MSC #12 - WordtheMSC #12 - Word by shehrozeameen
MSC #11 - French/Rondel PrimeBy the promise of the king I will fightMSC #11 - French/Rondel Prime by shehrozeameen
Even if it means to go at world’s end
For he is my son, for whom I defend
The values I hold dear and know are right
For the King Shines the path towards the light
I see it, I believe it as Godsent
By the promise of the king I will fight
For this dream will purge those we fight against
Not a promise of Paradise: foresight
Informs me that He means for me to tend
To what I have left behind, to amend...
This is why I strive, now go, brave young knight
By the promise of the king I will fight
For this dream will purge those we fight against
MSC #10 - ReverseOh look! A butterfly which lost its way...MSC #10 - Reverse by shehrozeameen
Help! A Killer, with a devil to pay!
And I am the sod who’s going to die!
Because it’s sent out with an agenda:
To kill me! I’ve been lucky to defy
Its attempts - thus far, they’re clever, but a
Small flaw in its plan halts it from success:
Its an insect which is not hard to miss!
Ha! Frail weakling! If I scream in excess
You will be stunned and left in many bits!
Alas, people think I’m bloody insane!
They comment: a herbivore will kill me...?
But the butterfly’s plan will be its bane!
Soon, it will be breached and the world will see!
MSC #9 - SpenserianIrony - crucial for new ideasMSC #9 - Spenserian by shehrozeameen
From these lands where dreams are buried skin deep
That none may know there had been such areas
Hence for society's progress their steep
Arcane Morals should not be made to creep
Into the psyche for thus does it lead to
Stagnation and decay to slowly keep
Their presence in society turns true
If they do not come we cannot construe
These ideas which give meaning to lives
We would be nothing more than what we knew
These sheep feed from Mother Earth's blessed hives
Irony builds what we take for granted
Ideas - irony our minds planted
|My submissions to MSC 2014 held by |
May Sonnet Challenge (NOW OPEN)5/1/2014: The MSC folder is now open for submissions! Good luck!
The Lament of MidnightAnd I'm alone, to walk awayThe Lament of Midnight by shehrozeameen
into the shadows I forswore
Had I died in my dreams one day
I would be alone from the core
of my sadness that burns in fires
of my darkened dreams, ashen pyres
therein you fled, leaving me, lost
To the ministry of the frost
Verilio's PaintingWhat do you paint this time, VerilioVerilio's Painting by shehrozeameen
Behind those walls as dark as the crows
which caw their songs, laments for scavenging
grinding, vicious reminders, asunder thus bring
the reality of the dream, which you draw, drawn
into it, as if unable to see on your own, spawned
from the unknown; such are the realities which I see
the haunting realities and nightmares thus decreed...
I sigh, as I look at you - what are you thinking Verilio
Why do you draw her so meticulously, why must it be so?
We both know the nightmares of reality, the truth is there
for us to see - she's gone, Verilio. Sinistra leaves us bare
we are left to our own devices, my friend - stop with your woes
like a crow you grow older, darker, colder, starker, at the throes
of insanity you'll wind up going at this rate, do you realize
that you're one step away, from being decreed to a blackening demise?
but you continue to pursue your vision, silvered like glass. Verilio...
have your memories lost their way, lost care, fallen ast
|Poetry from yours truly|
RbtC!PtC! (read description)"Rally by the Cross! Protect the Cross!"RbtC!PtC! (read description) by shehrozeameen
The bright clear blue sky had no respite to the land it cast the summer haze over; the sandy terrain showed no remorse towards letting anyone or anything get by easily. And in this desolation stood a mighty edifice that heralded the resilience of the people who resided in those parts of the Promised Lands, at peace with their sanctum and what it provided.
It had been two years now since there had been any news or any form of developments. Most of the people had, by then, had come to terms with their peacetime and grew their fruit and vines in avarice and glee. Some of them even had the privilege of converting their villas into magnificent structures meant for lords. And over this paradise - however temporary it may have been - was their elected mayor, Yves du Lac. Dressed in the Colors of his ancestry from the vineyards of Tunis, he watched over his people - after earning that right through blood, sweat and tears.
