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Literature
Title too long for DA
There is a place in my brain that is counter-aligned
A place that is deformed and finds itself a few paces behind
While bits rush and churn, it stagnates, repulsed
Not an obelisk in a maelstorm, but absinthe that failed to emulse
Disgusting wretch, craven, suicidal swine
Mental image: A lemming (Disney’s, not mine)
Skin worn as clothes, untanned human leather suit
Crisp, dry, clean, well-cut, assuredly Made-Just-For-You
One Size Fits Most, it said on the tag
And indeed it does, though my friend said I look like a fag
But it was bought years ago (or months, I forget), it is worn now, decrepit
Bits of it are too tight, there are tears in the fabric
A Mask of Leprosy A Man of Pustules A Husk of Nothing
These are the Names He calls out as he’s sleeping
Within and Without, mental images abound, thought-shape formed
But Within the thought-shapes provide comfort, I am warmed
Without, they oppress, they are a vice grip about my arms
And they beg, oh how they Beg, for me to submit t
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Literature
A Feather, Balanced Point-First Upon the Lake of..
"I shall only love once," I declared, age 12, "That much emotional and mental investment in one other person, that much trust? It would be impossible for me to do that once, watch it fail, and then return to try again."
I knew what I was talking about, though I meant it in an entirely different sense. Yes, I loved only once... In the sense that one takes heroin "just once", or a recovering alcoholic is coaxed into it for "old time's sake" just once. Was it David Sedaris who said something akin to "I've known a dozen smokers who have each had a dozen 'last cigarettes'"?
I fell in love only once, that much I held to in fact. Rather, I was tripped, shoved and knocked over a log lying just in front of a cliff, bouncing and tumbling all the way down. A scraped shin, a split forehead, a dozen nicks and scratches all along the way. At one point, sheer friction won out and I skidded to a halt facedown on the slope, a plume of dust rising in my wake. I stood shakily, dizzily, trying to sort out
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Literature
Suicide Prevention Week
Title: Suicide Prevention Week
Date Written: 09-08-2015
Jackson Pollock part two, this time the brain's properly diseased
Names into numbers, tired of fuckers trying to say they can see
Drip my brains onto the canvas and let you tell me what I mean
It's the nature of the system that I must be quarantined.
Ernest Hemmingway's successor, feminism's primary public enemy.
You can figure it out, I need no defense, it doesn't bother me.
Drawing without thinking and turning my brains into artwork,
Five suicides in four generations, who cares who is hurt?
Pass me the hemlock, I'll owe Asclepius a rooster for later.
Socrates is tired of the questioning, my head refuses to cater.
Brain's infested with philosophy, we'll solve that at the source.
A heart that doesn't beat, blood that doesn't run its course.
Hunter S. Thompson—Too weird to live, too rare to simply die.
End things on my own terms, exit when I—and only I—decide.
Tired of investigating your filth, I'll go out with a
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Literature
Sober Writing
I am not a human being, nope, if I were I'd have a brain.
Instead I'm just a carcass, a shell filled with disdain.
Once I was a weapon, yes, a tool that ended struggle.
But now my edge is dulled, yet, thoughts still fill my skull.
Directionless, passionless, the void that saps all will.
Ruthless, toothless, nothing would drive me to kill.
Myself? Others? There's a difference I can't find.
A guess? A stab? The contents of my broken mind.
Thoughts running laps, finding loopholes for me to exploit.
A trainwreck, slow motion, a thousand cars, no end in sight.
I barely know where I came from, where do I go from there?
It's hard to plot a course when the flightplan says "Anywhere".
Half the time I want to murder someone, half the time it's me.
A quarter of that, I want nothing, the rest of it, I want free.
Something's always itching under my skin, it wants to bust loose.
I'm a sack of guts filled with bile, I want to spill my pus on You.
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Literature
Three Little Words
Three little words, they say.
Those three little words.
But "they" are idiots, in-utero imbibers, inhibitions internalized and incensed irrespective of inherent intensity.
"They" don't realize, reality is a rarity, retconned repeatedly and recently revoked, retreat is regular, required for response.
"They" like to believe, brevity is a boon, boring, blantant bleatings betray their beastliness, barely becoming, but it's beneficial! At their behest.
One word, two words, three words or four.
A sentence, an extra letter, a mark by the door.
It's irrelevant, I'm incandesced, I'm irreparably id-poor.
Everything's a reminder, a sticky note on the desk.
Cover it in memories and you'll lose the important ones in the mess.
Reclusively return to retardation, it's a respite from the rest.
Throw nothing away, hold onto it all, don't ask, just do.
There's no time for willpower when the ego has work for you.
Blessings bestowed upon your brow, bleed, bastardborn, let us see if it is blue.
There's a pe
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Literature
Tired
I'm tired. Tired of sleepless nights.
Tired of speechless fright.
Tired of words unwritten.
Words, one writ in blood;
some in sweat, most in tears.
Tired of choking myself for you, for you, for you, for you.
Tired of slowing myself for you.
Tired of not-knowing myself, for you.
My brain is pulsing, seething, there's been no way out but down.
Paralyzed by a feedback spike and waiting on you.
No more, not again, never will I stop—run in, again, apologize and bow down?
No. There's nothing to be said, done is done, go away and let me be through.
Though, thoroughly burning boondoggle bridges brings me back to—my point, which is FUCK YOU, and you and you and you.
We are not companions, we will be–are–were associates, when my words speak they are spoken true.
I've sewn my lips shut for you and you and you.
But I will suffer through my own bloody maw, just to scream at you.
I'll cough up some blackened pus
Just to serve it up to you
I'll dump my brains all over the tabl
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Literature
Little Satan
You're my devil, my little satan, the chip on my shoulder.
Always whispering in my ear how to make life harder when I'm older.
But I'm smarter than a pixie, smarter than a won't-be.
Too smart for you, smarter than the credit you give to me.
You thought you were better, that I should bet her—wrong.
I can admit when I'm stupid, but I won't dance to your song.
My friends would ask how I'm doing, I'd say "not well".
But school taught me to put a smile on before the last bell.
Whisper your vile nothings to me, they'll fall on deaf ears,
I'm not the same scum you grew to know over the years.
Spirits carry me on their backs, the beloved town hero
But thanks to you, my angels will never earn their halo.
I've hated and I've loved, but for you I feel neither
The best way to put it in words is "choking on the ether"
If I had a million dollars, I wouldn't spare a dime for you
And I have a million hours, but still don't have the time for you.
My life's a rollercoaster and you're simply too sh
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Literature
Death
Death's got more than a cousin, he's got a whole damn family tree.
Up in that tree, hanging from a rope, you've got a corpse named Me.
The sturdiest branch is named Depression, now that's Death's uncle, and he's holding onto the rope.
He's an intermittent alcoholic, but his family and friends ignore it. It's just him being eccentric, and at least he's not abusing dope.
Depression's got a twin sister, and her name is Mania. She says that she's healthy even though she's flat broke.
Blew all her money on facebook games, now the food budget's been cut short. That's why she's got a daughter named Starvation, a private little joke.
And Depression has a son, he neglects him but he's there.
A young gentleman by the name of Love, every time he sees a pretty girl he stops to stare.
Love's favorite relative is his Grandfather, Psychosis.
Reality seems so sweet until Grandma Hope has one of her fits.
And on the other side, you've got Papa; Pain, the patriarch of the whole outfit.
The motivation fo
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Literature
Shirts
An embrace all of your own, from your Self unto your Self, established, endured, ensuring you're assured,
The warmth of Self brought upon Self, the quenching of need enrapturing.
A gift, from the Self, unto another, a bond forevermore entrusted
A warmth of Self given away with eternity
Everlasting.
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Literature
Posts from the mock-SJW blog I considered making

