Lives of masks

Posted: March 3, 2015 in Random thoughts

Osharlequin:

Lives of masks

Originally posted on WorldofHarley:

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What is a mask but a denial of oneself?
Who can say the eyes peering through are truly yours?
Who can declare the voice eking through is yours?
Masks prevent us being ourselves.
They make us become something far more fantastical.

They can turn us into monsters,
kings,
princesses,
clowns,
machines,
even gods.
But a mask can never show our true selves.
They shield our true selves,
they shield our true emotions,
our true pains.

We take on somebody else’s soul.
A strangers?
Or maybe even a friends?
Masks are a costume for the soul.

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Osharlequin:

If the rain was a person

Originally posted on WorldofHarley:

Can you imagine what it would be like if the rain was a person?
Would it be a she?
What would she be like?
Would she be as kind and soothing as a summer shower?
Or perhaps as harsh and bitter as a freezing winter storm?

She’d be both welcomed and unwelcome at parties,
Like farmers waiting for their crops or flood survivors hoping the worst is over,
Nobody would know when she would turn up,
Or what mood she’d be in when she did,
Would she be a friendly mist or a wicked tempest?

What would she sound like?
Perhaps the light pitter-patter of a shy girl?
Or the booming hailstorm of a drama queen?
A droning drizzle or a vociferous gale?

I’m sure everyone would know her.
Who wouldn’t know the rain?
Who wouldn’t miss the rain?
Who wouldn’t love the rain?
Who wouldn’t fear the rain?

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Insanity

Posted: March 1, 2015 in Poems, Random thoughts, Reblogs, Writing

Osharlequin:

Insanity

Originally posted on WorldofHarley:

If one is truly insane,
Does one feel nothing at all,
Or everything all at once?
You feel concoctions, rather than emotions.
Chemical reactions.

A vial full of joy,
A belly full of laughter,
A dash of envy,
A splash of rage,
A sprinkling of guilt,
Seasoned with a touch of fear,
And topped off with some loneliness.

Who knows what the reaction could be.
Who knows what the catalyst is.
A broken heart,
A betrayal,
A longing,
An enemy.
To be insane is to be both a loose cannon and a straight arrow.

If one is truly insane,
Isn’t one the most human of us all?
Or is one the least feeling of us all?
Could the most insane also be the most sane?
What is sanity?
What is normality?
What is insanity?

madclown

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Toy Box Blues

Posted: February 27, 2015 in Poems, Random thoughts, Reblogs, Writing

Osharlequin:

Toy Box blues

Originally posted on WorldofHarley:

Oh little toy soldier,
Why do you cry?
Wooden hands held tight to your face,
Gluey tears oozing southward,
Unheard sobs in the toy box.

Oh little toy soldier,
What are you afraid of?
Build by corporate talons,
Driven onward by unfeeling authorities,
Led to fight for your spiteful toy box state.

Oh little toy soldier,
Grab your pop gun.
It is time to wage war,
On all of those other toy soldiers.
They are of different toy box colors.

Toy soldier

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Osharlequin:

Daetrolos: The Julmurns

Originally posted on WorldofHarley:

“During all my travels and all of my years, there are few beings in this world that worry me more than the Julmurns. These abominable, reptilian creatures have stained countless lands with blood, razed numberless homes and brutally ended untold lives. I hesitate to call these beings evil however, they are simply blinded by what can only be described as an immensely influential theocracy. Julmurns live in a church-state, one that dwarfs even that of the Human Religion of Dust of the past. The Dust is ironically integral to the Julmurn culture as well, in a far less harmful form however. The Julmurns once surged from the wastelands of the south end of Primea, intent on dominating all “inferior” beings. They sought nothing more than to bring all of Primea under their theocratical and tyrannical yolk.

The Julmurns hail from the Zyst Einode (yet another Dust Wasteland), south of the…

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A frail old man lives upon a lost hill,
A spectre of a man,
A man with power over life and death,
He is the Necromancer,
A god over mortal flesh,
Warts and all.

