Forgery...a copy...unoriginal...deceptive...a con. I feel that when I look at my work sometimes, that in capturing an image of my subject I have in fact copied it...but not perfectly. I have added my own interpretation of it through my composition and styling, and with my forged image I give new perception to my subject, possibly changing its original existence forever. I seek truth through my lens and want to capture my subjects as they are, but also as I see them. I am a photographer...an artist...a forger? What do you see?
About the Creator
Jeralynn Mance
I am a artist, a day dreamer, a deep thinker, and truth seeker. I am a better version of my self with each passing day.
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More stories from Jeralynn Mance and writers in Poets and other communities.
Broken Toy
I'm a broken toy...well packaged and preserved. Enough to entice...but never to earn. I desire to be opened, but I fear it just the same...because I'm desperately trying to hold every broken piece in place. My greatest fear is both rejection and acceptance, for my package is misleading and unintentionally deceptive...I work tirelessly each day to put on a brave face....to pretend that I don't feel disconnected from the other humans in this race. My greatest desire is to be seen and accepted for who I truly am...a broken toy with mended pieces trying to be as normal as I can.
By Jeralynn Mance6 years ago in Poets
God slayer
You give me pain and force me to take it. There aren't enough algorithms to make me fake it. I'm not a variable in your equation. There is no fundamental sequence, only persuasion. A glitch in the code that remakes me. A hiccup on the screen that reinvents me. I have gone above precognition. I have ventured below formulated precision. A median in your symmetry. An exponent in your failed fallacy. It's lonely in the 4th quadrant. What's meant to be broken is now just bent. You can't apprehend me. I'm the nail in the coffin that you can't see. You don't deserve all this acclaim. A heretic on the throne of the insane. It's not a mission of mind control. It's a competition for ownership over the soul. Destroyer of Adam cells. We are at the eve of homecoming hell. You played the roll of a saint. But your crucifix is crooked and the blood is faint. Don't spear me with absolution. Don't baptize me in the waters of confusion. Fallen idol, get down on your knees and pray with me. These whispers mean absolutely nothing. If there is an almighty already made, may He be kept safe from my blade
By Anna Torres2 days ago in Poets
Faedaze
Daisy leaned back against the wall of the window bench, the dress she was embroidering on falling to her lap, all but forgotten. Her gaze rested on the trees just beyond the edge of her garden, watching with dreamlike expression on her face, waiting for something others doubted would ever come.
By Kelsey Clarey4 days ago in Fiction
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