Drumboy

c\rbonchanne\

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Mirror by Drumboy, literature

Hamartia by Drumboy, literature

Literature

Hamartia

I paint with a very fine stroke and you will find me empty if you peek behind the veil I am curled and I am wisp and I am whispered and I am nothing if not lost art I paint with an unsteady hand and I am loose with vague descriptions We will part our ways in uncertain terms full of regrets but never changing I paint now out of habit for I have dulled throughout my ages I have ripped and restarted and scribbled out hopes so that you might find that contrast and I will leave you on the cutting room floor the space between the pages You will be buried and dereferenced with each and every other for as long as I keep pain

.leuchtonne. by Drumboy, literature

Literature

.leuchtonne.

I was never any good at goodbyes Or reading between the lines So if you're scared of what you'll find Don't ask I get mixed signals I can't decide Or see things how they are So if its best left in the past Don't say I'm not sure you deserve a song but I needed to write one All you ever had to do was talk to me But you never thought of me Behind my back then before long right before my eyes Against my better judgement Mea Culpa Nothing ventured, nothing gained and other pointless old cliches But if you don't mean it, don't say Is all I ask I'm not sure you deserve a song but I needed to write one All you ever had to do wa

.collapse. by Drumboy, literature

Literature

.collapse.

This evening I face a symmetery and technicolour. I know they will not last and I must learn them again but for now I am in the company of familiar friends. Estranged as we were, I had missed your wisdom, and favoured false idols over old wives; I'd found wanderlust but am wonderless. I'd grown fond of my comforts and decayed a pulley into a noose. I've somehow taken for granted something I never used. and now that I have the frame of mind, and your presence in mine, I would like to explain, as if you needed me to, if not in life then maybe in death.

.in medias res. by Drumboy, literature

Literature

.in medias res.

So time goes too soon Not that you use it, well So what do you lose? Do you give up your ghost? Do you cut your own rope? Do you just fall? So how is it your fault when you've given your all you're out of the woods if you Trip & stumble and break yourself break yourself Thats the way its done and its not going to change Never ever changes So you're finally you Through and through Now what do you do? Pick up the pieces and change your pace So far no ending, but If you go to hell If you be yourself isn't it enough? that you Trip & stumble and break yourself break yourself Thats the way its done and its not going

.between my teeth and stone. by Drumboy, literature

Literature

.between my teeth and stone.

I don't want to die But if I did, I could live with it as the concept is you do it all for a reason and my reason is Theres an alternate reality and a division, within and between apathy and ability and I did it all to be defined and my reason is If this is what you want Then who cares if its real? Through the awareness, through the pain Between My Teeth and the Stone is the margin of error when I look in the mirror Forever, forever and ever again Keep it to yourself The self-fulfilling prophecy and attacks so the context rips and if you've got iron in your blood just pretend If this is what you want Then who cares if it

.drift. by Drumboy, literature

.the mouse. by Drumboy, literature

Literature

.the mouse.

And he set his mind to unknown arts mental health and human hearts but found it hard to keep the two apart so for all that effort he never made it last so forgive me if I can't help but feel a little overwhelmed can't help but feel a little underhanded He's a little quixotic and a goddamn thief He's twisted twisted so all he can see is his enemies and long last chances He doesn't ask much since no-one answers He doesn't make time or friends Sometimes he thinks he should Do it for yourself instead you're not for this world or theirs but it never troubled the mouse back on track, just like that, like that never troubled the

.ponds. by Drumboy, literature

... by Drumboy, literature

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Mirror by Drumboy, literature

Hamartia by Drumboy, literature

Literature

Hamartia

.leuchtonne. by Drumboy, literature

Literature

.leuchtonne.

.collapse. by Drumboy, literature

Literature

.collapse.

.in medias res. by Drumboy, literature

Literature

.in medias res.

.between my teeth and stone. by Drumboy, literature

Literature

.between my teeth and stone.

.drift. by Drumboy, literature

.the mouse. by Drumboy, literature

Literature

.the mouse.

