Dear fellow artist,
At times I've noticed you struggle with your works, and I've seen how you feel you don't get the recognition, appreciation and popularity you are entitled to. You have not said it out loud, but I know these kinds of thoughts often strike to young artists like you and me.
You might have been feeling that you are a talentless twat, trying to do something artistic and you might have also thought that no one really cares about you or your works.
I do care.
I've seen how easy it is to create things people shamelessly now call art. They know how to take a screencapture of their favourite cartoon and then attach it to the Mot
My mom took a trip to Mexico
And stopped by a church to attend mass.
It was quaint, small and brightly colored,
So she went inside.
(She is Catholic and I am not.)
She knows Spanish, is practically fluent in it.
She knew, sitting in her pew, what the priest was saying
About those goddamn homosexuals
And their sin,
And how even the flames of hell
Were too good for them.
That there would be no tolerance from The Heavenly Father
Of their kind.
I had just come out to my mom less than a month before
"Yes I like girls."
My hands had been shaking and my throat was tight,
Like my heart was stuck in it.
For a moment I wanted not
we love like we sin, terrified and breathless.
we are tea-at-midnight girls, naming constellations
that don't exist after lost tourists we meet on the
street, reminding our freckle covered shoulders
that even beautiful things can be made ordinary.
we are broken fingers and half-closed eyelids and a
penchant for mischief. we are ribbon skin and frantic
desires and incandescent hope. we are a voice spilling
secrets to falling leaves diving after their arachnid brothers,
mimicking the millions before us who were
judged unfairly, unjustly but all too correctly.
we whisper promises to dandelions because they do not
know how to hold gru
I told Johann that German was a disgusting language
full of grunts and hairballs and
harsh hateful aryan marches
and anger and terror
and words that got caught in the back of your mouth
like old toosie rolls and crunchy peanut butter
And he spoke to me in German
softly, gnetly
of an intimate and romantic language
of patent engineers huddled over brilliant inventions
of piano tuners listening intently
tenderly coaxing strings little by little
of musicians that transcribed the beauty and simplicity of little stone chapels
he spoke German
like it was a mysteriously lovely poem
with fierce pride and protection in his voice
he spo
Description of My Synesthesia by darksporechild, literature
Literature
Description of My Synesthesia
Songs are colors. For example, One Step Closer by Linkin Park is a green song, while In the End is more of a dark maroonish. Crawling by Linkin Park is yellow. Paint it Black by the Rolling Stones is kind of a pale blue. Here Comes the Sun by the Beatles is also blue, but bright blue with silver flecks. Certain classes of musical instruments are also colors. Brass tends to be red, while strings tend to be green. Percussion is yellow, woodwinds are brown, and electric guitars are fire-engine red. Despite that, a song that is almost completely strings can sound red.
People are colors and shapes. My friend Billy is kind of a blobby lim
you're the princess, i'm a pea by ChloroformBoy, literature
Literature
you're the princess, i'm a pea
My life is a fairytale:
I'm the fairytale misfit.
While Rapunzel grew her hair,
while the Prince awaited her,
I was the poor horse
Prince Charming rode.
beneath royalty,
less than charming
While Cinderella attended the magic ball,
while her Prince saved her glass slipper,
I was the poor pumpkin,
beautiful for a night,
then reversed, rotting
While Jasmine groomed her pampered tiger,
while Aladdin wished his dreams to Reality,
I was the poor magic carpe