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Literature
Corroded
Knocked down,
Already have,
This life this time,
All I can do,
I could but I won't,
It's more than my life's worth.
"It's like a,
Traffic jam inside my head.
Thinking of the words,
I shouldn't have said.
Why's it always end up this way?
I just,
Want you to say."
Edge to edge,
The final touch,
This wonderful thing…
Why you gotta leave me?
"It's like a,
Traffic jam inside my head.
Thinking of the words,
I shouldn't have said.
Why's it always end up this way?
I just,
Want you to say."
Funny you say that,
Nothing ever changes.
Keep walking.
Keep talking.
Funny you mention,
Broken dreams.
Happiness evades you,
It seems.
Funny you say that,
Nothing ever changes.
(It's like a traffic jam inside my head)
Keep walking.
Keep talking.
Funny you mention,
Broken dreams.
(I just want you to say)
Happiness evades you,
It seems.
Head held high,
Easy enough.
Walking blind,
Not all that tough.
Raise yourself,
Up from the ground.
Release your voice,
Let's make some sound.
It's like a,
:iconFox-o-Dancer:Fox-o-Dancer
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Literature
Puppeh
The steel cage bars were all I knew. All I'd ever know. Born then soon after brought into captivity, it's how I've always known life to be. That doesn't make it any easier, but it does set me apart from those that get brought in from the outside. At night, they'll whine and whimper and growl, jumping at the cage bars in a fruitless attempt to get away, and when someone comes in, looking to find a pup to take home, they'll bark and wiggle all over, trying to draw attention to themselves.
I'm not like that. Not anymore, anyway. Not that I want to spend my life in this cage, watching others be picked out and taken home but never leaving myself, oh no. But no one has ever taken a specific interest in me before. So here I am, laying in my cage with my head on my paws, staring at these steel bars and wondering, not for the first time, just why no one seems interested in me.
I'm not that old; not the youngest dog in the Kennel, but still a puppy. My tail and ears had been cropped, so they are
:iconFox-o-Dancer:Fox-o-Dancer
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Literature
A Story
She laughed and slipped her hand into his, lacing their fingers together as they walked through the thick-aired festival grounds. The promise of rain was heavy in the air around them, but the storm had not yet broken. A quiet wind tussled the canvas tents that were pitched all around, and made the sequined scarves and skirts many of the women wore jingle in a tantalizing song.
He looked down at their hands, his expression quizzical, and brought them up to face-level, looking at her questioningly. She shrugged, embarrassed, and went to wriggle her fingers free, but he held her hand tight and, pulling it toward him lightly, planted a kiss on her fingers. Blush stained her cheeks and she looked away, trying to hide the smile that was turning the corners of her mouth upward. He grinned at her blush and gave her hand a gentle squeeze before releasing it and easily wrapping his arm around her waist, his hand coming to rest on her hip. After a moment's hesitation, she replicated his display,
:iconFox-o-Dancer:Fox-o-Dancer
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Literature
Fate of the Fateless
You can close your eyes. You can turn away. But you will never forget.
György Köves is a 14 year old Jew living in Budapest in the middle of World War II. His father is taken away to a concentration camp and soon after, he (György) is taken too. While in the concentration camp of Buchenwald, György clings to only the hope of one day returning home to his father and friends, but after weeks of hatred, pain, suffering, starvation, inhumane physical labor and poor treatment, a part of György dies. He no longer has any hope of ever again seeing the streets of Budapest; has no hope to see his father or friends or stepmother, no desire to. All that is left within his being is the rhythmic step of the concentration camp and longing for the soup that is given at dinnertime.
Are you looking for an award winning blockbuster that will capture your heart from scene one? A film with such a powerful message and massive impact it will leave you hanging off your seat in antici
:iconFox-o-Dancer:Fox-o-Dancer
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Literature
Gute Nacht
"Please…" he whispered, hugging her tighter against him.
Behind them, the sun sank beneath the horizon, taking all light with it and leaving the pair cloaked in inky shadows.
"Say something" he begged, his voice shaking and stricken with grief.
But she said nothing; made no sound.
