|October Is For Members Self-Portrait. If You Have Not Submitted A Self-Portrait, This Is A Good Time To Do So. For Our Benefit, The Self-Portrait Does Not Have To Look Exactly Like You. It Can Be An Image To Represents You. It Can Be A New One Just For Us, Ore Something You Already Have.|
You Can Read The Self-Portrait Literature From Our Writers In The Members Self-Protraits Folder, HERE:humanconditions.deviantart.com…
|More Journal Entries|
Fiddle, DrumFiddle, Drum by HowellJack
strings play, grasses sway,
a crying girl fights the day -
through a door, push, smash.
A young fiddler paves her way,
through fields, chased,
eyes clouded with fear, doubts -
There! The tree,
a swish of hair alerts the three,
rush; run; hold; bang,
the air is split with the sound of a gun.
The fiddle ends, the tune stops,
shattered wood fall near legs of capri,
guilt seeps in the hands of the Three
as girl slept near the roots of the tree,
Oh why does my drum still belong to me?
when you are herehold me like an infantwhen you are here by LustingforLove
cradle me in your arms
softly weeping until my eyes are red
and your face a blur
I want nothing more than to touch the skin
of the moon and grind stones in my teeth
but I am short and weak, burdened by the sky
and the stars are never bright when you are gone
you are gone every day that ends in 'y'
and still I yearn for a touch
just to be touched and to touch you
skin on my skin
lips on lips
is there any sound sweeter than your heart busting in my ear
to a rhythm
the rhythm of the raindrops in the gutter as April sweeps through town
breaking hearts and shingles
whisper in my swollen ears a tale of love that ends happily
you are not Romeo nor Paris and my name is not Ophelia nor Juliet
call me the names of flowers and moons that orbit Jupiter
because our love is ever expanding like space and time and revolutions
cradle me closer and let me breathe in the scent of mango and musk
that you hide your hair in
tell me your name in song and poetry
just spread out your sou
|Welcome to Human Conditions! I see it as a combination of the two groups which inspired it, #So-Often-Bled and #Emotions-in-art. The edginess and imagination of #So-Often-Bled with the basic premise of #Emotions-in-art, capturing the range of emotions we experience as human beings.|
We are not for everyone. We are for serious artists of any media whose work deals with emotions and the condition of being human.
We would rather be a small, interactive group than a large group where everyone dumps their latest deviations. We want quality, not quantity.
~Original Founder Bark
Find The Rules And Group Standards On The About Page.
CalibanCaliban by Scarlettletters
They say this place
is the brothel
of my thoughts -
dirty gods and vacant wombs,
left at the top of these stairs,
but forgotten when the world skips a beat
and light crawls its way
to the bottom.
I watch what moves
from the window -
that brave new world -
and know I am piecemeal,
unmade and too rough to the touch,
my kiss an unborn thing.
I sucked from my mother's teat
sour as summer nettles
to be my wormwood,
bereft of fine manners
or a back to hang them on.
But all is not as it seems.
I only play the monster
when the crowd demands blood,
for my back breaks
like any other man,
my visage worthy of grace;
and I can feel my thoughts soar
the deft sparks of spring
longing to be uncaged
when beauty comes unbidden
and my sullen hide
shall turn like the worms in June
into something glorious.
blackberries, bramblesthere is a resentment buddingblackberries, brambles by toxic-nebulae
in my gut
as something from a swallowed seed.
dormant and deadly,
a steady outdripping of poison,
thick as a sap to be tapped,
to be harvested.
I fear it will overrun my
will corrupt the soil it grows in
with its violent outshootings—
it will turn every bit of me
into its grisly garden.
it will make you feel
vaporThere's no moment quite as hauntingvapor by psithurisms
as coming down,
the lights pulsating to the hollow beats
quaking below the vinyl from the stereo.
I hear you, then, breathing through the floorboards,
your teeth edging from the coldness between our words
and the emptiness of the silences that balloon
from our chests.
You are starved, desperate,
snaking between my knees and pressing into my stomach
as though consuming me from outside, inwards,
is all you know.
And I let you, watching your lips move along my skin,
chanting and evolving,
as the resistance within me ripples and diminishes
until I am the hollow temple within which
you choose to reside.