"I can't decide if liking pink is sticking it to the Patriarchy by showing that I'm not afraid to like traditionally "female" things, or if that's playing right into their rape-ridden fingers."
"One of my POC friends said that she thinks women today have it worse than POC. As an intersectionalist feminist, this concerns me. How can I treat POC issues as being as important as women's issues without disempowering her?"
"I don't see how anyone can be a feminist and not a vegetarian. Not for any moral reasons, but simply because it's participating in rape culture to routinely put "meat" in your mouth and enjoy it. Liberated women don't need the pleasure of any sexual metaphor men use to assert their superiority."
"Have you ever considered that handicapped accessible ramps and businesses that allow seeing eye dogs and other service animals are being a bit ableist? I mean, think about it. They're changing their policies and taking extra effort just to cater to them. They're putting them
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Literature
Analysis Of Myself
So I noticed a few days ago that I say "I don't know" a lot.
Like, multiple times over the course of individual conversations.
It's a theme for me, I say it more than "um" and "uh" combined. It's a constant motif in my speech and writing.
And I think I may have puzzled out why I say it.
Smart people have always annoyed me. Self-assured smart people are even worse. But the worst thing is a self-assured dumb person that thinks he or she is smart. Smugness is terrible regardless, but at least tolerable when it is warranted. When it is unwarranted, it is one of the most unattractive traits a person could present.
I've been told I'm smart by a lot of people, but frankly I don't put much stock in it. I am, at best, well-spoken. This may portray an aura of intelligence, but it is a fašade.

