'Till It's Gone"If he isn't already dead, I'll kill him myself." Not very angelic words for a servant of God, but, gritting his teeth, Raziel meant every syllable. He had spent the last three nights hovering silently beside pale hospital beds and their paler inhabitants, waiting for the inevitable. Resisting the disrespectful urge to tap long fingers against an arm, or worse, hum, Raziel simply counted the seconds away, thinking bitterly how he would so prefer a game of cards, return to Heaven for a well-deserved day off, or, if he absolutely had to waste a fraction of his eternity on Earth, to at least watch something a bit more interesting. A quick glance'Till It's Gone
In the MusicIt was all in the music.In the Music
John scraped the long, pointed tip of his pencil across the paper, aimlessly adding another line to the scrap he wasn't focused on in any case. Another essay that would be read once, hastily graded and matryed before a teacher's uncompromising gaze, before it was returned to him, skimmed for its bigger faults, then discarded. It would be forgotten within a week. It was finite, unimportant, mortal. No matter what flowery words he used to discibe the Renaissance, the digital clock, reminding him endlessly with its harsh, glowing numbers that it was long-ago time to sleep, ticked away its life.
Don't call her thatCatherine, Kaley, or Carol. She has a name- use it.Don't call her that
B*tch, prude, slut. Don’t call her that. Adjectives-turned-nouns, Tailored, one size fits all, For every girl To ruin her self-esteem.
"B*tch. Prude. Slut." Take your pick, All will cripple her. Words so full of malice Have lost all true meaning When flung at every, unsuspecting Woman.
Her watery eyes widen At the expected, undeserved remark.
Her cheeks redden beyond her blush As she denies the insult. But the damage is done. And when the rest of
Not Your FaultHe was so sick of it. Sick of being told how to feel, or, really, how to not feel. Sick of being forced to do things he would never have considered himself capable of. He was sick of not standing his ground, of not refusing the orders that left such a bitter taste in his mouth. It was always on the Superior’s orders that he acted, but it was his hands the sitar rested in, his water clones that completed the tasks. He had no one to blame for his guilt but himself. And he had done horrible things. He had killed people, innocent people, for God’s sake! He saw them, their rotting corpses in his head, their bony fingers curling around doNot Your Fault
Writer's. Freaking. Block.
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Upcoming Cosplay Events:
Taking a break. -_-
My Riku:
My Axel: ~DemonicLeez <333
You notice things in artworks, as when you helped with my first chapter.
you have nice critques, and it does not take a master artist to notice what is wrong with a piece, or to offer their opinion. Typically, more criticism means more effective, more constructive, and quicker improvement. Being aware of what is wrong, can only help to rectify the probems. If critiques steer clear of debasing the artist and deterring future works; if they are benign and well-wishing in nature; and if they are sincere and not misleading... then there is no injustice in the critique, if the artist seeks to improve.... However, it is best for the critic to give only feasible advice to the artist and to not overwhelm them. Being too aware of ones errors can serve as a deterrent.
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~*Beware the Thane of Fife!*~
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~*Beware the Thane of Fife!*~
Ah, and the scraps section is in the right upper corner of the page when you get to mine.
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Eat until you can't anymore,
Play until you drop
It's okay to laugh or cry,
Just live live live
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