beat it all

can’t bear it all.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.
.

.

don’t want to live

don’t want to die

i fantasize

(that) it’ll be alright

she’ll cuddle close

and hold me night

and pet my head

and kill the fright

i can’t escape

don’t want to fight

god let me die

god let me die

Pretty.

Pretty good.

Pretty cool.

Pretty smart.

Pretty cute.

Pretty kind.

Pretty eyes.

Pretty warm.

Pretty witty.

Pretty artistic.

Pretty talented.

Pretty cultured.

Pretty traveled.

Pretty-faced.

Pretty loved.

But fuck me,

Life’s pretty hard.

@cadadr's 4 word poetry challenge is one of my favorite Tildes threads to read through on account of the many clever and thoughtful responses, so I figured I'd try to kick off another one. This one is a little more conceptually involved, but I think it still has the potential to be a good time like the last one.

Rather than going with a strict word or line count, instead I am creating a restriction based around personification:

Challenge:
Your poem must:

• Be written from the point of view of an inanimate object
• Give the object personality/emotion
• NOT name the object, so that people have to infer it from what you've written

An example might be an automatic door that is bored to tears from opening and closing ad nauseum. Or maybe a watering can that is excited to tend to its garden.

In trying to come up with a model I decided to channel a resentful milk carton:

It's fine
I get it
You don't have to justify yourself
Lots of better things have come around
Since you first chose me

Just know that I'm still here
If you need me
Waiting for that blissful moment
Where you light up my world
And take me in your hand
And make me feel like I'm flying
Before you lower me down
In a lover's embrace

It's fine
I get it
Until then I'll sit here
In the cold, cold dark
Trying not to go sour
Next to the slowly molding cheese
And forgotten grapes

It's far from perfect but hopefully it gives you an idea of what the assignment can look like. While I saved my "reveal" to the end, don't feel obligated to use that tactic unless you want to. You don't have to hide the identity of your object, just don't name the object outright in the poem.

Feel free to make your poem as long or short as you wish. Feel free to make it as meaningful or silly as you want. Above all else, have fun!

If you need help with ideas or just want the challenge of writing to a randomly selected specification, you can use this noun generator for objects and this adjective generator for sentiments.

it's time for another one of these threads. the last one racked up an impressive 100 comments in its run, by far the most of any of these threads so far, so that seems like a good sign for this thread. anyways, here you can share/provide updates on some of the projects that you're working on. they can be of any kind--digital, physical, work related, passion project, whatever. pretty straightforward, i think.

november thread • february thread • march thread • april thread • may thread

In Feudal Japan
Kaze no Tsuyoi Nioi
Tea Party Ninja

Assassin of Joy
Bringer of His Mighty Wind
Most Fetid of Stench

For a Tidy Fee
Kaze no Tsuyoi Nioi
Would Disturb Your Foes

Piercing Defenses
Buddha Alone Knew His Tread
In and Out, Unseen

But Never Un-Smelt
Kaze no Tsuyoi Nioi
Bearing Bowels Most Foul

This isn’t what I want it to be. I’ve just had too many to care.

Most days I don’t need any to not care.

Yet I smile at them; servers and baristas.

Try hard, smile, look happy.

Maybe they’ll think you’re cute.

You arrogant shit.

“Sisyphus!

Arrogant twat,

How shall you pay

For the sins you’ve wrought?

I’ll hang your dreams

In delicate swathe

And leave you to work

Forever for naught.

.

Sisyphus!

You “god” among men

I’ll number your days

Count them by hand

While you work, serve

Slave to my end

Your bones will strain

And bend.

.

Sisyphus!

You represent

The whole that is wrong

With the common man

I’ll make you sweat,

And I’ll make you beg

(That) one day you’ll be free

Again!”

.

Dear Sisyphus,

I know your soul.

Your struggle is mine

And we share the goal

That work, work, will come

To an end

And we’ll live again

As free men.

.

Sisyphus,

I hear your cries –

Your yelps of pain

In the dead of night

When your muscles strain

And your mind ain’t right

My brother

Your pain is mine!

.

Gods above –!

Rescue me!

.

Sisyphus!

I’m you, incarnate.

I do my work and

Sing my songs in

Hope the gods will

Hear my plea

And one day

set me free.

.

I am he!

I aloud decree,

assuming Sisyphus’

identity.

I live his plight,

beg myself free

that I’ll find a

love for me.

.

SISYPHUS.

THIS IS YOUR WROUGHT.

YOUR MERIT THE PAIN,

THIS DAY YOU’VE SOUGHT.

YOU KNOW YOUR SINS

AND NOW YOU BEG

THAT YOU MAY FRESH BEGIN

.

