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More from *phoenix-karenee

Playing Pretend She plays pretend in the halls of home
being princess or mommy or both
in the sparkle of dreams within tangled waves
because imperfect is full of laughter
and love wraps her as she is.

She plays pretend on the streets
performing the lover princess
amid shells of dreams tried and discarded
because imperfect isn't enough
to fill the gaping need for love.

She plays pretend for magazines
a false-front princess for selfish eyes
skinned with dreams and disguised by art
hiding imperfection behind laughter and desire
because flaws mean love will not find her.

She discards pretense into holy hands
which raise her as princess of the kin
The Forgotten Young vacant eyes upon
the war-torn emptiness
of broken walls, grey dust.
Withdrawn.
Passed by, the wounded child waits
still wearing tears from long-flown days.
Seconds tick as dripping damp etches stone.
Deep grooves of past
and sand-scoured now echo the vacancy.
Oh, how the child wanders
frightened, frozen in the chill,
awaiting touch and hoped-for life.
But, lost and hopeless, hollow
cries echo silent in the wind.
Time folds around the wisp of red;
her fabric scarf hangs,
motionless in gusting breeze;
dead leaves drift sullen in the gloom
to pile against unmoving feet.
And memory forgets that she is there
when no eyes
The Reason for Pain We know it,
the raw sensation
that springs in the surprise of a moment
and shocks us aware.
Sometimes it waits on the edge of our senses,
building to a peak,
then borders our every thought through time.
And always the secret message, embedded within,
whispers to the heart  that all is not well.
And it seems unfair that we must suffer
while our pills and injections strive
in empty defiance against a world
gradually crumbling from within.
For still the echo of pain
calls us back to the knowledge
of a something better that must exist.
We have seen that loss of pain is worse,
and the body forgets what causes harm
if it does not
Found Voices raise in raucous rebellion
in clean homes
filled with bitter stench
of self-love raised high
for worship.

All who enter must bow low
to the emperors of everything,
and weeping faces speak the loss
of taxed love,
torn from unwilling hands.

There the children,
in labeled jeans and custom coats,
pure and pristine,
sigh behind the doors
of whited sepulchers.

While neighbors whisper, privilege,
behind hands and eyes of desire
for more than all they own,
together sharing laughter
at the table of plenty.

And past the gates
and hedges of tended branch
coils the turmoil of a world
gasping for breath
within their less th

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April 29, 2010
3.6 MB
3276×2532
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HP Scanjet dj_d02a
Apr 21, 2010, 10:09:57 AM
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:iconphoenix-karenee:
This is three pages of sketches and notes compiled into one. The lighter lines are the first drafts, and the heavier work was my attempt to draw a suitable rabbit ... or rather, a portrait of my rabbit. Anyway, it was entertaining.

As you can see, I got paid for the final logo (which I posted in the main gallery), and now have a year's membership! Yay!
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