This is why I hedge myself by reassuring the other person that I "don't know". By remaining uncertain, I guarantee that I am none of the things that annoy me. If I am not self-assured, I c
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Literature
So I was talking to my mother earlier tonight.
I've always sort of objected to the fact that poly people consistently lump themselves in with LGBTQWERTY communities and whatnot, telling people that if their boy/girlfriend isn't polyamorous, they don't "accept" their partner. It's always on the non-poly person to be polyamorous and if they can't do that then they're closed-minded and the poly person should dump them for someone more "open" (the usually unspoken intended meaning being "better").
And it always bugged me, but it took a 1 AM conversation with my mother to understand why.
And you know why that is?
Events can shape and alter your sexuality, sure. But for the most part, sexuality's foundation is set in place at birth. If you're gay/straight/bi/whatever, odds are that was something out of your control.
But y'know what? The thing that every poly community likes to espouse is how everyone is capable of loving more than one person. So being polyamorous isn't something from birth or not. We're all capable of lovin
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Literature
An Entry into Life's Grand Novel
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Literature
Helical time
Do you ever just stare at your  contacts list on skype
knowing you need to talk to someone about something
feeling that thing you need to talk about claw at your throat desperate for a way out
but not being able to find someone to talk to
because they all would either judge you
hate you outright
or offer nothing to you?
and so you’re forced to shove that thing back down
pushing against your throat to keep it in
choking yourself as you choke back the words
straining for air even as you strain to suffocate your interior
so it goes back and forth for hours at a time
until eventually
due to lack of air and sheer exhaustion
you pass out where you stand
and the thing gradually seeps out of your mouth, oozing black as it stains the sheets and mattress, seeping across the floor
creeping along, joining the shadows and climbing the wall
becoming your surroundings
all-encompassing
oppressing
so that when finally you awake
you are aware that everything outside of you consists of this th
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Literature
a collection of words disassociated from meaning
The root of causality devolves upon itself sustaining the true future that has the wherewithal to show good fortune towards those around it; the beings of which We are contain self-sustained self-nurturing self-creating self-propagating self-driven cosmologies that act within their own self-interest, devoid of need for those outside of Us.
What We see within Ourselves is all that we desire in a solipsistic view, that which is outside is unnecessary evil brought upon us by itself.
This is where scars are brought forth, where that which wounds us by nature comes into being and ensnares our souls and the souls of our children, that which we demonize and yet recognize as inevitable, it harms us, a parasite leeching away at our life-force, sapping our desire to continue.
As it is the Without and so we are the Within, we hate that which we are not.
Yes, but where the Without and Within meet, we find union and harmony. Love itself bears witness to the boundary.
The boundary’s ver
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Literature
only read things once
the more times you read something the more possible meanings you take out of it the more meanings imparted the further from the initial meaning you derive as you grow further and further from this intent you spiral off tangentially reaching off and grasping at non-existent points that define the very bounds of reality and cognitive thought you pull apart at these seams and draw away the curtain of pretty lies and half-truths revealing the ugly reality that we hide from ourselves and one another the tapestry woven into the background and forgotten painted over and bricked away built around and contained by allowing yourself to reread something by listening to the same words twice you gradually wear away at this barrier you gradually reveal the truth that you know deep down that you always knew you should never dare to see never dare to seek out and yet you look and when you recoil away in terror and pain at what you find you have the outright gall to blame those who hid it away for hidi
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www.UnforgettableWriting.com

That's my website. There's nothing there now, that'll change at some point. It's not a priority right now, I just bought it to have an email address, feel free to drop me a line for any reason.

Here's what is a priority: I'm collecting my writing together to make an ebook. It'll likely include everything, or nearly everything, I've written to date. Which is a lot more than the ~75 finished pieces here on DA, there's also plenty of stuff spread across 7 years of hard drives I have at home, plus some stuff I posted to tumblr that never got posted here. Maybe for shits and giggles I'll even throw in the half of a novel I was starting for NaNoWriMo a few years ago, I'll have to decide if I want to finish it and polish it or abandon it and move on.

It'll be name your own price, so you can pick a copy up for free if you want. I'm busy as can be lately, in all the right ways, so I can't give a time estimate on when this project will be finished, but I can't imagine it will take particularly long given 99% of the writing is already done.

If you guys only knew what were going on over here, your minds would melt. There are wheels set in motion, baby.

I think I'm going to start using DA again soon too, either before, during or after the culmination of this project. It's a useful place to dump this stuff in the interim.
  • Listening to: Google Play Music (Spotify died like Pandora)
  • Reading: How to Fail at Almost Everything and Still Win Big
  • Watching: Don't have the time to watch stuff lately
  • Playing: Minecraft (it's changed so much since beta)
  • Eating: Fruit and veg makes a man happy
  • Drinking: Water, everything else tastes weird now

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ThePoeticPaladin
Brant Coleman
Artist | Professional | Literature
United States
I study etymology for fun. Words are what I do, and I've gotten pretty good at them over the last few years.

I've got a lot of projects on a lot of burners, if you want to help out with any of them, send me a message. If you're good at something, I can probably find a use for you.

My contact email is: Brant@UnforgettableWriting.com (the domain is currently parked, don't worry about that, I'll still get your email)

Profile picture and ID done by the wonderful MohawkRex, you can see it full size here.
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Anon371 Featured By Owner Feb 4, 2015
Happy Birthday :meow: :iconcakeplz:
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derplight Featured By Owner Aug 14, 2014
You know what I realized?

This site's dead-boring when all your friends leave it.
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RGB64 Featured By Owner Jul 11, 2014
>2011+3
>not updating the donation box on :iconishygddtplz: to match the current year
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Ikeepboothin Featured By Owner Oct 28, 2013  Professional Writer
idk how i got here but i might just watch you now
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