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Literature Text
Flash photography reflects in blue bird eyes, even when the cameras are turned off. Photogenic faces crack into primadonna smiles, sunray colored hair flying.
The rise of a star is often graceful, but the fall is notorious for being rougher than being pushed off a thousand foot cliff, leaving a star jaded and worn-out, not unlike a dress washed one too many times. But none of them realize the danger of stardom until it's too late. The incentive of a life filled with dollar signs and autographs blinds even the smartest of talents.
So wipe the make-up off your face and take that shotgun smirk with it. Wash the stars out of your eyes and stop shooting at my moon. The night sky's got enough lights without you joining them too. Don't try to convince me otherwise. I stopped wishing upon shooting stars long ago. There's no point once you know the truth. The truth that you're all gonna fall. Every single one of you. You're all damned to drop out of the ebony skies and bury yourselves in the earth, lost and forgotten children that went out to explore the world but forgot to leave a trail of bread crumbs.
Look down your million-dollar nose at them. The people who burn in the flickering flames and create the light you stars take all the credit for. The ones who are holding onto the chain-link fence, not teetering on the barbed-wire top. The ones who don't shy away from the storm but jump in head-first.
And then there are the creators of the monstrosity. The construction workers building a glittering skyscrapers. The honey-sweet voices in your ear, whispering words of comfort and praise and encouragement, reminding you that it 'won't hurt a bit' when the needle of fame pierces your untouched world. Well, it did. It hurt a whole fucking lot. It turned your static night-sky view into a high-def war scene. And despite your complaints that you never wanted the channel changed, your protests go unheard. You're the one who has to change it. But you've lost the batteries to the remote.
Supernovas don't last forever. So make the most of it while you can. 'Cause honey, one day your bubble's gonna burst, letting the helium holding you up escape. And you will plummet. Down, down, down until you hit the ground and your already fragile world shatters into a thousand glass tears, spread across the globe's magazines, then buried and forgotten. Gone. Out os sight, out of mind.
Can you see the future? Well I can. And trust me when I say this, honey. Your crystal ball's cracked.
The rise of a star is often graceful, but the fall is notorious for being rougher than being pushed off a thousand foot cliff, leaving a star jaded and worn-out, not unlike a dress washed one too many times. But none of them realize the danger of stardom until it's too late. The incentive of a life filled with dollar signs and autographs blinds even the smartest of talents.
So wipe the make-up off your face and take that shotgun smirk with it. Wash the stars out of your eyes and stop shooting at my moon. The night sky's got enough lights without you joining them too. Don't try to convince me otherwise. I stopped wishing upon shooting stars long ago. There's no point once you know the truth. The truth that you're all gonna fall. Every single one of you. You're all damned to drop out of the ebony skies and bury yourselves in the earth, lost and forgotten children that went out to explore the world but forgot to leave a trail of bread crumbs.
Look down your million-dollar nose at them. The people who burn in the flickering flames and create the light you stars take all the credit for. The ones who are holding onto the chain-link fence, not teetering on the barbed-wire top. The ones who don't shy away from the storm but jump in head-first.
And then there are the creators of the monstrosity. The construction workers building a glittering skyscrapers. The honey-sweet voices in your ear, whispering words of comfort and praise and encouragement, reminding you that it 'won't hurt a bit' when the needle of fame pierces your untouched world. Well, it did. It hurt a whole fucking lot. It turned your static night-sky view into a high-def war scene. And despite your complaints that you never wanted the channel changed, your protests go unheard. You're the one who has to change it. But you've lost the batteries to the remote.
Supernovas don't last forever. So make the most of it while you can. 'Cause honey, one day your bubble's gonna burst, letting the helium holding you up escape. And you will plummet. Down, down, down until you hit the ground and your already fragile world shatters into a thousand glass tears, spread across the globe's magazines, then buried and forgotten. Gone. Out os sight, out of mind.
Can you see the future? Well I can. And trust me when I say this, honey. Your crystal ball's cracked.
Literature
Pansexuality
"Pansexuals are bisexuals
who are just fancy snobs
in need for a 'cooler' word
to fancily name their flaws"
I've heard this said so many times
and yet believe it be untrue
it's scared people telling lies
people scared of something new
First of all I'd like to say
sexuality isn't wrong
there is no need to point it out
and call it a flaw
It's a normal part of us
how nature let's us come
there's homosexuality in all living species
and homophobia in one
Now for there difference
of pansexual and bi
Bisexuals usually have tendencies
Pans give everyone a try
We don't care
if you're from here or there
don't mind the colour of your hair
or the ki
Literature
Right Hand, Left Hand
I wish
being a lesbian were like
being left-handed.
Whenever someone notices
you writing a cheque
or doodling
or opening a door
And they exclaim:
"You're left-handed?"
I wish it were as simple as that.
When it's funny
and I laugh, panicking.
Such stuff punchlines are made on,
that such a casual,
integral,
part of myself
has the spotlight shone on it,
And revealed (they think)
their own ignorance,
(How wonderful it is to enlighten someone
by being.)
And yet I never hear the questions
that logically spring to mind:
"Won't you have trouble with the gearshift
on a car?"
"How do you use scissors?"
"Can you even write
wi
Literature
i want to tell you
imagine a world without gender
a world where we are not confined
to the arbitrary interpretations of
an inexact biology. imagine we could
rise above the places
below our waists, reside instead in
graceful hands, in angled cheekbones
in some deeper conception than this
skewed perception of you.
I strip myself bare of unforgiving flesh,
squinting behind dim caverns of girl parts--
what are girl parts? all we have are beating
hearts.
I sit inside this trembling body, shoulder
to hunched shoulder,
stacks of bones too unsure
to be brave enough to tell you that
my gender will never fit on the plastic sign
above a bathroom door.
a
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Let's go play The Fame Game.
May not be used ANYWHERE by ANYONE except for me. That is firm.
May not be used ANYWHERE by ANYONE except for me. That is firm.
© 2012 - 2024 hey-there-blue-eyes
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Very good! And welcome to deviantart!