A dead woman can not talk.
:iconFox-o-Dancer:Fox-o-Dancer
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Literature
Creativity Juices Spilling
Forcefully, the pen is thrust onto the page.
Empty spaces are filled.
Lines and curves create words. Sentences. Paragraphs.
Skillfully, phrases are turned.
Thoughts are released like floodgates, and words flow freely.
Rapid is the pen that scratches the paper.
Quickly putting each word in its place.
Until the page is filled.
:iconFox-o-Dancer:Fox-o-Dancer
:iconfox-o-dancer:Fox-o-Dancer 1 0
Literature
Amy
There is a small piece of red ribbon snagged between two thorn bushes.
Its edges are frayed and tattered, and many a hole exists through its middle.
But when the wind blows, it still tried to untangle itself in a desperate attempt to be freed.
With each breath of wind, the ribbon loses more of itself.
Even still, most of it remains trapped.
Frigid air strokes it gently.
With hushed whispers it taunts.
Teases.
Tempts.
The ribbon once again strains against its bonds.
Threads unravel, and with a rip,
It is free.
Threadbare and shuddering,
It twists away on winter winds.
:iconFox-o-Dancer:Fox-o-Dancer
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Literature
Black Butterflies
As children, we reach to discover.
But we are not justified.
Disturbing characters daunt the minds of dreamers.
We had no right to make such discoveries.
Childhood is a time for laughter and light.
The discoveries were no boon upon others.
We've done ourselves an injustice.
There is no longer an inability to connect darkness to light.
The injustice was upon ourselves.
Alone, we turned out butterflies black.
:iconFox-o-Dancer:Fox-o-Dancer
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Literature
Reoccurring
It's dark out.
The rolling storm clouds helping this darkness only by blocking the stars' lights.
There is light enough to see, though.
Streetlights, and headlights too, as the lone car passes bye, light up the sidewalk before me.
I'm shivering.
Goosebumps compete with raindrops to cover my bare arms.
It isn't raining hard, but more than sprinkling.
Enough to create puddles in the road that each car must splash its way through.
The sidewalk is wet too.
Interrupting my shoes' rhythmical clicking with an occasional soft splash.
I look at the brightened sidewalk before me.
The streetlight's yellow glow spills down, dripping onto the hard concrete and making it, too, glow.
From the sidewalk, I look to the streetlight.
It illuminates the rain, making each drop appear more as a child's sparkler than precipitation.
Looking back down, there is a shadow.
Splashed across the lit ground, there is a dark shape now standing.
Just emerging from the darkness.
I can't make out what it is, half of it s
:iconFox-o-Dancer:Fox-o-Dancer
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Literature
Here. There. Look, a poem.
I want to fight them. I want to stand up and yell, to make them see. To make them understand what it is to have them do what they're doing to me. "You create your own misery" true though it may be, I didn't ask for this.
You, yes, you there, do you know what they've done? Each of them, not just the one. How they've broken me down, left me scarred and alone. My own decices consloe me. Now isn't that nice?
Can't speak, only write, can't show what I feel; don't tell. Let it boil, let it fester, let it rot, let it swell. Swim in it, my misery, and drown.
My friends, are all gone, turned away or been forced--wait what friends--by myself or them, by myself. All alone, I'd forgot, as I fester and rot; as I swim and I drown and I die.
What's it like, in your head? What's it like, when you're dead; when you're cold underground in the morgue?
What's left to say, do I prey? Beg some unknow god. Tell themm all, tell them well, do not lie, only tell-and ask, for, my wish?
Wish, wish,
:iconFox-o-Dancer:Fox-o-Dancer
:iconfox-o-dancer:Fox-o-Dancer 3 18
Literature
It's funny because...
There's a boy in class, frantically trying to do his homework from last night, before the teacher comes in. A boy standing near him talking with a group of friends glances at the boy and rolls his eyes, then motions to his friends to look over and see.
