Witty Wittian *
Status:
Old Witty Was Bae
Joined: May 7, 2015
Last Seen: 8 years
user id: 391128
Joined: May 7, 2015
Last Seen: 8 years
user id: 391128
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Quotes by Witty Wittian *
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i'm nobody! who are you?
are you nobody too?
then there's a pair of us -- don't tell!
they'd banish us, you know.
how dreary to be someone!
how public, like a frog
to tell your name the livelong day
to an admiring bog
- Emily Dickinson
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i'm nobody! who are you?
are you nobody too?
then there's a pair of us -- don't tell!
they'd banish us, you know.
how dreary to be someone!
how public, like a frog
to tell your name the livelong day
to an admiring bog
- Emily Dickinson
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the sunshine, and the shadows will fall
beHind You.
- Walt
Whitman
Are gods really gods
if no one believes in them anymore?
Zeus takes walks in the rain and tries to talk up joggers in central park. When they bolt, or only return his advances with polite smiles that look like fence posts too high for even him to jump, he sighs. He tells them he is a god, and his words echo back to him, accompanied by laughter. No one believes him He picks up his wife, who might be his sister in this time, in a beat up car with a beautiful flame job, Hera is a marriage counselor with peacock feather bags under her eyes, her advice falls on her own deaf ears as her jealous eyes roam over every girl they pass, and she is right to. She knows this. She has always known.
Poseidon’s hands are rough and calloused, he raises cargo too heavy for a man his age, the young ones say. He laughs his fisherman’s laugh, all depths and riptide, because no one should be his age. He reminds himself he is one of the lucky ones, he gets to be around what he loves. He may not have his dominion any more, but salt water and sun still weather his face.
Hades stalks the streets at night, women cross the street to avoid him, and he smiles with his needle-teeth, they are right to. This winter he is without a bride, and he still wants to usher souls into the afterlife, the pistol hangs heavy in his pocket, his tongue glints gold, the coin to pay his Charon, his most loyal employee. He brings knives to gunfights and guns to fistfights, he stands with his arms out like their new God, these fickle humans, he welcomes the bullets. He dares them to kill him. They try.
Ares and Athena spit curses laced with whiskey from across dive bar floors, they are moving human pawns across a chessboard. They were strategists before they were gangsters, but it doesn’t matter now.
Apollo sings in a nightclub, his crooning voice from a forgotten time. He has his sister’s blood under his fingernails, from stitching up wound after wound, Artemis forgets she is not invincible anymore. He sings about the moon and wonders where she is, picking a fight with some would-be rapist, maybe it’s Zeus. It’s probably Zeus. Again.
Dionysus drinks away their shared pain, dealing LSD in dark alleyways, he whispers sweet promises and his followers believe him, he was human once and he can be again, like wine, he knew nothing so sweet could have lasted forever. Icarus sidles up to his side, asking if he’s got anything that can make you feel like you can fly. In this life, he is a junkie, and Daedalus watches with ancient, sad eyes. Icarus is melting and Dionysus is letting him.
Hestia sits by the hearth and waits for her family to come home. And she listens while they all curse their immortality. She shakes her head slow and clicks her tongue, I know, my darlings, I know.
Are gods really gods if no one believes in them anymore? Does it matter?
"Are the gods really gods?"
Marissa dakin, 2015
Zeus takes walks in the rain and tries to talk up joggers in central park. When they bolt, or only return his advances with polite smiles that look like fence posts too high for even him to jump, he sighs. He tells them he is a god, and his words echo back to him, accompanied by laughter. No one believes him He picks up his wife, who might be his sister in this time, in a beat up car with a beautiful flame job, Hera is a marriage counselor with peacock feather bags under her eyes, her advice falls on her own deaf ears as her jealous eyes roam over every girl they pass, and she is right to. She knows this. She has always known.
Poseidon’s hands are rough and calloused, he raises cargo too heavy for a man his age, the young ones say. He laughs his fisherman’s laugh, all depths and riptide, because no one should be his age. He reminds himself he is one of the lucky ones, he gets to be around what he loves. He may not have his dominion any more, but salt water and sun still weather his face.