A wave of the staff,
Rotting hands pulse skyward,
A chanted incantation,
Banshees shriek in the black,
A flourish of the hand,
Maggots surge from pus-filled corpses.

A sacrificial blade drips crimson,
Coffins and crypts are clawed open,
A forbidden ritual,
Bones rattle as if sentient,
A dark grin,
The dead horde begins its carnival march.

A twisted mind once filled with thoughts of family,
His rancid creations are a hollow replacement,
Their eyes no longer see,
Their minds no longer reason,
Their hearts no longer beat,
And no longer love or feel.

Necro

Festival Of Blood

Posted: February 22, 2015 in Poems, Random thoughts, Reblogs, Writing

Osharlequin:

Festival Of Blood

Originally posted on WorldofHarley:

A continuation of sorts of ‘A bloody legacy‘.

Sirens in a cacophony around me,
Spotlights hunting me,
Police sharks around me,
Chomping at the bit for me.
They can’t have me,
Not here,
This place is part of my legacy,
This bloodbath is sacred,
These corpses are relics,
A holy site.

To my sanctum i must go.
I’ll be safe here from those police-shaped monsters,
Those blasphemous curs,
This sanctum is my chapel,
My playground,
My hideout,
My home.

Previous rituals and games reside here,
Corpses and bloodshed,
Gore and bones,
Intestines and brains,
This glorious scene is my festival of blood,
Another chapter of my bloody legacy.

That one crucified to the wall there?
A famous actress.
The one hung from the rafters with his eyes and tongue missing?
A vile politician.
The one with his head missing and back broken?
A treasonous teacher.
And the one…

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This is my life,
I am player number one,
Average skill level,
Average score,
It’s a bit of a game,
There is no second controller.

I want to travel over our LittleBigPlanet,
See the Silent Hills and Battlefields of the world,
I want to lay upon a sunny beach on Tropico,
Allow the mental Fallout to ebb away.

I want to receive the Call of Duty,
And battle Metroids and Dark Souls in far off places,
I want to Command and Conquer my foes,
And be a knight with a Mount and Blade.

These are simply a few of my Final Fantasies,
Don’t mind me,
I’m just playing video games,
One life remaining,
There are no more credits.

VideoG

Osharlequin:

Daetrolos: A Speculative Study on the Djinn

Originally posted on WorldofHarley:

“Off the west coast of Primea is the treacherous Great Divide, a nigh-on endless ocean. It’s possibly the grandest mystery on this world. Few dare to traverse its waves, fewer still have actually managed to locate any new landmasses or anything of note. It’s desolate, to say the least. Even decorated explorers such as Renault Tserra, Klaus Transuppe and Magnus the Sequined have all attempted to map the waves, to little success. One lady though, discovered something truly fascinating. Rene Jerla was a Riefan Lords daughter turned explorer who used her fathers money to buy a boat to roam the Great Divide, in hopes of making a name for herself. She discovered something fascinating, yet terrifying in the same measure. She discovered another continent, far larger than Primea. She discovered the Amber land, the continent of Demes.

Rene Jerla made contact with many inhabitants of Demes, crossing the dunes in…

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Osharlequin:

The Hymn of the Inmates

Originally posted on WorldofHarley:

Ladies and Gentlemen,
Brothers and Sisters,
Good priests and bad priests of all orders,
Allies,
Rivals,
Lovers,
I beseech you,
Hear my words!

Lords and Duchess’,
Madmen and Madwomen of all conditions,
Scum,
Thieves,
Murderers,
Churls and Misfits,
Hear me now!

The world is an asylum,
Our asylum,
We are the inmates,
We are the individuals,
We are the freaks,
We are the aberrations,
We are the monsters,
We are the inmates.

Join me in a celebration,
Rejoice in your own individuality,
Embrace your eccentricity,
Love your peculiarity,
Dance in the rain,
Paint with your fingers,
Laugh madly in public,
Do as you please.

We are the inmates,
Singular and deranged,
Odd and frivolous,
We are ourselves,
We are the twisted family,
Embrace the asylum,
And join us.

Hymn

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