THE GODS WILL REMEMBER

SINS IN DECEMBER;

DRAG YOUR SOUL DOWN

DEEP TO THE EMBER.

YOU AS THE KINDLE

YOU AND YOUR KINFOLK

FOREVER LIGHT OUR WAY.

.

SISYPHUS.

“IMMACULATE.”

WHAT A SHAME YOU’LL FIND

COME END YOUR FATE

WHEN THE TRUTH REVEALS

YOUR LOVE IS FAKE.

are you so thirsty

you would drink your own blood?

do you feel so dirty

that you bathe in wet mud?

are you so alone

that you make talk with yourself?

are you so afraid

that you, your own friends, repel?

.

would you clean your skin with acid

just to feel pure within your casket?

would you feed on rot and mold

in attempt to feed your soul?

are you so cold, your blankets worn,

you'd set your home ablaze for warmth?

do you so fear the words you'll hear

you'll drive metal spears into your ears?

.

are you so broken

and without any help

you would crack your own skull

and find some gold to smelt

in hopes you leave your corpse

a void kintsugi shell?

if not; then why, dear brain,

do you want to burn yourself

Apologies for the spam. This may be the last one today; worst-case there's only one more coming.

I see you, pretty home,

with your couch, your floor, and kitchen.

I see your sign there, hoping

that I might call and visit.

I want to tour your space

and dream of how I'd fill it.

What chair, what bed, what rug,

and if it could home a kitten.

.

I can see a career

that let's me furnish you to 9.

I faintly feel a hope

that one day you might be mine.

I teeter on a plan

that I could start, if energized

that would lead me to you

if I could try, and all went right.

.

A fireplace in cold,

you'd stay lit, always, in orange.

the warmest of colors

keeps my mind free of contortion.

Your firm, solid structure

Keeps me confident, supported.

What a beautiful dream;

I hope, one day, to afford it.

Is it self-inflating to label one's own work as graphic? (It is kinda graphic, clickbait title aside.)

This doesn't even really capture the right imagery I was trying to go for.

Might just have to re-write this idea into a completely different piece, I'm not sure. (mfw literally "felt creative idk might delete later")

The "ball" was supposed to really be a watermelon, because we've all seen that YouTube video where they explode a watermelon with rubber bands, but I didn't leave myself enough space to develop that transition from ball to melon properly. (Brand new sentence?)

Why am I even posting this if I feel its unfinished?

Who knows.

Anyway let's get to the thing here it is vvvvvvvvv

slip.

twist.

smack.

10 rubber bands on a ball

all hold each other taut

the inception of a toy

that will quick be left for naught

but brings a momentary joy - its only cause.

.

work.

stoa.

sweat.

hustle on, man, that's your call

you gotta love your boss.

it's the struggle of a boy.

that you never would be caught

while feeling tears or overwhelm - lest you be mocked.

.

smack.

stretch.

strain.

100 rubber bands slap

starting slightly straining

its appearances are coy,

the ball slowly rolls to stop.

picked up and bounced against the floor - it doesn't pop.

.

work.

stare.

grind.

expectations are my all.

you dream of taking off -

escape makes you overjoyed

daily grind just puts your off.

your brain it strains against the skull - stressing nonstop.

.

pop

waste

spill

500 rubber bands smack

crushing and constraining

such a carnage to enjoy

they start rolling out the mops.

the ball explodes onto the floor - as if a prop

.

rip

slice

tear.

my fists crash into the walls.

my skin, just rip it off

rip out the bone, leave me void

naked muscle growing moss.

wrap rubber bands around my head until it pops.

we now return to you a regular schedule since now it's on sync with the months. here you can share/provide updates on some of the projects that you're working on. they can be of any kind--digital, physical, work related, passion project, whatever. pretty straightforward, i think.

november thread • february thread • march thread • april thread

What a beautiful night
the stars are out
like tiny pinprick holes in the sky
illuminating our soft gray subtle shadows
as we chat about life and random fluff
and the moon shines through your dress
    making it
            transparent

Back to my car
a night full of passion.
Come the morning: I stop and reflect.
What could my life have been?
If I had missed all this,
            this artifice and sin?
For you are only silicone,
your dress a splotchy sheet
The stars are a cheap plastic disco ball
I bought it from goodwill for 97¢.
My car's no more than a fluorescent-stained couch.

Alas, alas for me
I must do better—yes, I will!
(I steel my resolve)
(I know what I must do)
(my heart, it pains me so!
For you have been so good to me, and thus I will repay you?)

I did it, threw you in the trash;
I'll hire a human whore tomorrow

You know they’ve got poetry on Spotify? That’s some cool shit. Ended up following John Cooper Clarke into a rabbit hole of other British poets.

Decided to bite and try writing a bit of poetry for poetry’s sake.