Hades stalks the streets at night, women cross the street to avoid him, and he smiles with his needle-teeth, they are right to. This winter he is without a bride, and he still wants to usher souls into the afterlife, the pistol hangs heavy in his pocket, his tongue glints gold, the coin to pay his Charon, his most loyal employee. He brings knives to gunfights and guns to fistfights, he stands with his arms out like their new God, these fickle humans, he welcomes the bullets. He dares them to kill him. They try.
Ares and Athena spit curses laced with whiskey from across dive bar floors, they are moving human pawns across a chessboard. They were strategists before they were gangsters, but it doesn’t matter now.
Apollo sings in a nightclub, his crooning voice from a forgotten time. He has his sister’s blood under his fingernails, from stitching up wound after wound, Artemis forgets she is not invincible anymore. He sings about the moon and wonders where she is, picking a fight with some would-be rapist, maybe it’s Zeus. It’s probably Zeus. Again.
Dionysus drinks away their shared pain, dealing LSD in dark alleyways, he whispers sweet promises and his followers believe him, he was human once and he can be again, like wine, he knew nothing so sweet could have lasted forever. Icarus sidles up to his side, asking if he’s got anything that can make you feel like you can fly. In this life, he is a junkie, and Daedalus watches with ancient, sad eyes. Icarus is melting and Dionysus is letting him.
Hestia sits by the hearth and waits for her family to come home. And she listens while they all curse their immortality. She shakes her head slow and clicks her tongue, I know, my darlings, I know.
Are gods really gods if no one believes in them anymore? Does it matter?
"Are the gods really gods?"
Marissa dakin, 2015
Because to influence a person is to give him one's own soul. He does not think his natural thoughts, or burn with his natural passions. His virtues are not real to him. His sins, if there are such things as sins, are borrowed. He becomes an echo of someone else's music, an actor of a part that has not been written for him."
Oscar Wilde, The Picture of Dorian Gray
“...Genius lasts
longer than Beauty. That accounts for the fact that we all take
such pains to over-educate ourselves. In the wild struggle for
existence, we want to have something that endures, and so we
fill our minds with rubbish and facts, in the silly hope of
keeping our place. The thoroughly well-informed man--that is
the modern ideal. And the mind of the thoroughly well-informed
man is a dreadful thing. It is like a bric-a-brac shop, all
monsters and dust, with everything priced above its proper
value.”
( Oscar
Wilde, The Picture of Dorian Gray )
Amenah's format
What a shame. We grew up never believing that we were
beautiful,
because no one ever told us that we were. We made friends who liked to complain about their stomachs, noses, and the size of their thighs. And we joined in because that's what you do, isn't it? And so, we never told ourselves, either.
In 8th grade, a boy we barely knew calls us fat. We will never know if he
was joking, or why. We were bullied about our long, messy hair. So we chop it all off. And we became invisible. It was years before we resurfaced, before we learned to do things just for the sake of ourselves.
Someone tells us we're beautiful, and now, we don't believe them. But, we
have new friends and they tell us, too. And then we hear it from a stranger. Mom apologizes for not telling us enough when we were younger. And slowly, we start to belive it. And now, we know.
We know that, despite everything we'd been told, being beautiful has
nothing to do with our worth. But, how unfortunate, we think, that we couldn't know we were beautiful until someone else told us that we were.
We were never even told it was an option.
because no one ever told us that we were. We made friends who liked to complain about their stomachs, noses, and the size of their thighs. And we joined in because that's what you do, isn't it? And so, we never told ourselves, either.
In 8th grade, a boy we barely knew calls us fat. We will never know if he
was joking, or why. We were bullied about our long, messy hair. So we chop it all off. And we became invisible. It was years before we resurfaced, before we learned to do things just for the sake of ourselves.
Someone tells us we're beautiful, and now, we don't believe them. But, we
have new friends and they tell us, too. And then we hear it from a stranger. Mom apologizes for not telling us enough when we were younger. And slowly, we start to belive it. And now, we know.
We know that, despite everything we'd been told, being beautiful has
nothing to do with our worth. But, how unfortunate, we think, that we couldn't know we were beautiful until someone else told us that we were.
We were never even told it was an option.
Group Assignments
Person: I have an idea
Me: So did Hïtler
Happy Christmas Eve :)
I finished my christmas list I can’t wait
-$1,000,000 in cash
-boyfriend
-the souls of those who have displeased me this year
-another boyfriend in case my other one escapes
-food