|Deviant Login||Shop||Join deviantART for FREE||Take the Tour|
The Autobiography of Scootaloo - ForewordHello, dear reader. My name is Amber Dash, I am the daughter of a wonderful mother, Scootaloo, and a loving father, Featherweight. Upon the passing of my mother, I was willed her diary. She had it for most of her life, and filled it with entries of her everyday and her adventures. The text is slightly abridged to keep pace, removing only short common entries, but I assure you that you are only missing things such as "went to the store" and "nothing interesting happened today" or the most basic of mundanities. I assure you that I have left the story of my mother as in tact as possible. I want the world to know of how wonderful my mother was.
I appreciate you taking the time to look into the life of a mare who was there for me in my hardest times. My mother lived a good life, all things considered, though she, like all of us, had her struggles along the way. Her story here begins when she was nine, coping with the struggles of losing her parents. I may have never been able to meet my gra
SPD - Entries 344-348 *body image trigger warning*Entry 343:
Featherweight is still unsure of his father being in a new relationship. I finally put him in a headlock and shook some sense into him when he said his dad should have never found him. I was so mad it's a wonder I didn't knock him out. The nerve. I think I really freaked him out, because he was quiet for quite a while. I didn't want him to think I didn't want him to talk about what was going on, so I eventually asked why he was being so ridiculous.
He said more than anything right now he feels guilty. He said he feels like a real mule for being upset about his dad doing something for himself. He said Shutter Speed almost never does things for himself. He's always worried about Featherweight, and the fact that Featherweight acted so selfishly has him feeling rotten. I told Featherweight that what was happening right now was a life-changing event for everypony involved, and that he has a right to be worried, but he has to give his dad the room to live his life.
Then I told him
TunnelvisionIn this crippled, cracked cityscape of concrete and glass
I just watch from my window as the people walk by
Oblivious to the struggles of their fellow public,
Such as Eric, frantically searching for cash to get back his pick up
That his friend left double parked and resulted in a tow
Losing his job may as well be deathrow for his son
Andy's leukemia treatment cost is astronomical
The fear in Eric's mind digs a festering hole
In his heart as he goes for a payday loan
Knowing the debt will do nothing
But throw more obstacles
In the path of his escape from this fiscal hell
Established by coats who can't even tell the kind of
Destruction they've left on this man and child,
Their hearts are hardened and their wallets are padded,
With green like the weeds breaking through the sidewalk
As Eric signs the four hundred percent interest agreement,
No other choice
While businessmen in their highrises hold
No remorse for the rejected insurance claim
No sympathy to share for the man whose wife, the
Entries 337-42Entry 337:
The new year is here! I spent the night with Sweetie Belle and Apple Bloom in the clubhouse. Several of our other friends were over until the new year began. Big Mac and Applejack walked everypony else home. Over the rest of the night we found out that we aren't drummers (although I still think I did a pretty good job. Sweetie Belle couldn't understand what I was saying afterwards, though. Maybe I was too loud?)
It's been a pretty slow couple of weeks. Class starts again, soon. I'm kind of ready to go back, but I still wish I could spend more time with Featherweight, he's still having troubles dealing with his dad's relationship. He's handling it better, but he's still nervous about becoming second colt. I've told him so many times that he's ridiculous, but he's just, well, Featherweight.
I sat next to Featherweight during class on the first day back. I didn't want him to think that things would be different just because class has started again. He seems a bit, I don't know,
Anything Will Do"Got any change?"
She asks, as you pass, clenching wallet in a guarded stance--lest you have to give your poker night spares to a nearly starved woman.
"Got any change?"
She pleads, groveling to the masses, staring desperately to her dog, sole companion of the scot-free foreclosure market that stole her, and her only friend's, home.
"Got any change?"
She cries. "I'll work for whatever you can give."
Nobody will hire the woman who can't pay her bills post-layoff in the scot-free we-don't-need-you-anymore factory, whose robots work harder and complain less than mere mortals.
"Got any change?" She pleads, not asking for cash--demanding action.
"Is your life any better?"
She rises from her defeated pose--A vigor in her heart carrying her starved body to its frail feet.
