11/1/2025 The Tragic Beauty of Victorian Funerals explores how grief became an art form during the 19th century. In an era obsessed with death, mourning was steeped in ritual and romance — from black lace veils and jet jewelry to horse-drawn hearses and floral wreaths shaped like hearts or crosses. The Victorians saw funerals not as mere farewells, but as deeply symbolic displays of love, faith, and social status. Behind the elegance, however, lingered sorrow and superstition — séances, mourning photography, and memento mori art reflected a desperate longing to hold on to the dead. It was a time when beauty softened tragedy, and death became an extension of devotion.

I write this after a strange day walking in the spring of last year when I found flowers by the edge of a field and a dirt road about a mile that were the same flowers

MEMORIS 8: Fire Upon the Haters Themes: Fire, destruction, end of world imagery. Condemnation of liars, manipulators, and selfish women. Judgement and purge. Call for protection of babies. Condemnation of vanity. Day of reckoning. Prophecy of wave and fire. Final curse-prayers.

As a longtime player of Grow a Garden, I’ve always been fascinated by the ways we can enhance our gameplay beyond the basics.

this poem is about confusion and a deeply felt love but scared to take the next step weather it be forward or to the side

This entry I wrote after reading ~ The Toltec Art of Life and Death~ Highly recommend, this is inspired by my friend, the spider.

Opportunist? Creative Captive? What would you do if you were sponsored by one of history's great villains?

The one and only Gustav Klimt, artist, lover, man with anxiety. Here is a brief but fact-filled little ditty on one of my favorite artists.

Goose-stepping into the spotlight of history, the self-professed "Third Reich"! The German people realize Fascism does just keep the trains on time, it seeps into the world of art and aesthetics.

Art Nouveau! What's that? Why's that? Who made it? All these questions answered in a short concise essay!

A (mostly) functional mitten pattern/tutorial from someone who tends to measure with vibes. This is a mostly scalable, fully customizable mitten pattern. They hold up well in the snow and are perfect for winter days. Once you get the hang of it, you can whip up a new pair for a kiddo in an afternoon.

We all live different lives but sometimes we all think the same. We never think about the odd or the different aspects of the world ourselves even our nature. What if the normal things we do as of now was different? Could everything be possible or would things be impossible?

This essay is a Queer close reading of the poem Two Loves by Lord Alfred Douglas, the essay explores the meaning behind the poem and its modern resonance.

there was a time you were my best friend. you sat for hours reading me bedtime stories. you played dolls with me. i thought that was forever. i thought that was love. but now you’re here and not here. alive, breathing, but gone. and it hurts in a way i can’t explain. not a burn. not a sting. it’s rot. it’s emptiness. it’s you looking at me like i’m too much. every fight ends the same. me feeling worthless. me drowning in guilt. you yelling that i cry for no reason. but god i wish you would just hold me. just once. instead of tearing me apart for feeling at all. i watch you love them. the little ones. you comfort them. you protect them. and i’m just— the oldest. the forgotten. the one who’s supposed to be strong. so i swallow pills. i hold glass until my hands shake. i carve red lines into my skin because at least the blood listens. at least the blood proves i exist. because you don’t see me. you never see me. i tell myself i don’t need you. but already gone.

The Poison You Left in Me You made me, then made me wish I wasn’t. You call me broken, but it was your hands that snapped me. You call me loud, but it was your silence that strangled me. I’m not your burden— I’m your reflection, the monster you built, the shadow of your cruelty. Every scar on me carries your name, not written in ink but seared in fire. You didn’t raise me— you caged me. You gave me breath only to watch me choke on it. I don’t hate myself, I hate the echo of you inside me, a venom that pulses through my veins every time I hear your voice. You call me lost, but you’re the map I’m running from, a compass that only points to pain. And if I am ruined, if I am reckless, if I am everything you spit at me— it’s because you carved those words into my skin long before I could speak. Mother, you are not the reason I live. You are the reason I dream of leaving

My first personal blog on anime, Always wanted to try blogging so here I am.... any Otaku fans reach out!! Say hello!

I do feel as though sometimes we need confirmation on things, in various ways. Maybe whether that's through love, faith, etc. This poem is entitled "Confirmation 1"

CozyCon this year in 2025 seemed like a blast until it wasn't. A verified report from a member on discord made a shocking statement about the con.

This poem is about love I wrote it in an attempt to be emotional available. I write about love often but I lost over mistakes I made so I write these to her.

This poem is about the attitude I have encountered in art spaces on X. It’s depiction of art culture and a guide to being unforgettable.