BaladeLa balade en moto pour le motard,C'est le tour de manège du moutardLe plein de sensations que l'on ressentEt être vivant juste dans l'instant©Laurent Roy 2017
Vides abyssauxIl est de ces vides abyssauxBien plus profonds que l'entre-deux eauxD'où l'on revient sans aucun espoirA force d'avoir trop vu le noir©Laurent Roy 2017
Living...Living is a torture to those who survived. ©Laurent Roy 2015
Vivre...Vivre est un supplice quand on a survécu. ©Laurent Roy 2015
L'usineL'usineOn entendait au loin,Le soir et le matin,Le clairon de l'usine.J'étais encore gamineQuand un jour résonnaDu côté du sana,La sirène ouvrière.Ce fut la fois dernière.L'usine d'autrefoisA perdu toute voix.J'étais enfant, c'est sûrMais ce fut pourtant dur.'J'ai connu ça aussi... Juste à coté de chez moi. quant j'avais une dizaine d'années.C'est devenu un but de promenade pendant quelques temps, pour les badauds du coin et les anciens ouvriers qui venaient avec leurs familles et leurs enfants pour leur montrer "l'Usine". Vite, presque clandestinement. Avant qu'on ne l'écroule. Avec un sentiment mêlé de nostalgie et de culpabilité non justifiée. "l'Usine" qui, dans la famille, était devenu un nom propre. Qui était presque un membre de la famille tant on prononçait son nom. Qui pour les plus petits n'était qu'un seul mot "lusine". L'usine dans laquelle ils a
HAIKU. Genre...On ne voit fondre que le premier flocon. ©Laurent Roy 2014
HAIKU. Sort of...One only sees the first flake melt. ©Laurent Roy 2014
ReconnaissanceHeureux ceux qui apprécient la reconnaissance de leur art pour la communion dont elle est le signe, et non pour le profit qu'ils peuvent en tirer.© Laurent Roy 2012
Mes doigts et ta peauMes doigts et ta peau se conjuguent au présent, au futur, et à l'impératif du verbe aimer.© Laurent Roy 2012
sempiternalWhen I grow oldI want a thousand laugh-lines.For when rainbows dilute and notebooks fattenon times untimely passing,when the moon falls out of kilter with a sun thatcurdles in a sad, forgotten sky,and the rain congeals inside the cloudswhen the slurry of seconds sinks deep into my bonesand my skin crumples like parchment, my spine coils and splintersand my fingers buckle, knuckle-cracking -when my dreams fade like polaroids in sunshineand my memories break free from their kitestringsunanchored and drifting in such dulcet mindmurk and I watchthe world crumble from gold into grey.I want a thousand laugh-linesfor they will be the maps to better timesso I can find my way back
The Rumour of IcarusIcarusthere is a rumour that your father killed you, thathe bent your wings until they broke and thentold you, "Fly."If this rumour is true, then it lives in the throats ofthose fragile boys who wear your death like Cain's mark,whose tender hands split like swollen tomatoes whenthey pluck strangled seabirds, whosearms slump beneath the weight of their father's genius.And this rumour lives onthe under-skin of their eyelids so that when they dieor simply sleepthey dream of their fathersor maybe just of Daedalus, standing withhis hands full of feathers and wax,their blood-flecked down under his fingernails.your face is gone, icarus, you are a warning & a tragedy &the patron saint of boys who will not listen but also you are a god, icarus,a god to these boys and still, when you fellsaid Bruegel in oils, Auden and Williams in verseno one gave a damn.But Icarusthey also say that your father strained the sunlight into an amphoraand told you, "Dri
December 25thDecember 25th and I've had 365 days to forgetyour aunt's incredible roast turkey and braiding tinselthrough your sister's hair and interpretive dancingto cheesy carols with your drunken Uncle Mark.Firelight flickered across the curveof your lips, the shadow of your jawand boy, you were beautiful,all smoke and cinnamon.December 25th and I'm ignoring the urgeto mess up your sleet slickened hairand the fact that your card now says "from"instead of "love".I almost don't notice the way your eyelashesglitter with snowflakesand the fact that you look adorablewhile you laughingly attempt to make a snow angel.December 25th and I'm going to cheeralong with the rest of themwhen you kiss her under the mistletoeand then I'll gush about how sweet her embarrassed blushes are. The pudding is brim filled with wishesand maybe this year they'll come true betterthan the last, because it seems "forever"was too much to ask for.
