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Deviant for 5 Years
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I like to fix things
I like to fix things
I like the feel of a screwdriver in my hand
I like tightening the very last screw and having it hold
I like hearing the engine catch and start on a car after I’ve changed a part
I like pounding nails into fence posts and making them sturdy
I like the feel of a hammer in my hands
                       a screwdriver
                       a drill
                       a saw
I like to fix things
That’s why I thought I might like you
But I learned very quickly
That fixing a person
Isn’t the same as fixing a fence post
No matter how many splints of wood I nailed to your spine
You would never stand straight
No matter how many pipes I soldered together in your head
You would never look people in the eyes
No matter how tightly I screwed on the hatch over your new batter
:iconreallylostmymind:ReallyLostMyMind 2 0
The King of Literature
You cannot hope to best me, the god of the kings, the king of the gods in literature!
My novels are great and sprawling and full of life and vitality while other novels hide in the dusty corners of the library shelves, long since forgotten and last checked out twenty-some years ago. They huddle in the dark, congregating for warmth and companionship but nothing can save them from the stretches of agony-filled reading and pompous philosophical views that lurk beneath the ink smeared on their previously pristine pages.
They stare at the spotlight in the middle of the room, the highest pedestal of them all, where wine flows like water and the past is always the future no matter the character, and the walls sing with smooth jazz and the floor shakes to the rhythm of thousands of people dancing and the light shines golden and eternal.
They stare longingly and turn back to their fire, fueled by the hara-kiri they indulge in, tearing out their own pages and feeding them to the hungry flames.
:iconreallylostmymind:ReallyLostMyMind 4 0
F. Scott Fitzgerald Round Two
Let’s start by laying everything out on the cold hardwood floor between us; the truths of our differences spread out as though pages in a novel. My novel of course, because people need to understand what it all says. My novels are great and sprawling and full of life and vitality while your novels hide in the dusty corners of the library shelves, long since forgotten and last checked out twenty-some years ago. They huddle in the dark, congregating for warmth and companionship but nothing can save them from the stretches of agony-filled reading and pompous philosophical views that lurk beneath the ink smeared on their previously pristine pages.
They stare at the spotlight in the middle of the room, the highest pedestal of them all, where wine flows like water and the past is always the future no matter the character, and the walls sing with smooth jazz and the floor shakes to the rhythm of thousands of people dancing and the light shines golden and eternal.
They stare longingly an
:iconreallylostmymind:ReallyLostMyMind 1 0
A Touch of Red in a Sea of Gray
Ella always loved it when the leaves began to darken. It was a nice break, in between the green monotony of summer and the gloomy gray winter. For just a few months, the world was a rainbow.
She liked to take walks during fall, down corridors of yellow leaves, red ones blowing across the path with a chilly breeze.
At night, the fog would lift and the skies would clear up and she would crawl out of her window and lay on the roof, staring at the stars. She was always an autumn kind of girl.
When the leaves began to fall however, she would carefully pick them up off the cold ground and place them in the special bag she always carried around with her. When she got home she would press them between the pages of books.
And then mid-January, you would hear a very loud squeal come from her room and she opened up a book to read and found a splash of red hidden between the pages. Ella would quickly open the window and throw the leaf out of it, where it would float down to rest on the dead grass
:iconreallylostmymind:ReallyLostMyMind 2 5
Spirit of Autumn
They say that he comes with the red of the leaves.
They say that sometimes he can be seen, sometimes he can only be heard, and occasionally you can feel him.
They say that he’s a thief, a hero, the ghost of a drowned man; that he was ignored for years and slowly faded away. That if you acknowledge him he’ll smile and leave you a present, or that he’ll bring a vicious wind and drive you out of the park.
They say that once he stole the wallet of a visiting dignitary, that once he returned the purse that had been stolen from a young woman earlier that day, that he wanders around in search of his girlfriend.
If you stand still long enough in the fog, he’ll climb on you and perch atop your head watching the people go by, as he does with the statues.
