ID 8
Mermaids Deerwood was the name of the town which housed the path in the backyard of Molly Knoll, cake thick dirt and grubby grass leading through the barely forrest which followed the stream into the ocean. Deerwood did not house the spirit of Molly Knoll. Her body alone existed there. She was a queen. If no one knew it, it was no less true. She ruled radiantly, quietly, with soft whispers of advice as beautiful as ice crystals falling in crisp air, and powerful as lions. Molly’s feet slid daintilyMermaids
Plath SyndromeFace like the death of springtime, crystalline tears make rivulets downface. A river of mascara so thick and black that even Charon couldn't cross it, tasting of melted plastic and the sea.Plath Syndrome
Crinkle crash and another paper is crushed between white palms, discarded in an avalanche of useless words and thoughts. The residue of obsolete graphite grease is silky on her fingers, every pencil stroke tainting the pure whiteness of her paper like an oil spill.
She sits, the little poet girl with a white world of wordlessness in front of her; the sil
State of an Artist
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a common sense, rational, materialistic philosophy, along with theatrical ritual techniques meant as self-transformative psychodrama.
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I am your belly button,
You are my mirror.
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Meg Lyman Illustration -> [link]
CrashOctopus Blog: An Ode to Art and Beer -> [link]
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Have no fear of perfection. You will never reach it.
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