Is that supposed to be insulting?"Lesbian!" "Weird!" "Freak!" "Geek" You say that like it's a bad thinglike it's something i should be ashamed of.But why? Because I happen to fall in love with the same gender?That my interests are out of the ordinary?That I dye my hair wacky colors and wear clothes that don't fit your normal?I see nothing wrong with that.People really suck at insults.
To Us- Synesthesiai.every soundexcites a burstof color; anexplodingfirework,dancing andtwirling.ii.your voicetastes of mangoes;stickyand sweet,caressing my senses.your flavor ispersonal.iii.the lettersall become adifferent personality."T" is crabbyand "I" worries."J" is strongand mighty.iv.closer andfarther away;each number becomesits own planeand pointin space;perfect details.v.all the numbersform linesbecoming an armyof curvy rows,swirling roundand round.a perfect pattern.vi.letters takeon colors,each and every onea different hue,a different shade,forming rainbowsof words.
Gender massacre.anatomy is like a cage, that tears away any hope.born this way, born that way,our mind chooses nothing.do we choose what we are? Or does anatomy?long hair, tight skirts, weak.thank you, society.flailing body parts, vulgar dancing, bare.thank you, ladies.give those who identify as women a stereotype by wearing more makeupthan clothing.baggy shorts, shaved heads, muscles.thank you, society.patronizing insults, unnessecary grunts, aggressive.thank you, gentlemen.give those who identify as men a stereotype by cheating at poker, wherea woman's heart's on the table.you can't be either,you can't be both[this is what you teach me, society.this is what you teach yourselves, society.]rip off this skin of minerip off these assumptionsrip off the ignoranceand call me human.
What is art?'Describe what you call art'To me art is something from the heart.It's an embodiment of a vision,It's a display of ambition.An artist's work is never done,Cause to the artist the work is only part of the fun.An artist tries to show his emotions,While sometimes hiding his true motions.They say the eyes are the gate to the soul,That's why an artist will never look foul.They guide people through a world only they see,A world filled with mountains, miracles, oceans and land seas.So whenever somebody asks me: 'What is art?'I do not only answer: "Something straight from the heart,It's everything we know and that which we don't know.It's hidden by the illusion of reality only certain people can see through."
2P Romano Hetaloid x Reader (Part 2)“talking”, ‘thinking’Despite you pleads Flavio kept undressing you, leaving you only in your (color) frilly undergarments. “Frills definitely suit you my bella ragazza but I wouldn’t mind taking those off for you too~” “NO!” You quickly avoided his hands as he was reaching for the clip of you bra, and since beggar can’t be choosers you picked up the first piece of clothing you got your hands on. “Aaww~ Alright mio amore you can still wear it but only if you put on that dress you got” “Fine, I’ll be back” You went into your room and locked the door to change only to realize what dress you have picked out. It was a short (color) maid dress that you bought yesterday just thinking you could wear it for fun while cleaning the house.‘Dear God why!? …Maybe I can escape through my window and-’ “(f/n)~! You done? Don’t make me go in there~” “Fuck my life”
Six Words for a SlumpSix Words For A Slump:You're tired, unable to create anything.You feel angry; the anatomy's wrong!Why won't these words come together?"Nothing's right anymore, my hands tremble..."Yet the solution is fairly simple...I'm showing it to you now;Break up your ideas, smaller sized.They come together, like in Tetris.Rotate the blocks; shape your art.Draw chibis and stick figures too.Instead of epics, try a haiku.How about a six word story?If your mind is blocked, overheated.Let it cool; take it slow.By attempting all the smaller things,Your art is sure to grow.-Chen Yuan Wen, 5th January 2013
L'envolQu'on trouve à son plumage les plus beaux des refletsOu que son vol soit lourd et qu'on le trouve laidSon voyage innocent de tous ces jugementsL'éloigne à tout jamais de tous ces vains tourments©Laurent Roy 2017