Some say that he’s 15, others say that he’s 30. They say he a junkie, a stranger that got lost, a student at the local college. They say that he travels the country during the rest of the year. They tell you t
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Sunset by ReallyLostMyMind Sunset :iconreallylostmymind:ReallyLostMyMind 4 0 Cascade by ReallyLostMyMind Cascade :iconreallylostmymind:ReallyLostMyMind 3 0 Look Twice by ReallyLostMyMind Look Twice :iconreallylostmymind:ReallyLostMyMind 1 0 Stare by ReallyLostMyMind Stare :iconreallylostmymind:ReallyLostMyMind 0 0 Avalanche Gorge by ReallyLostMyMind Avalanche Gorge :iconreallylostmymind:ReallyLostMyMind 1 0 Glacial Melt by ReallyLostMyMind Glacial Melt :iconreallylostmymind:ReallyLostMyMind 2 0
The Beach
I hate the beach.
There. I’ve said it. I’m not a normal human being who slugs their way through the last months of school dreaming of cool blue waves and dark brown tans and castles of sand.
The waves are terrifying, they draw you under and your lungs are filled with seawater and when you finally get your head above water, you have barely enough time to spit the water out and draw in air before the current drags you down again.
The sun burns you red and peeling, and sunscreen works but reapplying all the time is impossible and no one wants to spend the 10 minutes necessary for putting on sunscreen everywhere you need it just to go outside and check the garden. However, if you don’t, you pay for it dearly.
The sand gets everywhere, and the castles fall down and the sand hurts your feet and there’s no median between sand that is too dry to build something and sand that is so wet it’s practically a soup. So you just sit watching in envy at the kids farther do
:iconreallylostmymind:ReallyLostMyMind 1 0
Colours exploding,
Our very own fireworks,
Streaking the night sky.
:iconreallylostmymind:ReallyLostMyMind 0 0
Prologue: Araknar
    A cold breeze stole through the cave, whistling through the rocks and almost blowing out Hyra’s candle. She nearly dropped it in surprise. The tall raven-haired woman straightened up in a dignified manner and carried on her way, walking the twisting path that goes deeper and deeper into the cave.
    A few hours later, her candle was wearing down and she replaced it with another one from the seemingly endless amount of pockets in her cloak.
    The cave appeared to go on for forever. She lifted her candle high above her so that she could see more of it, but the path disappeared down, skirting around fallen rocks that had been sitting still for centuries following the creation of the cave. She could see the line that fingers had traced thousands of years ago on the rocks, where the build-up of minerals suddenly stopped and the water rolled off the surface as though it was oil. She checked her gloves again, making sure there were no holes. This way it would be as
:iconreallylostmymind:ReallyLostMyMind 1 0
Sparks flew through the air as another cannonball hit the ground, skidding across the sheet rock that made up their fortress. Julia turned to grab Kala and her hand grasped at thin air. Where on earth had that little princess gone?
She tore through the crumbling hallways, yelling out Kala’s name as she went. Finally, a return cry emanated from a side chamber. By the time she had made her way through all the stone blocking the doorway she was in no mood for games, much less the sight of the 9-year old heiress holding up dresses in front of a cracked mirror.
“Which would should I wear?” she asked, putting each in front of her in turn. “I like the brown one because it seems more practical, but if I get out of this alive, I need to look good; so that would call for the green one. What do you think?”
Julia groaned and grabbed her hand. “We need to go!”
“Hey!” Kala yelled, pulling her hand away in a fashion that only royalty could do. It
:iconreallylostmymind:ReallyLostMyMind 2 5
Market Day
The chronicles of a boy on a search the market chapter.
When Tobias was 8, he left his house, telling his parents he was off to find himself, and that he would travel a mari usque ad mare. His parents let him go quietly, but as he was walking out the door his father, Isaiah, ran up to him. He was holding a small yellow box, and as Tobias opened it, his father warned him not to show his mother what it was. Tobias asked why, and his father merely replied with the common family phrase, res ipsa loquitor: it speaks for itself.
Tobias grinned and tore open the box, gently lifting aside the grey paper so that it was shield the boxes contents from his mother.
It contained two homemade fishing lures and a book entitled “Being the judges of others, and yourself.” Tobias grinned and hugged his father before taking one last look at the dirt house he had grown up in, before turning away and leaving.
His parents waved behind his back, but he never turned around to see them. Turning your
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Random Favourites