.ponds. by Drumboy, literature

... by Drumboy, literature

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Olive by QwithoutaU, literature

Literature

Olive

Good Cop, Bad Cop? -"You choose", was said No cops, but... Toe to toe (Or head to head) Like Army men Why leave when? Why go, then? I bite my lip instead. We're just friends Again. Not friends, just Black, they flow (Down they go) Like dominos Why leave when? Why go, then? I bite your lip instead. Good Cop, Bad Cop No Cops, just Toe to toe, head to head- "Not friends, just.." I bite your lip instead

November's Child by QwithoutaU, literature

Literature

November's Child

I remember black and grey. I'll remember you this way. A hope, a dream Only bittersweet So bitter. "I don't see it, do you?" -It's not true, it's not true. Black and grey, yet new. Or was. Destroyed, as The only me I saw was Always Me and Him and Her..... And you All I have is black and grey, I'll remember you this way.

Deviation Spotlight

.iris whispers. by Drumboy, literature

Literature

.iris whispers.

There is a whisper, when you find peace, that finds you and whispers whisper things; Of personal treasures- Of patient potential- Of the first ripple from when you dive... And in you, the whisper forms a crowd, who in their Latin encourage with their distant volume that you add your voice to the tip and grant your breath to their air. You've become quiet for the harmony and lost all of yours; But when you untie your voice and close your eyes; { a passion for passion which passion incensed, subtle and bright, against the sky's own white iris to the deeper blues and stringed~ where ambition lies down to the choir, to the

.iris whispers.

Drumboy

About Drumboy

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Artist

Jan 13
United Kingdom
Deviant for 19 years

Badges

My Bio

.do not listen a word I say,
just listen to what I can keep silent;
the only way to gain approval
is by exploiting the very thing which cheapens me.

Current Residence: Bristol, UK
Favourite genre of music: <> Alternative <> Electronic <> Soundtracks
Favourite photographer: Michelle North
Operating System: Windows Vista
MP3 player of choice: iTunes/MusicBin2
Wallpaper of choice: Stained Glass Windows
Skin of choice: Standard. It's the standard for a reason.
Favourite cartoon character: Milkman Dan, Peter Griffin, Freakazoid, Rayne Summers
Personal Quote: ".........."

Favourite Visual Artist

Stanley Donwood, the Sandman. Plath, Dali

Favourite Movies

Brazil <> Fight Club <> American Beauty <> Big Lebowski

Favourite Bands / Musical Artists

Radiohead <> Beck <> Muse <> Blur <> Smashing Pumpkins <> MSP <>

Favourite Writers

T.Yorke, J.Joyce, S.Plath, D.Albarn, R.Edwards, N.Wire

Favourite Games

Final Fantasy

Favourite Gaming Platform

Tools of the Trade

An unshakeable belief that the amount of work I do is not proportionate to the outcome

Other Interests

.depends on my mood.

Posts

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Drumboy

Jan 4, 2013

Again

0 min read

"A poem should not mean But be." ~ Archibald MacLeish And here we all are. Fancy that.....

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Drumboy

Oct 5, 2010

Eerie

0 min read

"The poet, as everyone knows, must strike his individual note sometime between the ages of fifteen and twenty-five.  He may hold it a long time, or a short time, but it is then that he must strike it or never.  School and college have been conducted with the almost express purpose of keeping him busy with something else till the danger of his ever creating anything is past." ~ Robert Frost

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Drumboy

Aug 29, 2010

a portrait...

0 min read

"Stephen watched the three glasses being raised from the counter as his father and his two cronies drank to the memory of their past. An abyss of fortune or of temperament sundered him from them. His mind seemed older than theirs: it shone coldly on their strifes and happiness and regrets like a moon upon a younger earth. No life or youth stirred in him as it had stirred in them. He had known neither the pleasure of companionship with others nor the vigour of rude male health nor filial piety. Nothing stirred within his soul but a cold and cruel and loveless lust. His childhood was dead or lost and with it his soul capable of simple joys and