"Ha! Little late, aren'tcha Des.?" One of them asks, clasping the boy on the shoulders and laughing. Desendario gives a forced smile without looking up from the paper, scribbling down, Ax+By=C, E=mc^2, a^2+b^2=c^2 problems. Two more student join in with the first's jests and eventually end up taking the paper form Desendario, ignoring his pleas for them to return it, and mocking his inability to finish homework on time.
When the teacher enters the room, she asks all the students to pass forward their homework from last night. She receives them and, flipping through, looks down at one, scrutinization creasing her forehead. "Desendario?" she asks, "were you really so lazy as to get no farther than problem 3?"
The boy hangs his head and giv
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Dirt and Flesh by Fox-o-Dancer Dirt and Flesh :iconfox-o-dancer:Fox-o-Dancer 0 6
Literature
Substory: The Coin
'Twas warm the eve Kriphe walked meaningfully into the courtyard before the Knights' Keep. The heels of her boots clicked sharply with every step she took, seeming to echo in the otherwise silent courtyard. Naggé sat on her shoulder and nibbled a strand of Kriphe's curly strawberry hair, but the girl paid the action no mind; she was used to it, it was commonplace.
A guard stood before the entrance to the Keep, he eyed the girl and the mouse on her shoulder suspiciously as they approached. Kriphe stopped and stood several paces away from him and he waved for her to come closer, calling out, "Commear, girl. No need to shout an' wake the whole tower." Kriphe knew she could, easily, flash him a smile and flirt her way past him, but this was not the way her temperament worked. Stepping within speaking range, she rolled her eyes and spoke softly but sharply. "Yes, and calling across the courtyard for me to be silent isn't contradictory toward your purpose at all."
Baffled, the guard tri
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Taken With My Cell No Edit by Fox-o-Dancer Taken With My Cell No Edit :iconfox-o-dancer:Fox-o-Dancer 0 5
Literature
Chapter ___
"WHY?!" She screamed. "WHY DO YOU DO THIS TO ME?!!"
"Because I love you!" He yelled back, and for the second time she had ever seen, tears formed in his eyes making the gold of the irises run liquid. "I love you...!"
The girl gasped; a quick, short, intake of breath as the man before her, the trained warrior, crumpled to the ground in pained sorrow.
The desperate urge to hug him, to hold him, to make his pain end was stronger than anything she'd felt before; and as a blood bather, this was unheard of.
A shudder ran through his body, and in his broken position on the floor the man hid his face in his hands; unable to bare looking at her. The tears overflowed and one by one fell into the palms of his hands. Whit that, his reserve crumbled and the man wept, sobbed, into the darkness of his hidden face.
It overwhelmed her. Dropping everything, all thought against, all restraint, she knelt before him and reached out with a- for a moment- tentative hand. Placing the hand on his, she s
:iconFox-o-Dancer:Fox-o-Dancer
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Literature
How Fickle We Are
In "The Sniper" by Liam O'Flaherty, the main character ends up killing his own brother in the civil war that was taking place. The final lies of the story are where you find out it was his brother that he had killed, and when reading them, I couldn't help but laugh at the sheer irony of it all. This is why I have chosen the end of the story to be my inspiration for this poem; while most people were horrified or devastated, I was laughing.
How Fickle We Are
War is the game, and you are the player.
Nothing but a piece, in the ultimate plan.
You've no control, over the actions you take.
To get out alive, you must play along.
Try your best, to take them out with you.
Try your best, to stay alive.
So easily, the mind is corrupted.
Proving again, you have no control.
When in civil war, things are even better.
Pitting kin against kin, watching friends die.
Those that you kill, were part of your life.
Those that live, wish to die.
How amusing it is, to see the slaughter.
Anyone is killed, just
:iconFox-o-Dancer:Fox-o-Dancer
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SweetChica19 Featured By Owner Sep 30, 2012  Hobbyist Photographer
thank you for :+fav: :aww:
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hi! thank you for +watch !
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thanks 4 the watch my friend ^^
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Thank you for the fav :)))
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estallidos Featured By Owner Jan 22, 2012   Writer
thank you for the favorite!
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:) No problem.
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Thanks for the :+fav:!!!:heart:
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Thanks for the fave and the watch. :'D
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x3 No problem. They're awesome.
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