"Change. Stand for good enough no more.
Since when is good enough good enough?
Since when is just fine fine at all?
Since when is just getting by acceptable?
I'm not the only one who needs change around here."
A Lot To Be Thankful ForI've come a long way in life.
Once upon a time I was little more than a child,
son to two loving parents,
a thing I am always thankful for,
even if it doesn't always show.
Since then, a small handful of amazing friends
show me that love can extend beyond blood
Friends who show me true kindness, loyalty and trust
A relatively new gift, in many ways,
but absolutely glorious, and something to cherish.
I'm happy to be born in a place where, even if it's dubious,
I do have freedoms, I do have rights, I can safely
walk out of my door, and not fear getting shot.
A place where medicine may not be free, but it actually exists.
I'm glad I have a fully functioning body, and fully capable mind.
I have the golden ticket. I have a stable family, health, mind, and home.
I have little in the big scope to complain about.
While these are the greatest gifts one can experience,
There is a lot in life to be thankful for.
I live in a place that has come a long way. It may not be perfect
But compared to twen
To you who writes until you bleed and cry and diei. You aren't the ruins of Greece.
You don't combust into fascination when the black
rose you planted years ago finally bloom and poison
your veins and stop your heart beat in black splotches
and dirty grenade. The Earth won't mould trees or
ocean or clouds into your image when rust seeps into
your wrist, turning you into a sculpture of grey hands
and silver blood. You won't smile knowing a spider is
creeping up your throat, spider webbing your tongue and robbing your voice away.
ii. You can't tame a wild boar with tombstone nails.
You don't have to get why your wounds rot like
the speed of a full-on hail storm and why others
have bowstring smile and pretty eyes all the
damn time. You don't have to know why your
musical box blasts in gunfires and thunderbolts
while other have rose tattoos exploding in fierce
fireworks and adrenaline-rushing stage fire. You
can't tame a wild boar with tombstone nails and
scraped metallic heart. You can't love yourse
The Female SuicideTwenty years of nursing
emergency room wounds
and my grandmother
puts down her fork, rubs
her brow and tells me
the female suicide
is a more methodical,
A woman will close
the curtains, cleanse
their apartment of clutter
for the first time in months
and proceed to overdose
in the comfort of their
A woman will do this
because she is aware
someone will have to
discover her like this.
Someone will have to
bury her like this.
My grandmother says this
because when my uncle speaks
paramedic about the male
he pronounced dead from
a house’s television antenna
he never mentions a burial.
the cultivation of neophiliai.
give in to it:
the insatiable restlessness
that haunts, heavy
in a familiar corner
of your eyeline.
drive toward the night.
halt only when you
can no longer
trace paths of neon
from streetlight to fingertip;
never quite reach the
eventually, stop trying.
look over the paper city
resting fragile below;
tear it to shreds
with vicious intent
forget that you have
loved and hoped and
for a moment
there is only you,
the night, and the need
desire like you've
never wanted anything,
search for the novel,
for the fantastical
and the faintest hint
of something new
in the sky-glow.
stand so high atop
wonder how they do not
under the weight
of all this empty
A Ball Of CherriesImagine life
like a ball of cherries.
You can't eat many,
Don't rush to eat them!
Some are soft,
Don't go too slow, you'll lose the taste.
storiesi begin and end with stories
where hummingbird hearts play sonatas
against my ribs and i drown in
early morning light and
the girl in me sinks into the sea
like rusting anchors chained to
ships and i sway port and starboard
the lion in me rises like lazarus
from the savannah where dust swirls
and i begin and end with stories
where i swallow the world and all
the rain and girls and lions in it
where i hold it up like atlas,
where i support jupiter with just
an index finger and where i chase
comets and cup them like fireflies
to hang on my bedroom walls
Blooming Through CrevicesBlooming Through Crevices
People are characters;
their personalities are not to be cracked,
but to bloom.
Codes and signals
Setting our sights
On how to see
Through the cipher.
Optics opting for options
As opposed to conscious.
Ardor replaced by harder
To break through exteriors.