Anyway. ‘Ere go. “June.”

I thought your voice was music

And your beauty - work of art.

I found your jokes amusing,

Ponygirl, a golden heart.

Your company, a journey

Which I never could depart

I really felt I loved you,

Well, I did once, at the start.

.

See, music can be different

Some songs good, and others crap.

Some begin melodically,

Then get crashing in a snap.

Starting subtle violins,

Then it blares with metal scrap

They lure you malevolent

Some music is a trap.

.

Some artists Donatello,

Others Jackson Pollock.

Some art goes well with wine,

Some turns you alcoholic.

Some is deep and intricate,

Some is purely bollocks

Can’t call this a masterpiece

I’m not sure what to call it.

.

Thought your lips were pure cuisine

And your beauty - work of art.

I never thought the kitchen

Would have mold and rot at heart.

The oven sent asunder

All the counters ripped apart

You’re a diner with one dish,

And it’s a dry and sour tart.

HELLO TILDES USERS. IT IS I, FELLOW HUMAN, BISHOP.

As you may have read in an earlier post of mine (ok probably not it was a one-off comment, not like I reinforced the thought anywhere.)

I do indeed hold the belief that code can be, itself, art, in the right context.

Or, rather, that code can be used for artistic purposes.

I dunno.

That's why I'm posting.

What would you say is the most artistic or, at least, creatively designed website or mobile app that you've seen?

I've got some creativity a-stewin' away in my head, and I need a new excuse to kill some time on frontend.

So, fellow humans, hit me with your best shot duh-nuh-nuh-nuh fire away.

What ya got?

(@mods fix my tags please. Not sure what to put, but you might have a good idea. Ya boy's had a few.)

Light it up

hit the stage

hit the dance floor.

Fight enough

start a riot

there's a chance for

love to grow

for the hate

to transform

Feeling these

knots in my head

am I deformed?

.

Feel like my

head, my heart,

a rock show.

Is this peace

or pain, I

do not know.

I can't close

my eyes and

the clock's slow

Pray I'll

kill myself

in Chicago

.

My head pounds

bass drum

memories of,

days when you

and I meshed

and we made love.

Wish that I

went and bought you

all your makeup.

Maybe some money's

all we needed

to makeup

.

Feel like my

head, my heart,

a rock show.

Is this peace

or pain, I

do not know.

I can't close

my eyes and

the clock's slow

Pray I'll

kill myself

in Chicago

.

With hate your

voice went shrill

you went cold.

Who's this girl

beside me

don't know.

Wake up in

the morning pain

or comfort?

All your screaming

I wanna go

Van Gogh

.

Feel like my

head, my heart,

a rock show.

Is this peace

or pain, I

do not know.

I can't close

my eyes and

the clock's slow

Pray I'll

kill myself

in Chicago

Howdy folks.

Had a recent interest in large-scale art projects, and I'm not sure where to start looking to find more.

Anything that by nature has to exist outside of a museum. I'm looking for big displays. Whether it be large scale performance art, buildings erected at the will of an artist, or things like the Dumb Starbucks event that took place out in Los Angeles.

Installments that took any measure of great coordination, investment, or raw personal effort.

I feel like I'm doing a right shit job of describing this - but maybe you get the idea. If anyone has links to news articles, blog posts, or whatever about these kinds of art please drop a comment!

Father God

I've got a favor

to ask of you.

.

It is said

you can justify

the hell I knew.

.

So now I raise

my tired eyes

to the morning blue.

.

God above,

I've got a favor

to ask of you.

.

If I don't wake up

dead in the morning

could you stand by me

if just for a moment

give pause to the pain

put a break to the moaning

while I'm stuck in this mind

and I just can't control it.

.

If you're gonna drag me out

of my bed in the morning

then I ask I wake in

a place I feel at home and

I can pour a little brown, light

a green, and get to hoping

that I'll find good work,

good love, and consoling.

.

Ya Allah

Ana mish aerif

Ana riyeh feyn.

.

My head

is clouded, dark

and the sky is grey.

.

I've found

I hate the sun,

and dance in the rain.

.

And at night,

I close my eyes,

dream of the grave.

.

If you're gonna drag me out

of my bed in the morning

then I ask I wake in

a place I feel at home and

I can pour a little brown, light

a green, and get to hoping

that I'll find good work,

good love, and consoling.

it has not been about a month since the last thread, but it would probably be more convenient to just do these threads on the first day of each month instead of in the middle of the month and waiting for another twenty or so days to get on that track is ridiculous, so i'm going to just start this one now and then do the next one on may 1st. anyways, we're back again! here you can share/provide updates on some of the projects that you're working on. they can be of any kind--digital, physical, work related, passion project, whatever. pretty straightforward, i think.