Isn't it strange to think
That the right to bear arms
Is stronger than the right to live?
And isn't it just so bizzare
That fifty people are dead
For daring to exist without shame or apology
And you tell me that homophobia is over?
You all want to cry about freedom
You say that this is your birthright -
This violence and killing and hate.
"They're taking our guns!" -
You're taking our lives.
Which matters more, when it comes down to it?
The assault rifle?
Or somebody's 22 year old son?
Which would you choose to protect?
This isn't freedom, I hope you know.
This is fear.
And I know, I know -
You'll find ways to make this other than it wa
My world was always blue
Everyone but me was sleeping
Unaware through night and day
Only I could see
Only I could feel the truth
It was the worst of all the worlds
Pluto had more variety
Than that world of false dreaming
Those cowardly sleepers
I don't live there anymore
I left
But it's still there
Lancelot Price originally written 2015 November 27
fishing by moonlight
casting in dreamland for the next thing to do
old dreams burned in campfire
ashes, ashes, all fall down
there has to be something else
something new
there has to be
Lancelot Price 2015 April 4
Oh
The Ancient One watched. From the very beginning of All, he watched. He observed as the Universe of universes arrived, as the stars came to be, as the galaxies formed, as the worlds arrived. All made of Universal stuff transformed. Seemingly endless changes from things to other things proceded unimpeded. The great game was beautiful. Entertaining. Fun. And then came the holes, the black, the always empty. Worlds were hurled to Darkness, places without places, without event. Where nothing happened. Not ever. Where Ever was Not. Slowly, oh, so slowly, the Universe of universes faded and disappeared. And was gone. The Ancient One had nothing mor
What will you do to save the arts? by techgnotic, journal
What will you do to save the arts?
Watch depthRADIUS
Share
|About|Previous Journal
What will you do to save the arts?
Foreword by techgnotic (https://www.deviantart.com/techgnotic)
As an artist you need to be aware that something very bad is being brewed. Under cover of corporate and bureaucratic darkness, art as you could know it on the Internet will die. “.ART “ will be lost. You need to carefully read “Save Dot Art” right now—before another battle for the future of art on the Internet is lost.
This plea to the “ICANN” is dense and full of unfamiliar acronyms, but it’s essential information if you want “the Arts” to remain readily accessibl
I grab the moon's pale tail of light
and climb high and ever higher
Though it's not like I imagined flight would be
I leave the troubles of the world below
and feel a Flyer
Lancelot Price 2014 May 5
I kneel not
-------------
nor do I bleat
amongst the sleeping flocks
[for they are many]
all in fear of loneliness and death
I do not fear death
Nor even loneliness
I've learned how
to be alone
It is good
Lancelot Price 2014 January 16
L'amici sua me fanno 'n sorrisetto:
er codardo j'avrà detto de stanotte.
C'ho 'na voja de prendelo de petto,
ma quello me risponne co' le botte.
So' curiosa de sapè che j'avrà detto,
chissà che posizioni s'è 'nventato.
'Na cosa è certa, ce so' annata a letto
e v'assicuro: ce l'ha corto e malandato.
Un giorno mamma disse 'na grande verità:
"Pe' na cosa sola ognuno è nato".
E pure se l'ha detto tanto tempo fa,
ce penso sempre dopo che ho scopato.
Ve lo giuro: non chiedo mai la carità,
ma certi omini pe' me so' come doni:
li vedo e me vie' voja de scarta'.
Non vojo vive a spizzich
Ricordi di milioni di anni fa by Potsy89, literature
Literature
Ricordi di milioni di anni fa
Piccolo uomo,
cos'eri prima di questa vita?
Slancio informe di sembianze,
agli antipodi dell'antropomorfismo,
unico vero e indisturbato regnante:
altro posto era questa Terra,
ventre di un equilibrio incondizionato,
dimensione atemporale di una vita immersa nel fluire di momenti.
Rivivi...
L'acqua,
porta d'accesso al regno del tempo che fu,
è culla amniotica di pensieri e sensazioni inconsci,
di attimi contrastati solamente dal loro stesso succedersi,
è terra di mezzo,
dove la pesantezza di leggi inviolabili si fa piuma.
Circondato dal terrore dell'ignoto,
tu, Icaro bagnato,
consapevole della tua splendida follia
t