There’s this pressure building
in my chest that I don’t know
what to do with so I cram mason
jars with cookies, craft mix
tapes full of Americana punk, leaf
through used bookstores, looking
for a taste you never savored, songs you never
heard, books you never read and maybe
I can give you that instead of my feelings.
:iconsilverinkblot:SilverInkblot 32 21
God went on tour
visiting the different denominations.
They didn’t know He was on tour,
except maybe the one or
two parishioners that looked at Him funny
when He emptied His entire
wallet into the collection plate.
:iconsilverinkblot:SilverInkblot 34 27
i've written so many poems
about love and luck and the
unbearable sadness that surfaces
whenever i think about you.
but you isn't a person,
you is a metaphor for the
birds suffocating in the clouds and the
leaves fighting off the wind.
and when i see flowers
all i can think of is death;
because i am a poet,
and my kind of poetry is the
kind that keeps me up all night,
as i memorize the ceiling
and count every minute
until the sun rises.
it’s the kind that makes me
wish for a bridge because then
maybe i could finally be free.
my kind of poetry,
it’s the kind that kills me.
:iconghearradh:ghearradh 27 23
.:Farewell Mr. J by IsaiahStephens .:Farewell Mr. J :iconisaiahstephens:IsaiahStephens 461 83 Disney Halloween: Alice by IsaiahStephens Disney Halloween: Alice :iconisaiahstephens:IsaiahStephens 1,527 102 Disney Halloween: Sally by IsaiahStephens Disney Halloween: Sally :iconisaiahstephens:IsaiahStephens 1,674 69 Blue... by MamaBakasi Blue... :iconmamabakasi:MamaBakasi 181 10
An hourglass between his knuckles
He quit smoking because he
didn’t like the taste of his own
mortality; bitter, brackish, black
as his lungs. Didn’t like the pull
of nicotine, ashy fingers,
the way a cigarette looked like
an hourglass pinched between his knuckles.
The ashtray began
to fill up again after his wife
died. Every day at first; an entire
pack after her funeral; a box
every three days; one flicker
of light in the evenings spent leaning
on the balcony railing,
watching the city go by through
a veil of smoke and memories.
I bought a pack for him once, just
to use my ID for something.
It’s still sitting on his coffee
table, one cigarette short.
:iconsilverinkblot:SilverInkblot 37 26
Metaphorically Speaking
People are like books;
full of stories and easily
broken at the spine.
:iconsilverinkblot:SilverInkblot 56 31
1x02 Nanny McDead by StandsWithAPencil 1x02 Nanny McDead :iconstandswithapencil:StandsWithAPencil 34 2 jokers by m7781 jokers :iconm7781:m7781 1,661 201
2000 POINT CONTEST! (closed)
Hello there, I've decided to have a contest for writers of all levels (for those artists that have stumbled upon this, I'll hopefully have a drawing contest in the future). Even if you aren't a writer, you still have a chance to win 200 points!
100 points will be given to someone at random who faves this journal. 
Another 100 points will be given to someone who features this in their own journal. 
Simply link me and you'll be put in the drawing. :) Yes, it's possible for you to win twice!
You do not need to be one of my watchers to join. Anyone can participate but make sure to check back every now and then in case of updates. 
I wish I could offer more than 2k points as prizes but unfortunately, I'm a college student and don't have an unlimited source of income. lol Donations are welcome and appreciated! You can donate points or offer your drawing skills for the winners that way we can add more points to the prizes or have giveaways to participates. 
<b wytiwyg="1">
:iconazzaneth:Azzaneth 114 191
Horrible Trio by ChaosNDisaster Horrible Trio :iconchaosndisaster:ChaosNDisaster 31 4
I asked a published author what the greatest accolade they ever received for their work was. It wasn't being on all the bestseller lists, or the fans, or winning the Pulitzer. It was the one person who bought a dozen copies, ripped out each page one by one, and wallpapered their home with his words.
:iconsilverinkblot:SilverInkblot 27 26
He doesn't look like a gymnast. He's all button down shirts and frazzled grey hair framing wire spectacles, a picture perfect professorial archetype down to the very tips of his frayed shoelaces. But he was a gymnast once, or so he tells us, and I believe him because he smiles like he knows something while he's chatting before class.
It's strange to see that image superimposed over the current one – the distinguished professor in pressed khaki slacks and a jacket, worn brown loafers exuding a faintly courteous manner (you can always tell them by their shoes), and a ring on the fourth finger of his left hand – versus the athletic kid who went to college for a semester and grew nine inches too tall to keep doing what he loved so he took up a tennis racquet instead. Gymnasts don't wear suit jackets; no steel mill worker has such manicured nails. But the images are all there, flickering just under the surface and bubbling up again when he's recounting stories about his days in Pi
:iconsilverinkblot:SilverInkblot 234 124
An Old Flame by MichaelO An Old Flame :iconmichaelo:MichaelO 3,627 219





