The Come Together Project
Hello, everyone! 
Welcome to "The Weekly Muse." It's a weekly prompt for those
of you who might love being inspired by works of art or just need a kick
in the rear to get writing (or any other art-forming.). Either way, enjoy!
This week we have suggestions from:
betwixtthepages & WintersRead
P.S. If you use any of these as inspiration, we would appreciate
Winding Wooded Walk Way
by MadGardens
Abandoned Construction Site
by Manomatul
Sometimes autumn feels like winter
by dasidaria-art
Witch back
by AshiMonster
In harmony with nature
by LORETANA
… another kind of death
by BLACKPLAGUE1348
Mississippi River In Summer
by crazyruthie
Undone
by BlueAngel271183
Outside Inside
by jedsart
The eye of the universe
by Elie-TheBlueWolf
The Monster Within
by ramkumariyer
Postage Stamp
by Nicolas-Demare
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Until next week!
LionesseRampant
Welcome to "The Weekly Muse." It's a weekly prompt for those
of you who might love being inspired by works of art or just need a kick
in the rear to get writing (or any other art-forming.). Either way, enjoy!
This week we have suggestions from:
betwixtthepages & WintersRead
P.S. If you use any of these as inspiration, we would appreciate
it if you would link to the piece in your artist's comments!
Beautiful Titles
Winding Wooded Walk Way
by MadGardens
Abandoned Construction Site
by Manomatul
Sometimes autumn feels like winter
by dasidaria-art
Witch back
by AshiMonster
In harmony with nature
by LORETANA
… another kind of death
by BLACKPLAGUE1348
Mississippi River In Summer
by crazyruthie
Undone
by BlueAngel271183
Outside Inside
by jedsart
The eye of the universe
by Elie-TheBlueWolf
The Monster Within
by ramkumariyer
Postage Stamp
by Nicolas-Demare
Beautiful Literature
dragonfly wingsi. There is an entire generation of humans who grew up learning how to be murderers,
learning how to wound creatures for an audience and a laugh, and oh
how they love to laugh, pigtailed executioners
and torturers of all that frail life
that could be contained in a quiet garden.
ii. They take spiders by their bellies and put them one each on two ends of a stick,
and they poke and prod and push until one decides to eat the other,
for there must be a duel, there must be a death, or there is no fun,
and the children will race off to find new things to hurt.
They take dragonflies by the wings and stick their jewel tails into electric sockets,
playing god in their pajamas, leaving peanut butter fingerprints
on the little pockets of heaven they find and fight over,
keeping the pretty pieces for their scrapbooks, like you could trap life
beneath scotch tape and label it between lines red-blue-red.
iii. Well maybe they know better, if you want to believe there's a muted brilliance
hidd
a letter for someone who hates thinkingin the beginning i wrote poems
about death and darkness and
the complex metaphysical arithmetic in which
that would equate to the love i carried for you,
beneath the headaches brewing like bruises
between my eyes, my ocean eyes;
even after convincing me the planets
were dead gods, powerful skeletons with
internal expiration dates and the stars
were their lingering parables, their stories
blinking out years before we were born, i knew
you were a nuclear angel, atom bomb
savior sent to save me from
me.
there is no more mystery
in the world. i sent you
five letters to the PO box you told me
about in florida, the first
was a catalogue of every
angsty song lyric or campy postcard
or description of a flower
crooked in just the right way
that reminded me of you,
the second was a retelling
of every dream i woke from
forgetting who i was, the third
was an apology-- i'm sorry
for who i'm not and who you
need and that your dad always
reeked of bacardi, i'm sorry
for my bukowski-wannabe complex a
ChrysanthemumChrysanthemum<da:thumb id="390625373"/>
Last night, I dreamt of us.
We were together on a mountaintop,
I was sitting on the edge,
With my legs dangling above the bottomless pit,
With a lone, white chrysanthemum in my hand as I pull the petals from the stem.
While you were standing above me, looking on, languidly,
None of us wanting to say anything,
My own mental battle sewing my lips to one another,
Unable to speak,
While you were probably trapped within your own mental depths;
In my mind, I was debating between venting and jumping,
Simply over the fact I didn’t know what that look was in your eyes,
But I think that’s probably the point, that we’re no longer of the same kind,
Maybe I changed into something I’m unaware of, maybe you were the one to transform,
But I don’t get the same feel of what used to be,
This is foreign to me,
An unapologetic feeling of extreme apathy,
And that is the unfortunate reality of this situation,
No matter how long
Like Only the Stars are WatchingMr. Glenn’s wife died the day before last. Of course, now all their children could talk about was what she would have wanted.
“She would want a proper burial,” Gary, the eldest, said.
“In the cemetery at Memorial Park,” Martin said.
Gary shook his head. “Much too crowded there. She wouldn’t want to knock elbows with anyone. She would prefer be buried in the Green Meadows Cemetery.”
“No,” Lisa Marie said, slapping her hand against Mr. Glenn’s antique table. “She wouldn’t want a grave. If she was here, she’d tell us to cremate her and spread her ashes across the farm.”
“I don’t think she liked this farm as much as you think,” Kurt said. “We should take the boat and spread her ashes out at sea. She would like that better.”
Lisa Marie huffed and crossed her arms. “Mom told me everything, and I can promise you that what she would want is to be here, on the farm.
I Am A ManI wrap my pain in surreal blankets
Even while howling it out
I am a man; I roar only in the darkness
Hoping it will conceal me
While I wait for a healing hand
This is for the Average ArtistIt is painful at times,
Seeing those born with skill and talent.
They paint such beautiful things, using the barest of material.
Entire worlds are spun at their fingertips, all from a dot of paint.
I think sometimes, of how nice it must be,
To be able to capture such beauty, within the borders of a page.
To spin a tale from but the smallest of phrases,
To create a fantastic adventure from a mundane experience.
It is painful indeed at times. When I am seated in this room,
Surrounded by the dull hum of failure and regret,
I ask myself, with eyes burning in the mirror,
Am I finally ready to give it all up?
'No!' I say
I will not let it end this way!
Not without a fight, not until I know that I am utterly broken.
The good lord may have blessed you with talent my friend,
He has given you everything that I could have ever desired...
But there is one thing that I have earned;
One little gift that remains my own.
You would not know of it,
Since you have never felt it,
An
ghosti am a ghost hanging on a clothesline<da:thumb id="405863332"/> <da:thumb id="405845965"/>
my rib cage cracked open, leaking ambrosia
displaying my gallery of broken hearts to whoever may pass
but who will come and fix me
when i’ve played the mechanic for so damn long?
Beautiful Images
Until next week!
LionesseRampant
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