Adumbrate i.Adumbrate by ozzla
Smudging lead flakes, pressed into the paper pulp; given new life, new breath. The page
heaves, its edges crinkling beneath my hand. It exhales, and I can see the spark in the
eyes of the portrait.
Skin, only skin deep; the scales slicked with sweat, the sun browned at midday, and the
people sweltering below: they wait for the wings to melt, collapsing into trash.
Until he scratched his nose it was dust. I'd expected that when he'd shake his head and
blink they'd fly, but freckles they were. Stained with the cracks and fractures sustained
from being too pale for the sun.
Beneath the paper are the purple roots of chrysanthemums. Press too hard, and a sticky
ichor drips from the edges, collecting in the hollow of the collarbone.
The scent drew them. Hungry eyes and hearts, the blood on their hands barely dried.
If only a
My Grown Up Christmas ListDust motes sparkle through the sunlight. Rather than colliding, they pair up and waltz until they settle. I can imagine them giggling, sipping champagne while they rest.My Grown Up Christmas List by ozzla
Sometimes the state of my sugar levels worries me.
From downstairs comes the snap of masking tape and the crackling of cardboard boxes. I should be contributing my muscle to the “bona fide” war effort. It is an odd choice of words, but my parents are well-meaning in their attempts to educate the general populace. Yet, we are always defeated.
There is warmth at my legs and a purr. I smile and drop my hand for her to muzzle. As always, teeth and gum scrape across my knuckles whenever she is vehement for my attention. She has been safe all these years; the small are always overlooked. My parents are giants: tall and opinionated. They wear their manifesto on their sleeves, and frequently passer-bys cringe, shrinking away.
“That's who they are... it's simply not right.”
I always he
Whiteness, I rememberTwirling, you remind me of a jewellery box ballerina: elegant and poised. You are so steady, holding your position with precision. Even when flicked by the precarious fingers of children you always return to your position. Only statues could best such dedication.Whiteness, I remember by ozzla
Such beauty did not prepare me for its rumbling. The mountains shook like the bowels of a monster, and thoughts of ballerinas were replaced by bomber planes. I squinted for the tell-tale wings and listened for the whirling motor.
That time it was actually a natural disaster.
A torrent of snow, iced teeth and titanium claws shred trees. The bystanders are consumed while they looked at you, raising their ski masks in disbelief. No frightening colours tarnished such a homogeneous white, giving the false appearance of calm.
If I were more optimistic, or perhaps more poetic, it appeared as if you had warmly enveloped them in a white blanket.
My surroundings explode into chaos, arms and legs searching for loved ones. Here, further a
the hanging of an absurdistalas poor roachesthe hanging of an absurdist by ghostinafog
of the tongue-splitting brigade
to the scene of flames
dry humping the body to death
not only untouchable now
unafraid of the occasional laceration
maybe the lifelong reek of oppression
in the vicinity of cellars &
maybe the maggot-like sweat beads
as the drain pipe flange digs into the forehead
and wrist cuffs are about to explode./an att
still, they can't catch up to us nowshe never walked with a spring in her stepstill, they can't catch up to us now by empty-lungs
and the fire in her heart was small and light and made from driftwood
kaleidoscopes of blue and green and purple
he didn't want to know
but there are some things you can't ignore
through frost-framed nights they were the softest creatures
gentle worded and caramel glazed
they skimmed the forest floors and slept on feather down beds,
their feather down hearts curled in contentment
for a minute in the silence
i wondered what it could feel like for the burning to stop
to never want to run until i cut through the concrete
toughened calloused feet chundering through wet grey ground
for a moment, i slipped my hand into yours
closed my eyes
there was a surrendering in the air that i had never quite grasped
but if you've ever seen a tornado
you'd know the way it rips through everything
how it sends bolts of lightning through your veins
until the storm ends
and the calm settles in
we tried our best to be docile
we tried to be the aft
Project Educate: Fight Artist's/Writer's BlockArtist/Writer's block is the worst nightmare for writers and artists! Because of this, many artists and writers quit! Writer's/Artist's block is usually only temporary, but it can be long too! Here are some ways to fight writer's/artist's block!Project Educate: Fight Artist's/Writer's Block by projecteducate
Find a place or situation that inspires you:
Yes, you've all probably heard this a lot of times, but it's true. Finding places that you like can inspire you to do more art/writing! That place doesn't have to be quiet, it can be a huge city bursting with life and sound! Places won't only inspire you, but so will situations. Taking a walk around your city or even you neighborhood can inspire you. Try going to special events that take places. See how people interact! Just like a place, these situations don't have to be happy or very community-like. Sometimes bad situations can inspire artist's/writer's to express their feelings through art or writing.
Pull up old ideas:
Artist's/Writer's usually throw the majorit