But mortality is only one facet
Of the entirety of humanity.
It is a compass of one being,
But merely a piece of the puzzle
That makes up human composition.
let us not break through empathy
with deductive methodology
but rather with the rhythm
of a honeybee whistling along the hymn
of the wind whispering in the leaves.
humanistic, holistic ideologies
is what the standard can be.
it is the notion of being a metaphor
rather than being something to decipher.
because there are more stars and galaxies
in poetry than there will ever be algebraic
expression curls up with ambiance
under the window pain of a picture frame
because we write more about
broken bones and broken birdsdragonflies buzz between
your tangled fingers
seeking nectar under
your chewed nails,
but the bitter burn
of almond acid will
clip their mosaic wings.
you're centered at
nature's core, a
centrifugal force of gravity,
grasping and dragging
lives to your unforgiving
you strangled the wild
whistling hare underneath
the billowing willow, and
your tongue tripped into
compulsive lies and disbelief.
i mean c'mon, clearly,
it was an accident.
if that's the case
the blue-eyed raven
that crashed to earth
after striking a third
degree burn, should
have survived, but you
plucked feathers from its
wings and drowned it.
you have a way with
decaying everything you
touch, your soul, my
heart, a puppy in a
cardboard box, yet
we all keep coming
back to you.
i think we all know
that even though you
bend and break and
bully the world, you
are the most broken
of all, and i just want
to fix you.
San FranciscoGood lord, how long I've slept this time!
And from what undiluted dream
full of free space and meadows,
brickless and feral,
lost in terrible infant whims,
streaking from trees to the hazel in the dusk,
have I come creaking to this ancient face?
If I ever find le sens de la vie
writhing underleaf in a crooked line of ants
or rippling in a koan made of cigarettes butts
then I’ll go back to San Francisco
and look her beggars in their pupils
and talk to her gypsy witch doctors,
listen to uningestible trumpet masters,
commiserate with the legless street congress,
revisit the subterranean shrine to urine
that sifts through the walkers at 2nd and Market,
and make love to some lost pearl of the Orient.
I’ll interrupt her philosopher queens as they serenade their oracles,
crawl in wretched street machines, carousel coins in rusty slots
that screech down to the wharf of the seal paparazzi
communing with dead architects of gleaming concrete miracles
A Real JobThis sterile trap,
This corporate limbo,
Each day the same,
Data entry, data transfer,
Clicking and ticking of keys
In such great volume it sounds
Like heavy rain on the cold, cracked concrete.
This thin gray carpeted cubicle wall
Surrounds my exhibit room as I wait for lunch,
While white collars and other passers by
Look in at my simulated habitat.
Two frames, one with my wife,
The other with both of us, and the two kids
Adorn the otherwise light gray, fluorescent lit
Ten by ten square that is my territory.
I don't want to wait thirty years to retire
When I could have a job instead.
5:20i went to the forest
to purify my lungs
then i saw the thick
three letter scar
i left in a slender
birch, and wondered how
i could let you poison
another living thing.
moths aren't afraid of pins
till they're stuck to a piece of styrofoam.
hey newton, gravity's flawedi.
starting anew from the flutter
and the sputter of lungs.
a vacant sea filled with feathers
and tumultuous clatter,
ribs in a treacherous pattern
resembling exiting rungs.
i want to wrestle the angels,
your tendency is the ladder.
involved with full indiscretion,
trading lazy for lace.
unspool the curse of the long-
limbs in a languorous flexion
i like the stab of the ankles,
you need the curves intersected.
opting to cull my extents
with trans-dimensional vigor.
spent my dysphoric corrections
on reconnecting lax ends.
lips in a spurious accent
feign a passionate rigor.
i tie myself to the anchor,
you extricate and ascend.
Keep in Touch!
scheinbar is a much-loved and well-known deviant. Just one look at her gallery, filled with enchanting photography, will have you mesmerized. A deviant for over 7 years, Christiane can always be found posting inspirational features as well as regularly commenting on other deviations and encouraging and empowering her fellow deviants. We are inspired and insist that you too stop by and congratulate ... Read More