ReallyLostMyMind's Profile Picture
Artist | Student | Film & Animation
I write. I make films. I write some more. I do NaNoWriMo every year and juggle a lot.

I favourite very little, so if you do get a favourite from me, know that I really love that piece.

Feel free to ask me for critiques.


Unknown Authors

Sun Sep 22, 2013, 10:22 AM

Much as I love the literature community on dA, I find that it's quite hard to find writers with small fanbases and good writing. So here are a few of my favourites:

First up, :iconwillwriteforhearts:

willwriteforhearts has a wonderful style, with a good eye for plot development, and a great vocabulary, especially of adjectives. She writes wonderful prose, with a touch of mystery and morbidity that makes you read it twice. 
A good place to start in her gallery is my favourite piece, 

Like Cutting Hair“I have a surprise.” Says the second shadow. It stands next to me as I work on my computer, staring at me unwaveringly with a very thin smile. Its been scratching its fingers along the wall for over an hour. My nerves are fraying.
I take a sip from my coffee and avoid looking at it at all costs. I hate its eyes. I hate it. “You’ve said that already.”
“Let me show you.”
“No.” Another sip of coffee. My mother always taught me to look at a person when they talk to me and it’s very hard to break the habit. “I hate your surprises.”
“I like them.”
“Well, I don’t.” Don’t look. I sip the coffee again, my replacement action. Typing on the computer. I have to send a manuscript.
“You do. I’m like you so have to like it too.”
I don’t say anything.
Here’s a secret, friend; I’ve cut off my shadow three times, but cutting off your shadow is like cutting your

Next is :icondelirious-eyes:

delirious-eyes has a brilliant arsenal of similes and metaphors. Just saying that "he has clouded eyes" isn't nearly enough. It has to be "clouded eyes like wayward turbulent tornadoes." Of course, these comparisons add so much to their pieces and make them a joy to read. Their style is very distinctive and growing into something even better.
A good place to start would be 
perpetually we were both aliveclouded eyes like wayward turbulent tornadoes,
your oak tree limbs were lavished
across the vintage leather sofa that
your mother donated as a wedding gift
"how lovely it is that you're starting your
lives together"

(remember) you took a photograph of my inherited lips and kissed it
ten times with yours,
and i knew i was in the type of infatuation that made
teenage chest cavities palpitate and that finalized with disheveled kisses
on the forehead that spelled out, i want you
i also realized that i couldn't be in love with you when i unearthed your
closed eyelids and bloodied hand grasping an insidious pistol on the hardwood floor,
(the one you erratically mopped in case i somehow slipped)
and i lunged and languished for you to reawaken
(maybe your eyes would flutter open and you would sleepily whimper,
"i'm just drunk, dear")
but you were now buried underneath our cherished weeping willow
(where we shakily uttered our vows in our wedding clothes)
sometimes wh

Go explore. Link me with journals featuring your favourite unknown authors!

Best Wishes,
-Hyper Spider

  • Listening to: David Bowie
  • Reading: Storm of Swords
  • Watching: Hannibal


Add a Comment:
CarryPhoenix Featured By Owner Mar 6, 2014  Hobbyist General Artist
Happy birthday!
ReallyLostMyMind Featured By Owner Mar 6, 2014  Student Filmographer
Thank you!
DailyBreadCafe Featured By Owner Dec 18, 2013   Writer
Hey there :)

We've just opened a group that will concentrate on writing workshops with short exercises and feedback, and we thought you might be interested in joining. The link to the group is here:

The workshops don't start until January, but there's a introduction folder for if you want to write a little bit about yourself and get to know other members. 

More about the group can be found here:…

Give us a go, you might even enjoy it!
SilverInkblot Featured By Owner Dec 12, 2013  Hobbyist Writer
Thank you for the fave on Tithing :)
SilverInkblot Featured By Owner Oct 13, 2013  Hobbyist Writer
Thank you for faving An hourglass between his knucklebones :)
ReallyLostMyMind Featured By Owner Oct 13, 2013  Student Filmographer
Absolutely. Might be part of a title poem soon. I've been feeling the need to jump on that train.
SilverInkblot Featured By Owner Oct 13, 2013  Hobbyist Writer
I'll be looking out for one then =P
StrawberryVanillaIce Featured By Owner Sep 8, 2013  Student Traditional Artist
Thanks for the fave!
ReallyLostMyMind Featured By Owner Sep 8, 2013  Student Filmographer
absolutely! It was gorgeous
SilverInkblot Featured By Owner Aug 25, 2013  Hobbyist Writer
Thank you for the faves :D
Add a Comment: