Scattered PiecesThere should have been a way
To frame your voice in silver.
Your comfort would be
A beautiful decoration.
If, somewhere, I could have
Collected your caress,
Relief would be a keepsake
On the mantle next to your portrait.
Our past had a brighter future
Than my present.
I should have preserved
Your embrace in the scrapbooks.
More than tender memories
Would flow from each page.
I want to hold each moment close,
Assemble them--store each second,
Since I have to face this life
Three Movements of Noise In Voice Speech and SoundVoice - Black Noise
i hear █████████ my name
███████████ the ████ damn thing
is █████ one thing ██████████████
i'm ██████ tired of ████████
███████████ the ████████████
█████ sweet talk sound███████
when I don't ███████ need
my heart starts slowing ██████
HaikuWriMo - Bonemealfamily dinners
continue after burial
Breadcrumbs and TumbleweedsSome folks'll never adjust to society's dirty lenses. Maybe that's why Donnie took up a hobby one weekend after a trip through the countryside. He had come back from driving out west in his crap convertible. And it was in slip-shod shape. Donnie spent the rest of his summer hobbling around that car, working out dents and scratches. Worked out in the sun talking to a woman the neighbors never seen. He had left himself breadcrumbs to clean from between the seats when he had restored the car, but he leave them be, says they're too small for him to see and that breadcrumbs aren't worth noticing unless they have the nature of tumbleweeds. The curl of his lip tells something different though. Donnie's seen the difference between a tumbleweed hopping a fence and a body on a guardrail.
Donnie called his hobby 'sobriety' and took thirteen steps to a cemetery with flowers in one hand and the wheel of his convertible in the other.
If Then You PauseTo the girl under the covers at noon:
If you pause by the wine
with tight jeans, theatrical boys
speaking bokeh and braille
and the hungry look that asks
‘why are we made with holes?’
If then you pause by the wine
I want to tell you things
I’ll tell you when you’re older:
that the best orange you’d ever eat
would be the taste of a man
|More Journal Entries|
|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.
for my daughter, who sees...When my therapist asked if my baby kept me grounded in real life,for my daughter, who sees... by sunshinegypsy
when my therapist asked how we lived at home,
she lives in the landscape of my brain-
a war with no un-broken heart,
lovers washing up
on an endless sea
she lives without fear, the trembling touch of hand to hand,
she is part of me and mine
like a cat in the dark she sees my backwards worship,
that today we will climb on the bed,
lie with our feet under the heat of the dog
with our blankets nested
TritanopiaI'll gladly weave the ashen wrath of a snow bank into my terrible flesh; I'll sprout new PrometheanTritanopia by thetaoofchaos
nerves to beg the scorn off dark and drizzle, to settle the slow-riddle of bitter holes sold deep
within the waterchest ; I'll give back all the violent blue these faithless eyes had ever dared
to lure from the depths of the sleepless Dream;
but i'll never accept
the callous death
that is [....]
ForeshoreForeshore by AlecBell
Picture, if you can, in this elemental setting, a solitary child, so tiny, so distant against those rearing rocks, that you cannot certainly determine the child's gender. Not that that detail is of any consequence, what you see is an animated speck fearlessly approaching the edge of the ocean's ancient dream.
The child's brief and fugitive experience discovers what language has yet to teach. Nothing in the world of this tiny he or she is more than a moment old, yet that fragile moment can swallow this ancient world whole.
Rock has forgotten
time's beginning. Still busy,
the tide gnaws, the rock erodes.
|HumanConditions is here to feature the The Best of your visual and literature deviations. Each deviation must portray a human condition or emotion; therefore, all submissions are up for approval before they are accepted into the gallery. |
In literature, we seek writing that is intriguing and original. Proper spelling, punctuation, grammar, and syntax are reviewed and may keep your writing from being accepted.
If your deviation is declined or removed from the gallery, you will receive a comment or a note telling you why. At times, you are able to make corrections to your deviation and resubmit. Arguing in a rude manner, even in the guise of being helpful, will get you banned!
We accept all media, including photography, photo-manipulation, digital painting/airbrushing, traditional art, artisan crafts, and the written word.
We do not accept visual works with words. We want the deviation to speak for itself. The only exception are collages.
All submissions must be completed works of that portray a human condition or emotion.
We will only accept quality work.
No: incomplete works, sketches, or works in progress, Literature submissions must be able to stand alone; we don't accept chapters of novels and such.
In addition, prose, especially, briefer is better, although we draw the line at six-word stories.
We rarely accept rhymed poetry. Too often, something else (such as syntax or rhythm) is sacrificed in search of the "perfect rhyme."
In all written submissions, format and size should be considered. If we can't read your piece on a laptop screen, it won't be accepted. </b.
We will deny certain deviation themes.
No: anime, fan art/literature, eyes, flowers, fairies, or simple fantasy themes, unless exceptionally executed and emotes a human condition. In addition, works that are judgmental will be declined.
References to religion, either visual or in writing, will be considered on a case by case basis.
Artistic nudity is okay BUT is up to the discretion of the staff.
Submit directly to the Human Conditions theme folder that applies to your work. For a definition and description of each human condition, look inside of the gallery folder.
Limit: two (2) submissions per day.
Favorites limit: three (3) per day.
Members cannot submit other deviant's deviations to the gallery.
If you place a deviation in the storage after it has been accepted, we have the right to remove it from our gallery
Photo-manipulations must give credit to stock providers. It's okay to submit older deviations; just make sure the stock provider is listed.
If you're a writer, please read over the "Literary Guidelines". This will let you know what we're looking for in your poetry and prose submissions.
CarolineYou loved the fireCaroline by Scarlettletters
of rogues -
imperfect men who shot up
the endings of the day
and drank down
too much beauty.
And like one of them,
you bellied with rebellion,
felt his tense seed
toil where women
and craved his notoriety.
Poor girl -
his verses won the day
and the call of words
was too fickle a lover
for any constant star.
Don't blame yourself -
are more attractive
and all poets are
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
VirginiaRobert E. Lee lives just miles from my door,Virginia by melodysnow
bending at the right. On the corner, is a white church
housing brown skin in the Virginia spring. My best
friend’s father has a Confederate flag hanging in his
living room. A white military man married to a Filipino
woman because her skin is a few shades lighter, more
tan than true brown, light enough to speak
love to, on occasion.
The Civil War grounds up by Todd’s Tavern are fenced
off, but momma swears she hit a ghost on the bridge
one night, eyes blooming in refracted headlights—
allowing the past to slip into consciousness
—fingers curling like the flowering dogwoods, singed
at the tips, like fire ants threading their clay houses,
hidden under soft mounds in the earth.
And the bees are building up in my throat, as I watch
the fruit in my neighbor’s yard begin to rot.
I can’t touch the roots. But the bees are trembling like
some cracked bell, a revolution, a crying.