"Salem, please be careful with
the doorIt lies between me and the orifice of the horror that I am unable to decline without a fear of being consumed whole.the door by shehrozeameen
You have always been there and will always remain there, you instrument! You will always remain ignored till Judgement is passed and the masses will hurdle around you, waiting and hoping to tear you down bit by bit until there is nothing left. But it will never happen, nor can it ever occur; in their quest to destroy you they destroy themselves and lead themselves further down the hole. Such a pity; it would have worked to the mutual benefit of all of us in equal measure and equal efficiency. Sadly, as I sigh and breathe the air of brilliant that is consuming me, I realize it does not matter in any way - those who seek to comprehend your existence will for every sensible reason do so. Alas, such a perfect scenario is not without its losses and its callous considerations which are in vain. However much we try to dismiss this veil of sorrow we are always enshrouded
|Short Stories from Yours Truly|
|My Quatrains in the Rub'iyaat format made famous by Edward Fitzgerald.|
Happy Reading <------- he's a pervert.
Hi! My name is Shehroze Ameen.|
I'm at present working in the following groups:
- Founder - A place where all your get exposure. Do give it a look
- Head of the Critique Department - send a whenever if you want to apply as a critic to me, prettyflour or Michel-le-fou . For more details, see this journal:
Critique Department Update: Critic Openings!EDIT: Duties of Critics have been added in this notice. Thanks fernknits for pointing that out. Appreciate it.
- Second in Command - a place where you get critique in exchange for critique given to members . The rules are provided in the unappreciated journal features posted every month. Come on over!
- Staff Critic (now promoted to Co-founder) - Yes, photography critic as well. in case you ever have any photographs which you feel require attention or are outstanding, don't hesitate to send me a .
What else.... I love . If you need somebody to , or need someone to talk to about something, me. but if your serious about progressing forward, I'll do my level best to help you out in any way possible...
Looking forward to what people feel about my works
Hear me / my poems on Bandcamp or Soundcloud:
Apart from dA, I'm also in the following writing websites. Cheers.
Blogger : vermilionshroudsofmyinnerself.…, serzhrant.blogspot.com
I am available for commissions as well (writing mostly ). Here's the thumb to my commission details:
Commissions OpenName of commissioner: shehrozeameen :iconshehrozeameen:and its only for 20 (my cut is 16 , if you want it in real life amount).
Don't hesitate to go when you wind up looking at my works Cheers.
Mid August News: Heart JourneyAfter celebrating another cherished DeviantART birthday – and a looming one of my own – I think of the scores of blessings and the occasional trials during my own DeviantART journey. During times of personal growth, painful loss and devious changes here throughout the years, there are many that freely give love and support. After nine years, I have valued everything they have done for me. My experiences would not have been entirely the same, otherwise.
I owe a vast amount of gratitude to one deviant in particular, who ultimately gave me the courage to raise my voice in the darkness, when I was still trying to forge my path within the community. Many know of this angel who watches over us – his name is Bill, GeneratingHype. He, along with wreckling, StJoan, Moonbeam13, fourteenthstar, and Memnalar in particular – stayed by my side and offered (and continue to offer,) unwavering support.
Other dearest friends and loving beautiful soul
30 Writers You Should Discover: Volume XXIIWhat's This?head on over to 'em. Information about the literature community provided here
Below you will find a new assortment of various writers on DeviantART who are worth getting to know. All of their respective galleries are packed full of tremendous works that I enjoy and hope that you will too. And, if there is a writer that may not be listed
The Lotus Woman's ChildThe fruit blossoms and flowers that grew near my father’s house in Che Chiang province stopped blooming that year in 1941. My father’s house near Ch'ien Tao Lake was always full of flowers, especially the white lotus, the sweet smelling flower that never had thorns. My neighbours said that it was because winter was at hand, but I think it was the Japanese military occupation that made it so. The fragile flower was to me, the soul of the serene province that I once called home as a child. Many asked me why I decided to leave the place that I had loved and grew up in.
