|Deviant Login||Shop||Join deviantART for FREE||Take the Tour|
To Do List
Pokemon Commissions [Open]
I don't bite... much.
Give a Llama, Get a Llama!
Perfectly FlawedI am not perfect.
I am physically, mentally and socially flawed.
I am not a size zero, four, eight or fourteen.
I have permanent scars all over my body.
I'd rather sleep than put on makeup; wear trackies than shave my legs.
I hate being photographed; I am insecure.
I smile when I'm upset, and I never ask for help.
I get overly attached to characters in books, and bawl my eyes out when a series is over.
I dislike having a shower when I'm the only one awake or in the house
I can't take a compliment, and I hate surprises.
I take things to heart and trust too easily.
I'm socially awkward and laugh too loud.
I don't have many friends.
I am not perfect.
I am physically, mentally and socially flawed.
Plan BThe voice of Santa Claus boomed through out the workshop, making all the elves jump.
"Where are all the toys? Where are all the toys? We need to leave in exactly nine hours and you haven't even half filled the sack!"
"We're sorry, we're sorry!" they replied while turning the speed on the machines up.
Satisfied by hearing only the pitter patter of elves shoes sliding along the floor, and the grinding of each machines as they work, Santa walked back over to his favourite arm chair, and thought about the crisis that he – and his company – were in.
With nine hours to go before take off, the present sack was only one third full of presents, the reindeer haven't been fed, and most importantly, Santa hadn't even begun to eat his pile of cookies or drink his glasses of milk. These were crucial steps that had to be taken if they were to last the night. If the presents weren't ready soon they would fall behind schedule and mess up the biggest day of the year. He would have to resort to pl
Blood BrothersBrookie always holds my hand when we cross the street. She's never given a reason for it, she just does it. It's become this unspoken rule with us that whenever we cross the street together, she slips her hand in mine and I lace my fingers through hers and we walk hand-in-hand until we reach the other side and she drops her hand and we both wipe our palms on our jeans. Brookie's a little scared of crossing the street. Her poppa died in a car crash when we were six. He was a pedestrian. She's never gotten over it.
Brookie is my best friend going on sixteen years now, which is pretty impressive considering we're both sixteen. We don't have some cute little story about how we were born in the same hospital on the same day or about how our mothers were best friends long before they were pregnant with us and somehow passed on that bond while we were still in utero. No, Brookie and I met the same way ever
MercyOh sweet God how the grassland
ignites in moonlight tonight
I must thank you for creating
her tangled fingers' slow pace
through the handsome rain Her
trochaic kinesthesia to rhythms
in Stravinsky's The Rite of
Spring Is this how you meant
for us to love you Yahweh
Tumbling clumsily down hills
of sheets into perpetually
immutable silence I could love
you like that I think I've been
practicing on this Savanna
for days and months Lost in
her crystal canvas Rolling crests
and troughs And when she touches
me Oh fair Lord I'm dragged into
your city past Gethsemane's
pulsing green and gold
Please hold us together
under this luminous stretch
Oh Father We are live
unclothed Our reflections awash
with the skin of your sun
Life is but a DreamWe are just unnourished frail bodies,
overfed with white lies and short-lived-euphorias.
Books filled with black letters,
etching lurid images into our utmost dreams.
Veering us from the big picture...
the one we fail to paint ourselves.
Our fists much too busy with fights,
that we are bound to lose.
Too occupied in line waiting,
for creativity to be let loose like a stray dog.
As if we will find home in this pursuit of happiness...
but we only enclose each other in small rooms
with nothing but old laptops.
How many times I've guessed which letter could it be...
Which letter could it be?
To free us from havoc-stricken-thoughts?
They come and go, unending like 24 hour subway stations.
There's no break for this lonely man,
heaving every breathe of stale air
into my overused lungs...
Living in confined walls of flesh
held up with brittle paper-mache bones.
Which day is it that I will burst out from this cage of a life?
And hover with the Gods found in carefully binded bo
Keep in Touch!
A two-time Community Volunteer for the deviantART Related category, Anne is well-known as a positive, helpful force. She is the community's resident expert when it comes to CSS (Cascading Style Sheets), and her personal gallery offers a wide variety of tutorials for new and experienced coders alike. In addition, each winter she hosts a calendar project encouraging members to create Journal designs for all to use, bringing more creativity to the community.
It is with immense gratitude that we acknowledge Anne as the recipient of the Deviousness Award for October 2014. Read More