THE GROOVIEST LIT IN TOWN: VOLUME TWENTY-SIX
groov·y
['ɡro͞ovē]
adjective,informal
1.enjoyable and excellent.
GROOVIN' LIT...
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Violets Are BlackRoses are blood red
violets are black
she lost herself
and cant get her back
she held her breath
to look in the mirror
but she cant do it
she doesn't want to see her
the one who was broken down
into tiny little pieces
around her friends she tried not to frown
but it was harder than some made it out to be.
the pain in her wrist was almost too much to bear
she screamed and cried but no one could hear
it was useless and pathetic but she wouldn't bite
she just wanted someone to hug her
and tell her it will be alright.
5th Orchestra ViolinistSlowly the strings ache out that soft sound that lulls us into a comfortable place. Then a build, quick and haunting; throwing everything you just felt away and replacing it with fear and suspense. You wait for the finish for it to hit you, you brace for the worst and then it stops. Suddenly without warning you are brought to a place of sheer light and atmosphere. It is pure and you feel at ease, like you have arrived in heaven or a place similar. You walk down the halls of white and it becomes brighter and brighter until the door opens and you step out and fall. The thought vanishes and your hope breaks. You fall from the perched white and your heart fades. You realize you are back in your seat and no longer in your dream. You stare down at the fifth chair violinist, who is slowly pulling his bow across his strings in an attempt to lull you back into your dream. You can not go back for you know the lie, and can never see the white again. The violinist glances up and you swear it
Clip ClopThe train sleepily pulls into the train station at 10.30pm. I close my book and slide it into my bag before standing up and walking towards the train doors. I stifle a yawn as I step onto the platform and make my way to the station’s exit. “I need to stop putting in so much overtime”, I think to myself. I can barely stand up I feel so tired. The station is deserted except for one or two other commuters waiting on the various train platforms.
As I reach the exit and begin my walk down the main road, I coerce my earphones into my ears and select ‘shuffle’ on my ipod. ‘The Sound of Silence’ by Simon and Garfunkel begins to play. The only sounds I can hear outside of my earphones are the noises of impatient traffic, my shoes hitting the pavement and the rhythmic movement of my crisp suit swishing as I walk.
The autumnal air is unpleasant against the nakedness of my face and brings a chill to my spine. I skip the song on my ipod, in need of a song m
Letter of a French muslim woman
Salam aleikum wa rahmatullah,
As a French and Muslim artist, committed for a message of Faith and Peace, I join myself with all the "humanity" to condemn the slaughter of Paris and to offer my sincere condolences to the saddened families.
I am profoundly sad because France that welcomed my parents 50 years ago, today, has been meanly assaulted and bruised. When I hear that one of these barbarians shouted "ALLAHOU AKBAR", I have even more pain because my religion is again soiled...
Let us remain united, quiet, and do not mix haters and innocent people.
A/ To those fools of ISIS:
You are not warriors!!!
You are not soldiers!!!
You are not even men!!!
You are cowards...
You are weak...
You do not have ANYTHING in common with our Beloved Prophet صلى الله عليه و سلم ...
You are inequitable...
You are pitiful...
You are manipulated...
You kill and dream to kill innocents, at moments they do not
Schmetterling, du boeses DingEs begab einst vor langer Zeit, eine höchst seltsame Begebenheit. Ein frommer Mann im Garten saß und ganz gemütlich Zeitung las. Sein Aug' erblickte ein gar komisch' Ding - ich schwör's, es war ein Schmetterling. Mannshoch, man glaubt es kaum. Dreist flog er über'n Gartenzaun. Was dann geschah zwischen Mann und Wesen, ist wie folgt nachzulesen:
Der Mann betrachtete das Wesen, dass vor ihm stand. So etwas hatte er noch nie zuvor gesehen. Er fragte sich, was sein merkwürdiger Gast wohl von ihm wollte. Schließlich wohnte er so weit abgeschieden, dass er nie Besuch bekam. Was ihm nur recht war. So war er nicht sehr erfreut, dass nun jemand seine Ruhe störte.
[Mann]
Schmetterling, du fremdes Ding!
Was führt dich in meinen Garten?
[Schmetterling]
Die Neugier führte mich zu dir,
in dein abgeschiedenes Domizil.
Bei diesen Worten vollführte der Fremde eine Drehung, die in einer eleganten Verbeugung endete. Die schwarz
Ghosts of My Father:thumb553153650:
Sunlight streams into my room from the open curtain, reminding me that my room is a cell. I try to close my eyes and go back to bed, but it is too late, they saw me. I throw my cover over my head but the blanket cannot drown them out, I am surprised they ever let me go to sleep in the first place. I slam the blanket back onto the bed, and sigh as I sit up. There they are, all of them, trying to talk at the same time.
“Please get a message to my son.” One shouts out, and another is whaling, she always cries. There is one whispering, “Hey, look over at me. Don’t listen to these lunatics, I need you more than they do.”
I manage to ignore all of them, if the staff here knew I still see them they would never let me leave. Ten years is too long to stay in a septic white room with white walls. The white curtains are not really curtains
Humans of New YorkThey call it the city that never sleeps—it's true, you know.
Sarah and I stretched our tired legs after spending ten hours lulled by the gentle rocking of the rail car—jostled awake just before sleep took us, every time. We emerged from the mechanical echoes of Penn Station and were greeted by the vibrant city streets. It was past one, but the air was alive with traffic, neon reflecting off of the wet pavement, and indistinct porch-step conversations. A cool, after-rain breeze blew Sarah's hair across her face as we both looked upwards in awe of the buildings towering above.
After a good night's rest, we spent the next few days walking the New York streets under clear summer skies. Times Square, MOMA, all the tourist spots. My favorite was the observation deck of Rockefeller Center. There's something inspiring about seeing the city from above, watching cars pump through avenues and one-way streets like blood in steel and concrete veins. Sarah fell in love with Central Park.
THE GROOVIEST LIT CONTINUES...
BloodlustStephi
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FROM THE BRILLIANT IDIOTS AT Where-God-Went-Wrong
How far do you have to go in the afterlife to simply sit for a nice, quiet cup of tea?
Our hero's not having any luck with that, no thanks to a growing entourage of "helpful"
characters, who lead him to Grand Central Station, it's doors to different worlds, and,
eventually, to the Shrine of the Book of cheats.
It's a family-friendly comedy in the flavour of Douglas Adams' "The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy".
Tune in and support the show!
GOT ART?
If you would like to be featured, or know a rad piece of art that you love, send it my way! I'm always
open to suggestions for anything that I do on deviantART and I would love to hear back from all of you.
Happy writing,
NAKTARRA
Skin by SimplySilent