When asked why I left Che Chiang, I simply replied that I was restless. I couldn't stay in my family’s house for long, and as soon as I was old enough, I left for a whole new city. I moved to Shanghai as a police officer in 1935, two years before the horrible nightmare in Nan Qing, when thousands of troops from the Imperial Army ravaged the capital. Thousands died in that
I was born in South East Asia at the end of the century. Due to the nature of my father's work, I spent my boyhood visiting so many different countries, while living in a single country in Africa for more than 10 years. I felt like I was missing out somehow, to travel nearly everywhere and live out of a suitcase, only to return to the same place to do the same thing every school year. Being surrounded by boys and girls who had likewise lived in so many places and had so many memories didn't do much to lift my spirits.
But taking courses like geography and humanities definitely fed my imagination and made me think beyond what was happening in my own little world. When I finally left my parents to go to university, I breathed a sigh of relief. Now, nothing could stop me from seeking adventure on my own. I was free to walk in the woodland that I hadn't seen for so many years. Every so often, when time and money allowed it, I would take the train and the bus to the towns nearby to explore
The Swan SongIn a land long forgotten by history books, a lonely nomad roamed mountains and forests, driven away from his home long time ago. He travelled through towns, sleeping under bridges and on the doorsteps of cathedrals, for he had been driven penniless and was mistreated by the people of his town.
The forests of the island he wandered were kinder to him, giving him firewood to burn and fruits to eat. The animals of the forest kept a respectful distance from him and never taunted him for his unshaven face or his tattered clothes. He was never pitied by them and he never had to dance for his food or humiliate himself for a few copper pennies. The warbling of the birds in their branches was a sweet music to his ears after the jeers and cruel laughter of the locals.
But the tranquillity of the forest was soon frozen along with the rest of the world when the winter's icy breath trapped the unfortunate sojourner. He could feel the frozen grip of the powerful Lady Skadi on his world, but was depr
Soul Searchingwith my emotions
across the cutting-table
i scratch out
random bits of
for that light
at the end
of the tunnel.
You've Fallen For Himhe's young and tender
with kisses that let
your heart soar
like a kite dancing
on a summer wind,
he has poetry eyes
and notebook fingers
which print endless
words upon your skin
with a single look
or a delicate touch,
and he dreams
for two with every
breath that he takes
entwining his hand
with yours as you talk
the minutes away
sinking into the
Letters to a Memorydear boy with-the-faraway-eyes,
moonlight crawls through my open window, filtering the august heat. august. do you remember?
it was the first time we met. in the meadow. you were like winter lost in a summer song. your eyes cold as ice.
hair careless and ebony. we just stared at each other. only a mere few seconds...
until you just turned and walked away.
you know. i never told you, but i kept going back that week. every day, again and again.
till that day we met for the second time. you'll probably grin if you ever read this. smile and say;
'that's just typically you.'
i never surprised you. i was like an open book. but maybe, i'm surprising you now?
with love, the girl-with-the-sun-in-her-hair
dear boy with-the-hidden-smile,
the scent of jasmine is carried in with the soft blowing wind. i can't sleep. it reminds me too much of you.
i can almost hear your whispering heart. just like that night you came to me in the rain. i can still taste it.
still smell it. still see how yo
School papersI got scared to throw it out
But I didn't dare to take a look
All that paperwork on the ground
Information out of a school book
What if it's important?
What if I'll need it?
What if I must learn from that?
Because I don't know shit
I was scared of even moving it aside
A constant reminder
I became a doomed carrier
Instead of a lucky finder
But the truth is
It's all old news
I failed the study
Nothing left to lose
1, 2, 31, 2, 3,
1, 2, 3,
1, 2, 3,
1, 2, 3,
Every once in a while,
I want two be,
Three years from now
Smile through the tears'A perfect night to die.' She said to herself, as she walked upon the ridge. 'He thinks I'm asleep, they all think I'm fine. And the others, they just don't really care.'
She smiled, but she was crying too. The tears rolling down from her cheeks burned in the red lines she created, when she was desperately scratching 'her face off'.
