When your comfort fictional character has absolutely no fics on archive of our own D:
in the end all you have is yourself, your comfort fictional characters and archive of our own
-Zoë Lianne
Dance wild, free, heart full of glee, No care who sees, just you and me. Love deep, true, no fear or doubt, Give heart in full, shout it out.
Sing loud, clear, let spirit soar, No need for praise, open the door. To joy inside, let music play, Chase blues away, come what may.
Live bright, bold, no time to hide, Grab life's hand, let passion guide. Each day a gift, a chance to shine, Make life your own, a love so fine.
No rules to bend, no time to lend, Just be yourself, a faithful friend. To heart and soul, stay ever true, Dream big dreams, make wishes come true.
~
Disclaimer: Google Gemini and I cooked up this little rhyme!
The Road Goes Ever On and the Misty Mountains song (from chapters 16 and 18 of my comic adaptation of The Hobbit.) anyway: the symbolism of the parallels between these two poems ;-;. [Find links to all my projects here!]
by Langston Hughes
This is for the kids who die, Black and white, For kids will die certainly. The old and rich will live on awhile, As always, Eating blood and gold, Letting kids die.
Kids will die in the swamps of Mississippi Organizing sharecroppers Kids will die in the streets of Chicago Organizing workers Kids will die in the orange groves of California Telling others to get together Whites and Filipinos, Negroes and Mexicans, All kinds of kids will die Who don’t believe in lies, and bribes, and contentment And a lousy peace.
Of course, the wise and the learned Who pen editorials in the papers, And the gentlemen with Dr. in front of their names White and black, Who make surveys and write books Will live on weaving words to smother the kids who die, And the sleazy courts, And the bribe-reaching police, And the blood-loving generals, And the money-loving preachers Will all raise their hands against the kids who die, Beating them with laws and clubs and bayonets and bullets To frighten the people — For the kids who die are like iron in the blood of the people — And the old and rich don’t want the people To taste the iron of the kids who die, Don’t want the people to get wise to their own power, To believe an Angelo Herndon, or even get together
Listen, kids who die — Maybe, now, there will be no monument for you Except in our hearts Maybe your bodies’ll be lost in a swamp Or a prison grave, or the potter’s field, Or the rivers where you’re drowned like Leibknecht But the day will come — You are sure yourselves that it is coming — When the marching feet of the masses Will raise for you a living monument of love, And joy, and laughter, And black hands and white hands clasped as one, And a song that reaches the sky — The song of the life triumphant Through the kids who die.
A short comic I made about my experiences as a seasonal worker, and the way places change you.
Prints & PDF
Anyone know the artist? For clarity, the painter, not the writer.
We suffer from an incurable malady: Hope.
— Mahmoud Darwish
Kate Baer, from And Yet: Poems; “Idea”
[Text ID: “I will enjoy this life. I will open it like a peach in season, suck the juice from every finger, run my tongue over my chin. I will not worry about clichés or uninvited guests peering in my windows. I will love and be loved. Save and be saved a thousand times. I will let the want into my body, bless the heat under my skin. My life, I will not waste it. I will enjoy this life.”]
Makes me laugh. Every time.