Body tanned a golden white,Heart emits a sacred light,
Smile spreads hope and joy,
Bright eyes. Face of a boy.
Only his perfection marred,
By mankind eternally scarred.
Chopped at by the cruelest mind,
Hurt angel. One of a kind.
Swollen scars debase his chest,
A beaten mind denied its rest,
Until on purple wings he soars
To find his peace. By heaven's doors?
Purple Wings
I think I’m drowning in the ocean
From the petty undercurrents
Of femininity.
A sting from words smarts
Much worse than one
From a hand.
The intricacies of relationships
(Friendships to be precise)
Elude me.
Face to face everyone smiles
But close the door and -
The fangs.
A grand trial, all absent - accused.
I wonder: who appointed
The jury?
And, after my own catty comments,
In the midst of the gossip,
I zone out.
Wondering what happens precisely,
When I am on the other side
Of the door.
Toby Ng - The World of 100
Have you ever asked yourself, what would the World look like as a small community of 100 people? Probably not. However, it is something to think about, as the reality would be startling - as much as you’d think so, the village would only have 7 computers, and only 1 person in the World Village would be educated at University level.
These facts are something that designer Toby Ng has thought about very carefully, and turned the results of his findings into a series of twenty infographics depicting ‘The World of 100’. Although aesthetically beautiful, with sharp lines and bold, vibrant colours, these infographics are often horrifying.
The posters look as though they have come straight out of a children’s book; is this to mirror the naivety of those that are most likely to be looking at them on their computers?
“Look, this is the World we are living in.”
- Toby Ng
I pretended to be asleep
As the three of us were driving home
And I heard you insist to her
That you would not go
Because tomorrow would be your last day
With me
It was all I could do not to smile
Because in that moment
I was certain, big brother,
That no matter the age gap
Or past childish feuds,
You loved me.
Haymitch: Don't run towards the Cornucopia.
Peeta: Don't run towards the Cornucopia.
Cinna: Don't run towards the Cornucopia.
The World: Don't run towards the Cornucopia.
Katniss:
Katniss:
Katniss:
Katniss:
Katniss:
Katniss: YOLO.
I’ll bite my tongue
To stop my lips
From confessing
Every thought
That surrenders itself
To the freedom
Of speech.
Better not to speak
(Sometimes)
And allow secrets
To secrete
Within the recesses
Of my mind
Instead of escaping
Into the open air.
Freedom of speech
Is a dangerous thing
Without a filter.
(A commodity
That is seldom purchased
For the mouth).
I’m lacking the necessary sense
To invest in one
(a filter that is).
Instead I bite my tongue.
The world turns its back
On the poor, dejected flame,
Leaves it to flicker
In a half-hearted dark.
Even the light
Has turned away.
Flames do not need
The warmth of friendship
Or any source of light
To survive. Oxygen
Is the only necessity of a flame.
For the rest, they create their own.
In fact,
Flames spread even faster
When they are not stifled
By humans and light
(Both steal their oxygen).
They thrive in solitude.
Perhaps that’s why they lash out.
The eloquence of speech
That froths forth from flattery
Permeates the rooms
Of the unwitting egotists.
It bubbles and blisters
Through the air for any ears
Willing to hear and appreciate
With auricular assurance.
It regurgitates clichés
Old metaphors and similes
That any avid reader
Will recognize as overused, abused.
It labels every syllable
With a candy coated libel,
Asinine in its alacrity
To impress with its intellect.
She sits on toadstools with locks of gold,
Winks her eye and dreams unfold
For drunken men who watch as they pass
Her long pale legs, and rounded ass.
She flutters her wings and pouts her lips,
Strikes a pose and wags her hips
And the drunkards drool as they stare
As off her breasts she moves her hair.
Up and down and up they go,
As she bounces playfully on her toes
And drunk men reach without a thought
As to what will happen when they’re caught.
For the fools who go and seek the fae
Must learn the rules on how to play,
For at these shallow, perfect husks
Men need look but cannot touch.
For these beautiful and heartless shells
Can send a body straight to hell
And any soul they will devour
In their quest for youth and power.
