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To The Writers: To Writers: On Writing.To The Writers: by ~so-pretty-when-I-cry
August 7th, 6:26 a.m. : The perfect example of what today's populace would fawn and fantasize over, as "the quintessential moment" ---
the amateur film directors, fumbling with their lenses, focus hard their trained photographic memories in anticipation of it.
A ripe North Carolinian sunrise, the light dusting a quiet summer's Sunday morning space with the softest kind of contrast, fuzzy, like a China-Doll's cheeks, permanently pinched. In fact, I think that's what really does it... it's the impermanence of it all. Sure, the Sun will strew about the moment along its course, Japanese men wake up in "Tomorrow Land" wh
Singing to Strangers Singing to StrangersSinging to Strangers by ~so-pretty-when-I-cry
Oh, mon dieu.
Oh, my God, I do not know who you are,
I only know those moments I'd charge
to reach my arm across, to hold your jaw.
Oh, please!
I've never felt so broken and
my pieces are your tokens!
I'd say I'm sorry, if I thought it was enough
but, I know it's what I don't do
I don't listen hard enough.
And, it's sad to say it, but
I'll do it anyways..
my whole life, when I went lookin' for love
I always found it lookin' the other way.
But, through it all,
I learned, if nothing else…
that singing to strangers was really just
singing to myself.
Singing to myself like,
"la deed a, la dee dum dum
Salsa Dancing, My Confusion We come, we go, we trySalsa Dancing, My Confusion by ~so-pretty-when-I-cry
so hard to see and say
hello, goodbye
and laugh so hard we cry.
Inane's the name put
to what we do.
And I suppose, if,
I live until I'm old
enough, avoid
becoming someone else.
Then I'd be used to
being used to not
being myself.
I'm not being myself.
I'm not being myself.
I met a man, he was blind,
and he asked me if I'd like
to know my fate
and I replied, politetly saying
no and asking him for the time.
I ran, I wrote, I stopped
to have a smoke. I thought
about the words I could have
said instead, it's just like the rest,
just like the rest of my life.
But it's OK, I live until I die.
I'm d
Letters of War I wrote you a letter thatLetters of War by ~so-pretty-when-I-cry
you'll never read.
One hand on my heart and
the other in my sleeve.
And I remember, I remember everything.
I remember, I remember everything.
I remember everything.
I feel, I feel everything.
I feel, I feel everything!
Every little thing I feel, every little thing I feel
everything I feel.
I remember all the battles I had and
all the guilt that I've won.
Prisoners of war! I keep them locked up
in my heart in a room with no windows or doors.
And the lights are always on,
and the lights are always bright.
They never know if it's day or if it's night,
oh I keep them locked up oh so tight.
They never k
Oh, Sophia Life after death is like life before deathOh, Sophia by ~so-pretty-when-I-cry
nobody really knows if it's real.
If it's all fiction and there is no difference
in the distances between zero and
my existence, well tell me what is
this spark?
We think therefore we are,
Oh, Sophia.
We think therefore we are,
Oh, Sophia.
Then from nothing we became,
but what is this something I've become?
I first felt it when I held his face
in my hands,
and upon second glance, I saw that
it was my face that I held in my hands.
I feel therefore I am, love
Oh,Sophia.
I feel therefore I am, love
Oh, Sophia.
I wish I could show them. Oh, wouldn't it be fun?
The looks on their fac
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Deviousness `TimberClipse's dedication to our community is without question. From developing helpful tutorials, to being a community leader in groups such as #fella and #deviant365, you can always find Zev connecting with all areas of our community in order to spread his infectious enthusiasm and inspiring positivity. We are delighted to bestow the Deviousness Award for May 2012 to `TimberClipse, congratulations! Read More
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