'It's really not that bad, I will be fine in the end.' She whispered, as if it was a vague memory. She smiled wider, as she remembered, that always did the trick.
She stops, then drops, and then she hit the ground.
She isn't dead.
This was merely one of her thousand repetitions, falling off her bed.
She lays there for a while, just smiling, letting the tears find their way to the ground. 'It's really not that bad, I will be fine in the end.' She whispered, as if she was supposed to remember it.
how to discover a justified reason for lovei want nothing more than to visit italy.
i do not want to see the crumbling colosseum,
nor do i want to fall in love
with a charming, dark-haired italian boy
working at the gelato place in sicily
who compares my eyes to stars in broken english.
i want to see the tiny town
where my grandmother was raised,
to know the rolling hills
that lie between the church and the horizon,
to see the house where she and her mother
made large loaves of bread to be given out to family,
to listen to the sounds of birds
on the farm she gave up multiplication tables for
where the men drank wine and played accordions
and the women shook tablecloths and laughed haunting melodies,
and where soldiers marched and searched
and marched and searched
and marched and kicked
and shot and left.
i want to know why she traveled,
a family of smiling emigrants in tow,
to a country they'd only ever dreamt of dreaming.
i want to hear the whispers of an eager family
from before it was left divided by the bitterness
on storms, trust, and frozen yogurtmy mind has been
quite the storm, recently.
it's not a refreshing thunderstorm
in the middle of summer.
is a blizzard
in a smog-ridden
city, caked with salt
and that disgusting brown
slush you find on streets.
never mind. sorry.
i had a typewriter,
so i could destroy words
"where are we going again?"
without really meaning to.
i know that she's
probably told me approximately
57.5 times where we're going,
but i can't be bothered
"your brother's house,
then to the frozen yogurt place."
she says something in reply,
but i'm singing the lyrics
to an incubus song
and can't be bothered
for all the bothering i do
to the people around me,
i can't really be bothered
to do much of anything anymore.
wow, i am
really freaking annoying.
my mom always yells at me
for walking too loudly.
(it's weird, i know,
but she's a micro-manager
and i never listen.)
it's not my fault
i'm heavy and te
rose of sharoni met her
under dying thunderstorms,
and late morning sunshine.
it never started out
as anything special;
i was six
and she had cats and dogs
and fish and turtles,
and i wanted to meet them all.
she was 'the mother
of my brother's annoying
and it wasn't long before she became
dropped me off one summer day
at their small house
in the middle of town
and told me to be nice.
at that time, she was
nothing more than 'that lady
with the animals',
so i played with them,
ate what was offered
and stayed out of the way.
was formed and set in stone-
play with the cats,
watch a movie,
feed the affectionate stray outside,
eat a sandwich,
bake a cake,
watch a game show,
and wait to be picked up.
it was the same as before
i was doing it with a friend.
it was weird.
i liked it.
she had become
more than 'marian',
and was now
'mommy number two'.
we'd gone to the mall
and spent half an hour
From Margret to mom and dadDear mom and dad,
I've decided to end my life. I chose to do this for a few reasons.
1. I never wanted to go to dance class. You keep making me and telling me that I’ll like it someday but it’s been 7 years and I don’t want to spend three hours a day dancing. I have no time for myself and I am tired of going there. I have no interest in dance but you keep insisting. I've never had enough time to do what I want.
2. You kept making me go to church but I am, in fact, an atheist. I don’t believe in god and every Sunday I have to hear about how I should be in hell for things that I can’t control. Dad once said that atheists aren't welcome in his house and you grounded me when I said “happy holidays” last year instead of merry Xmas.
