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myOtaku.com
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AIM
• DeathAngel2234
E-mail
• Click Here
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Birthday
• 1990-12-07
Gender
•
Female
Location
• Palatine
Member Since
• 2007-07-05
Occupation
• I work a browns chicken right now but I wanna be an artist or art teacher at least
Real Name
• Rachel
Personal
Achievements
• Making Friends
Anime Fan Since
• 7/03/1992
Favorite Anime
• Elfin Lied
Goals
• Publish a book, sell a painting, finish a painting >< make more friends, visit my friends in canada :P and see the world
Hobbies
• Costume Design, writing, Drawing, playing with Swords, seeing friends, having parties, going shopping at Hot topic and photogragh and video making.
Talents
• Artistic and Writing skills, Sports blah blah blah and I all have creative skills, I am okay at talking to people if thats a talent.
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Wednesday, November 21, 2007
The Artist by Stanley Kunitz
His paintings grew darker every year.
They filled the walls, they filled the room;
eventually they filled his world ---
all but the ravishment.
When voices faded, he would rush to hear
the scratched soul of Mozart
endlessly in gyre.
Back and forth, back and forth,
he paced the paint-smeared floor,
diminishing in size each time he turned,
trapped in his monumental void,
raving against his adversaries.
At last he took a knife in his hand
and slashed an exit for himself
between the frames of his tall scenery.
Through the holes of his tattered universe
the first innocence and the light
came pouring in. Okay I know that was a short one and I need to get alot typed up to day so this little ... life update will be short ... anyways happy thanksgivings weekend to all. I'm exiced because aimee is suppose to call today if not aimee it should be Lana to tell me whats up and yeah... so yey me.. *shots self for even thinking yay me...* fuckin tv anyways more poems.. its by the same person FYI. The Portrait My mother never forgave my father
for killing himself,
especially at such an awkward time
and in a public park,
that spring
when I was waiting to be born.
She locked his name
in her deepest cabinet
and would not let him out,
though I could hear him thumping.
When I came down from the attic
with the pastel portrait in my hand
of a long-lipped stranger
with a brave moustache
and deep brown level eyes,
she ripped it into shreds
without a single word
and slapped me hard.
In my sixty-fourth year
I can feel my cheek
still burning. next Peom is one that confuzzles me Again and Again Love knocked again at my door:
I tossed her a bucket of bones.
From each bone springs a soldier
Who shoots me as a stranger. well thats all folks comment if you will! The Hidden
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