3. You don’t respect me at all. You told me that if I didn't get straight A’s by the time I was 18 I’d have to find a new place to live. I’m 16 and no matter what I do I can’t get my grades a
Bad Poem about Rainstrike the clouds with thunder
until they break and bleed
tear the skyies asunder
until the rain is freed
in the blood of grey skies
unheard melodies sung
i drink to stop my cries
and wash words from my tongue
wash away what was done
wash away lasting fears
hide from the burning sun
the inferno of nightmares
bring forth all your sorrow
let it be washed away
waters of tomorrow
wash away yesterday
let it play a loud tune
as distant stars return
under the rule of moon
and the night takes its turn
it hits the roof and wall
hear it and let it drum
a melody we call
out of words unspoken
out of feeling worn
out of the skies broken
the future will be born
Night of SedativesHead to my pillowcase
Pillow to my headcase
"One more sedative and I'll be fine"
Heart ever resting here
Resting is never here
Sandman or Reaper, I lay supine.
Body upon my bed
Burden upon my head
"One more sedative and I'll be out"
I'm tossing and turning
And dreaming of burning
Where is my sleep as I thrash about?
Birds by the windowsill
Through which the sun does spill
"One more sedative and I'll be done"
Pulling the curtains closed
Leaving the dark exposed
Here I will hide from the morning sun.
A Love Letter To Nobody
So, I’m really drunk again. This is when the tortured words seem to come the easiest. They flow out of me. Like thick spit in the rain. Like arterial blood spurting onto the page. They say alcohol brings out the truth and I’m not even going to bother fixing the typos.
You promised you would never leave me. And now you have broken that promise. It was meant to be forever, it was meant to last through the cold, desolate night. I have tried to replace you, but the deep yearning ache still persists. It has been agony without you.
I always thought that this was it and I never thought it would end like this. I had found the person that completed me. I had found the one that filled the gaping hole in my soul. Now all it would be is a mercy killing. Put me out of my misery, please. I wouldn’t even feel the blade going in. It is artificial blood, fake and and unconvincing. Bathtub. Razorblades. Freedom. Sleeping forever in a red canoe with hollow walls. Eyes close, never to op
I Was Once, Like You
I was once like you with all your fucking shiny things. I once had a nice swollen bank account and responsibilities and mortgage repayments. I once knew what it was like to take a single, unadulterated, unencumbered breath. I knew what it was like to be anesthetised and vacant. I can feel the words coming again. They are creeping up on me. All I seem to do is write about heartbreak and how much I hate the word. It’s getting tiresome. Even I get sick of writing it, so I can only apologise.
I’m sitting in a cafe. I have ordered a drink so elaborate, I couldn’t even begin to ascertain its ingredients. I look out the glass window at the normal people. They are holding hands and smiling. I sit in the corner with a noose around my neck. My skin is inside out. I count my fingers and then bite them off. They gawk at me like an animal in a cage. Look at him. What a poor man. They wonder what is wrong with me. So do I.
I was never like this before. I was never drunk in the aft
Ode to a Pedantic Prick
You always did think that you were better than me, didn't you?
You had read more books than me,
Had a more extensive vocabulary,
All those glistening words cavorting behind your dull jelly eyes,
Paid heed to the canon,
Read the "Classics", you had done your time,
I was just an upstart in your eyes, no threat whatsoever, beneath you.
You were just so convinced that you were better.
Even now you clutch at your
Full of rank dribbling poesies.
You speak of love,
But you don't know what it means,
Just like the rest of us clueless fuckers.
I write with fire
I write with rage and venom
I write with hate.
Bitterness and contempt gushes through my veins
And ejaculates onto the page,
Hot thick and sticky globules of my mishapen words: run down your face
With its slutty secrets.
You write with beautiful rose-scented petals
And squalid cherry blossoms and magically fluffy clouds,
You create perfectly punctuated poetry,
But I could piss a better poem than you ever could.
And you alwa
dA Dec 30th 2012 7:08PM (Big Surprise)Imaginatik and Top-Hat-Wolf were the first people who brought me over to dA. So far as I can remember... I was searching on google for Legacy of Kain... it was a stroke of luck that brought me over to the Ramuk series by Top-Hat-Wolf... and I fell for it... The second time I tried searching for it on Google, I didn't know where to look... keep going here and there... all over the place... but I stood my grounds and found it... Kept reading it for most of that day... It was ending March... by April I had officially joined dA... April 19th 2011 was the day someone here, noticed I was alive... My first submission was as a journal (funnily)... well, kept it there, till I found out how to submit works as deviations... then I posted three works: "Zarak's Vision", "Shadow of the Colossus epic poem", and "Interlude"; Didn't know where the watch button was, didn't know about the fav button, didn't comment... just went over to Top-Hat-Wolf's profile and picked out that fan fic series for reand
dA Feb 2 2013 11:45pm PSTBe warned that this work has not been proof-read. Read at your own risk.
Finished on 3rd Feb 2013 at 3:39 AM PST
I haven't uploaded a new journal in quite a long long while... I mean... 1,190 views for a singular journal... that's quite a lot... Far more than any single one of my deviations... And now its been a new inclusion of people I've had in my list of excursions here on dA...
quite a lot...
Well... real life's a hug, a slap-in-the-face, and a certain amount of opportunity... I passed one of my subjects which I had failed last semester... but in the process I'm going to repeat a subject I detest !! I'm not going to talk about it, because I just hope to be over and done with that subject. Period.
And well, all jokes aside, I'm happy; I put my first book in one book shop, sent three e-copies, and distributed it among a noble few... well, it got some really big exposure in one of mom's two-day event in Islamabad Hotel (where a lot of people mom works with were giv
The Heavenly ShipOne day, it was early evening and the sun was just about to set, as the Little Sheep came to his friend Stalker Horse on the meadow, where he just took his goodnight grass, and asked: "You, Stalker Horse, you know the way to the heavenly ship? ".
"Hmmm," replied Stalker Horse, because he just chewed with relish on some particularly tasty herbs, "I think I can help you, Little Sheep. My grandfather often told about it when I was young and described me the way there."
"Oh, that is fine," cried the Little Sheep delighted, "can we go right there?". "Please," begged the Little Sheep the Stalker Horse that could not be fazed and still tugged at a few blades of grass. "It is my birthday today."
"All right. Come, get on my back. We fly together to the Heavenly Ship".
Stalker Horse knelt down and the Little Sheep climbed without difficulty on the back of his friend.
"Hold on, Little Sheep, here we go!" With these words, Stalker Horse got to move. He was faster and faster until he finally t
Wind stillNear the crossroads,
I saw a nightingale
Her face was white as snow
Her coat was brown as bark
She was singing to the clouds,
'Tell me where to go'
But the clouds did not reply
As it was wind still
She was chased away,
From where she came
For the people did not like her song,
As it was too sad to hear
She was longing for that man,
Who had once kept her in a cage
She missed the safety of the cage,
And the softness of his voice
One day she woke up
The cage open,
And the man gone away
He had left her alone
She stayed there for a while,
Hoping he'd come back
Singing his song for him
Until she was chased away
Now she stands at the crossroads,
Wondering where he went
But his tracks have faded
No sign was left for her
So she was praying to the clouds,
'Tell me where to go'
But the clouds did not reply
As it was wind still
Small as a Mouse (YouTube link included)When I was 13 my first counsellor asked me what animal I thought I was most like. A mouse. A dormouse, I said, because I sleep a lot. She laughed, and I laughed, and everyone in the gallery agreed how funny it was. It was true. I sleep all day because sleep is the natural anaesthetic and the only way I could numb the nerve endings crackling their anger through my brain.
No one ever asked me again. No one ever asked me why I was late for school every day, why I ignored alarms and never ate breakfast. They told me to buy a clock, buy another clock, buy a better clock. I did what I was told, like I always have, but it didn’t make a difference because at the end of the day, at the start of the day, I’d rather be asleep. Awake and arithmetic had nothing to offer me, just give me sleep. I’d skip classes and parties, miss birthdays and brunches, just give me sleep.
My friends were used to it, I ran on my own timezone, it became a personal joke. They laughed
|Critique is such a hard job - but somebody's gotta do it. I for one, am proud of my critiques.|
Commissions OpenName of commissioner: shehrozeameen :iconshehrozeameen:
Commissions OpenName of commissioner: shehrozeameen :iconshehrozeameen: