Personification - Tumblr Posts

Happy Halloween! 🎃

Happy New Years, Everyone! May 2024 be a good one!

Happy Valentine’s Day!

Happy Easter! 🐇

what if i made a story about a man whos inlove with the sun huh

2nd one is solaris, and nameless fuck that ill show more about if yall like these fellas

anyways

(note: this is a fever dream story) solaris was the actual sun for four billion years, but then, as a lot of time passes a lot of things can happen yk, one day it saw a shooting star flying by the distance in which was actually a wish granter, the sun then in a fancy old english or another language, wished for its core and soul to become a creature like the others and the actual sun would just be there without being like, "conscious" somewhat

now it has a job and shit, its just a guy that likes plants and philosophy :)

sol doodle

The Finnish NH90 transport helicopter.

Taken some inspiration from CirqueduCiel 's aircraft personifications.

Line art is not really my thing, but I found out it is fairly easy to apply after painting the image.

Fortuna's page is now up to date.

◇ huge update to 'about' section ◇ new 'luck's fortune' card design ◇ fixed 'lounge' outfit ref

Sometimes a god is the imploded personification of flesh trapped in a mascot costume. And often it's your friend.~

Finalizing some Personifications designs for Artfight.

Here is some Pink diamond , and her in White diamond’s variant.

grown out

everyday, without fail, she’s here.

everyday. with a book in her hands,

everyday, she reads away beneath my leaves

whether my blossoming flowers slowly

trickle from my branches as the soft wind

hushes them into her perfect hair, causing her to sneeze, making me laugh,

or the strong greens of summer

engulf the sky above her,

shielding her

from quiet warm rains, or

golden leaves, bright oranges, loving reds,

drop upon her words, she picks them up

gently, so careful, as if they’re so precious

to her, as if every part of me is sacred to her,

even after it has abandoned me.

but she never does.

she never abandons me.

reading away at her pages, of love, passion,

kindness and courage, hopes of finding the

one, one day to share her life with,

drowning

in her reading, being absorbed in her life

as someone else, a character who to me

is unknown, as alas, i am unable to read.

i am able to just watch. watch her smile

drain from her face, her hair, scratched away

at my bark, her flawless skin growing paler

and paler everyday as she realizes she’ll

never live the life she lives while she’s under me

reading away, everyday, reading her books

fantasizing about her looks

getting caught onto hooks

until one day she doesn’t come.

she doesn’t read. i don’t know where she is.

has she left me? abandoned me?

she’s usually at my base, in a beautiful dress,

reading away and away everyday

like there’s no tomorrow, but then

tomorrow comes and she comes again too,

only now she’s not here. she isn’t sat where i would usually see her.

instead, others are. standing in her usual place, screaming, crying, desperately dropping

to the ground, on their knees, begging

to be dreaming.

it’s nice her family wishes to have had an imagination as vast as hers.

although one of my branches has been

feeling heavier than usual ever since

deep last night, in the bright

moonlight, when the stars became the leaves

of the sky and i was sat under the tree of the

universe.

they haven’t trimmed me in a while.

i must’ve grown out.

Restless Sleep

Archive #5 | copyright to saturnfairycat

Author's note: Helloooooo! This one was taken from a pinned discord message between me and my art partner (@v-for-venus) a long time ago. But I kept the structure because I feel like it really embodies it as a whole. Enjoy :)

Restless Sleep

------------------------------------------

what happens if the angels carry my sinful soul up to heaven? cupping my soulful heart around their wings straight out of my physical embodiment of a cage? during our time away from each other, while the moon is glistening in the starry inky sky— what if the angels take me to the grey, bitter clouds and beckon on my journey into the afterlife? I can't handle that alone, my love, because I know you will have fluffy, feathered wings that would be strong and delicate, while I will have tainted wings that are too small to uphold my wronged past of sin and regret... how can I sleep when I could be sleeping in your arms, knowing that you are wingless and that I will awake when the next sunlight arises— with you sound asleep beside me?

-------------------------------------------------------

Him.

Archive #6 | copyright to saturnfairycat

Author's Note: Damn, who hurt her- anyway, I found this in my embarrassing amount of 'Untitled Documents' in my google drive. You know when you are cleaning your room and you come across letters/diaries of when you were going through it? Yeah... but why was this so interesting to read HAHA (I don't even remember when I wrote it). Enjoy!

Him.

----------------------------------------------------------

He would’ve read my work. 

Not voluntarily, I would have had to definitely convince him. Though, it didn’t take much teasing— he always complied in the end. So much for his complaints that I “wrote too much” or my work was “too complicated”, he ended up taking extra time and care reading everything I sent through. 

Did he always understand what I wrote? Ha. Absolutely not. 

But he read it anyway, he always did.

I ponder about it, sometimes. I glance down to— nothing, really— and just relive all the little things and memories we shared. It’s definitely bittersweet, but I am not a picky eater; the taste of bitterness accompanied by the honey-suckle kiss on the tongue has soon become a fan favourite. It’s like a logical but irrational balance: good as a thesis, terrible for the heart. All those bitterness-cringing-moments won’t hide the fear of high blood sugar.  

Would he ever miss my writing? 

Really does your head in, doesn’t it? All those rudely blunt questions your mind comes up with when the world goes quiet. 

Does he even remember half of what he read from me? 

To be fair, I don’t even remember what I sent him— I just remember I used to do it all the time. 

Will he ever get to know that I have found a passion to write again?

Poems were my favourite way to convey storytelling. Commitment was miminial, because they are so short (surprise, surprise— my signature 14 paged spiel does take a lot of effort and energy which is not favourable), and I loved my little rabbit-holes of just finding the synonym for every. single. word. Anything that required excessive and proper sentences drained me, it didn’t feel right. But now— I have come to embrace it and oh, enjoy it oh-so-much. 

Funny thing, though— I never felt like my essays were the best. I’m sure the actual concepts and ideas I write within an essay structure have merit, but I never felt like my structural integrity of a normal essay spoke out to me. I also always felt like what I wrote for an essay could have been better— it just felt cheesy. To be fair— I never really got to the point of sitting down and reading poetry, the pieces I picked up were always too cheesy (even for me). But oh, how I loved writing it. 

Don’t get me wrong, I love writing essays. But–

Will he ever know that I found my own sense of writing style? 

My sense of writing is emotive language. I love symbolism, the play on words— I like the puzzling effect, the double take on things. I love to draw people in, make them confused and heart-broken. I want the real message hidden in deciphering, having to go back and reread it just so you can catch the missed hints and easter eggs. I love deep and dark themes— horror has always been my favourite genre, after all. 

And because I love the deep, emotive conception of writing— I want to always incorporate it into my essays. But of course, I don’t have the time to properly plan out which critical sentence to repeat later down the line— what metaphors and personifications really mean. But you’ll be damned to not see me try.   

Would he be damned? 

It doesn’t matter anymore, even if the current isn’t the direction I want to swim against.

Some people might read this and wonder: “Wait, is this about me?”

But the right person will read this and their heart will stop for a beat, because they know it’s about them. Well, if they can remember— of course. Can’t forget the fact his memory of us is so terrible, I would have better luck asking a goldfish to memorise the two times table. 

I did consider a lot of people when thinking about this umbrella of thoughts. Often, I would have left it to mystery and let my readers conclude what they thought I meant (though, I still can’t help but cringe when they butcher the meaning), but in this reality, I have been pondering about the thought of loneliness. 

I’m not alone.

I’m far from it. 

But I guess it's the closeness and intimacy that I crave. I have the people, I have the bonds— but I figure that being an arms length away from most of my friends for so long due to my personal business, I hesitate to be needy. It’s selfish of me to do so, it’s like the poem situation— I can’t just commit to something because it’s the bare minimum. 

Would he miss my face? I wear a mask consistently, sometimes I do believe that some of my classmates don’t remember what I look like. 

And most of all, do I mean mask symbolically, or physically?

Would he remember my face? It makes me want to take off my mask more, but it has become a comfort— plus, I get sick so easily. 

Every time I got really ill, he was who I talked to. 

He made sickness bearable. He cared and made me laugh. 

What a joke. 

Closure was never the answer, like a mouse that follows a snake— tailing behind the sharp-fanged beast screaming out the question for it to hear.

Why?

Why not? Why else? For I will never know. 

Because it is not worth knowing. 

Why would a mouse go back to the very place, the snake’s lair, where they were bitten once already— to ask why they bit the mouse in the first place? 

Does he remember the puncture wounds? 

Would he read my writing if it was about a snake and mouse?

Would he understand it?

…

Sigh

…

A fresh wound appears.

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Abstract | Obsession

Archive #7 | copyright to saturnfairycat

Author's Note: Hey, so I have a set of three poems that are interlinked and summarised into this abstract. Now here is the question, do I post all three poems separately, or all together? You tell me! Enjoy :)

Obsession, the Abstract

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When one compares their dependency on an item or being with an unhealthy tendency to forget the importance of being their own person. A siren is known for the obsession she produces just from singing; while a place of holiness can be known for saving those that have no other place to go. Obsession and adoration are two separate things, but sometimes the siren can be merely adored… while the building is seen as a cult designed for obsession. The comparison of the siren and church to the human's dependent heart is a wake up call for those who allow themselves to serve no other purpose than living in someone else’s life.

-------------------------------------------------------------

Woe the building that falls

Archive #8 | copyright to saturnfairycat

Author's Note: Sooo I decided to post them all separately, but then probably do one post at the end combining them all. Because I lOooOOOooOve making tags... aha. If you guys can throw me some tags to put in it would be great, I never know what kinda tags to put. Enjoy! --------------------------------------------

Woe the building that falls

To seek a soul whose pictured as gold,

makes artless mortals sway. 

The siren theory is embodied as a place— 

that is known for its embrace…

of worship, importune and obsession.

But to pray to who is equivocal… 

they’re merely a god, merely a question.

You can’t treat a person like a church possession—  

the inner walls creak and moan

against the protest and crack of bone. 

Nicknamed Dulia for its glory, 

but it drowns those who try to adore thee. 

The plafond above our heads sing in pressure– 

haunting the thought of being crushed. 

Whilst they cry for their successor,

dust floated towards the exit as if being rushed. 

The sky tends to fall away; 

clouds imitate a chevet. 

The sight itself creates much dismay,

but time is an illusion…

oh, such betray.

But what a church with no heaven?

Sky, empyrean, and the ether

don’t judge a star's demeanour! 

Aperture with glass framework– 

edging feelings with a smirk.

Reflection shows a shining gleam,

but true colour is never seen. 

The sun has a shaded costume 

using the moon as hecatomb.  

It may use perfume as a facade…

but mien flares hearts exerting ballade.

If darkness plummets beneath our feet

may I pray for a deathless greet.

The devotee, 

limp in their extremities, 

served one purpose…and failed.

It drifted into sea like a dead anemone– 

with no avail or memory. 

---------------------------------------------------------------

Infatuation

Archive #9 | copyright to saturnfairycat

Author's Note: SECOND POEM MENTIONED RAHHHH ENJOY

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Infatuation

Summersweet, white alder, pepper bush— 

wind that blows bouquets away with a swoosh.

A church, the ocean and the utter devotion 

such words that are unremittingly

used and mentioned.

You must be annoyed and sick of the voices

telling you about the, oh so many choices…

that you can take. 

It makes your cliff shake and ache against the currents

you’re trying to break. 

Hundred of shouts turns into a song

while you still can’t get along—

with yourself and the image

that you portray as a sailor, paying primage. 

You can’t love a siren,

moreover cage them in a shrine to admire in. 

They didn’t draw you in with their beauty, 

they were just on death duty.

Artless feelings are sweet and dependent 

until you sneeze and crush flowers gifted, 

not to the loved one but to the church—

a place of worship but for a search…

of pathetic purpose. 

Arson ash that coughs up the lungs

makes heartthrobs hold their tongues. 

It’s been so long since the reminiscence,

but existence with omniscience means that

one can’t help those that don’t want it.

Sailors should save those words for those who admit it. 

Repetition shows a mind not working— 

hiding behind the words of formal glory. 

When the time comes that you consider your fate, 

please stop placing your heart on a plate.

Not everything is worth dying for, therefore

realise this before you bleed even more. 

-----------------------------------------------------------------

Siren's Curse

Archive #10 | copyright to saturnfairycat

Author's Note: grah. Final poem from this series. Enjoy <3

-----------------------------------------------------------

Siren's Curse

The feeling stills,

located deep in the heart and

washed away by emotions that don't depart. 

Such betray hasn’t been seen

in years and years, oh it’s been centuries. 

It’s not about creed

nor about faith, 

but why does the siren continue to retaliate? 

They don’t seek will or adoration,

but only sailors' shallow empty emotions. 

Thus, greed is not a problem, 

just a solution with an astrobleme. 

The star-shaped wound within the heart

drowns out singing and works of art. 

They focus on sole possessions, a measly painting

rather than just forever self-changing. 

A place verses a person can be quite the personification

for a future naive adorer’s destination. 

You compare a holy place

with a person that has no proper face.

A sailor counts

and so does a siren,

so don’t you dare postpone your responsibilities by naming it Psyren.

Yet you put them on top, as if an angel 

told you that evil is an archangel.

Connections from siren to god

is a mockery for those that don’t have a facade. 

Love yourself for what it’s worth–

not for the punishment of your birth. 

----------------------------------------------------------------------

Obsession, the series

Archive #11 | copyright to saturnfairycat

Author's Note: Here is the abstract and all three poems combined. I personally feel like there is a difference to when you read the poems separately, versus reading it all together in one sitting. Let me know what you think. I actually have a story inspired by these poems, if you are interested in me posting it, let me know! Enjoy :)

----------------------------------------------------

Abstract

When one compares their dependency on an item or being with an unhealthy tendency to forget the importance of being their own person. A siren is known for the obsession she produces just from singing; while a place of holiness can be known for saving those that have no other place to go. Obsession and adoration are two separate things, but sometimes the siren can be merely adored… while the building is seen as a cult designed for obsession. The comparison of the siren and church to the human's dependent heart is a wake up call for those who allow themselves to serve no other purpose than living in someone else’s life. 

--------------------------------------------------------------------

Obsession

--------------------------------------------------------------------

Woe the building that falls

To seek a soul whose pictured as gold,

makes artless mortals sway. 

The siren theory is embodied as a place— 

that is known for its embrace…

of worship, importune and obsession.

But to pray to who is equivocal… 

they’re merely a god, merely a question.

You can’t treat a person like a church possession—  

the inner walls creak and moan

against the protest and crack of bone. 

Nicknamed Dulia for its glory, 

but it drowns those who try to adore thee. 

The plafond above our heads sing in pressure– 

haunting the thought of being crushed. 

Whilst they cry for their successor,

dust floated towards the exit as if being rushed. 

The sky tends to fall away; 

clouds imitate a chevet. 

The sight itself creates much dismay,

but time is an illusion…

oh, such betray.

But what a church with no heaven?

Sky, empyrean, and the ether

don’t judge a star's demeanour! 

Aperture with glass framework– 

edging feelings with a smirk.

Reflection shows a shining gleam,

but true colour is never seen. 

The sun has a shaded costume 

using the moon as hecatomb.  

It may use perfume as a facade…

but mien flares hearts exerting ballade.

If darkness plummets beneath our feet

may I pray for a deathless greet.

The devotee, 

limp in their extremities, 

served one purpose…and failed.

It drifted into sea like a dead anemone– 

with no avail or memory. 

-----------------------------

Infatuation

Summersweet, white alder, pepper bush— 

wind that blows bouquets away with a swoosh.

A church, the ocean and the utter devotion 

such words that are unremittingly

used and mentioned.

You must be annoyed and sick of the voices

telling you about the, oh so many choices…

that you can take. 

It makes your cliff shake and ache against the currents

you’re trying to break. 

Hundred of shouts turns into a song

while you still can’t get along—

with yourself and the image

that you portray as a sailor, paying primage. 

You can’t love a siren,

moreover cage them in a shrine to admire in. 

They didn’t draw you in with their beauty, 

they were just on death duty.

Artless feelings are sweet and dependent 

until you sneeze and crush flowers gifted, 

not to the loved one but to the church—

a place of worship but for a search…

of pathetic purpose. 

Arson ash that coughs up the lungs

makes heartthrobs hold their tongues. 

It’s been so long since the reminiscence,

but existence with omniscience means that

one can’t help those that don’t want it.

Sailors should save those words for those who admit it. 

Repetition shows a mind not working— 

hiding behind the words of formal glory. 

When the time comes that you consider your fate, 

please stop placing your heart on a plate.

Not everything is worth dying for, therefore

realise this before you bleed even more. 

----------------------------------------------

Siren's Curse

The feeling stills,

located deep in the heart and

washed away by emotions that don't depart. 

Such betray hasn’t been seen

in years and years, oh it’s been centuries. 

It’s not about creed

nor about faith, 

but why does the siren continue to retaliate? 

They don’t seek will or adoration,

but only sailors' shallow empty emotions. 

Thus, greed is not a problem, 

just a solution with an astrobleme. 

The star-shaped wound within the heart

drowns out singing and works of art. 

They focus on sole possessions, a measly painting

rather than just forever self-changing. 

A place verses a person can be quite the personification

for a future naive adorer’s destination. 

You compare a holy place

with a person that has no proper face.

A sailor counts

and so does a siren,

so don’t you dare postpone your responsibilities by naming it Psyren.

Yet you put them on top, as if an angel 

told you that evil is an archangel.

Connections from siren to god

is a mockery for those that don’t have a facade. 

Love yourself for what it’s worth–

not for the punishment of your birth. 

-------------------------------------------

Star clusters of pasque flowers, the series

Archive #17 | copyright to saturnfairycat

Author's Note: and here we are - the whole series in one post. Let me know if you like this! Enjoy :)))

--------------------------------------------------------------------

Star clusters of pasque flowers

--------------------------------------------------------------------

Fairy Salt

Meadows, ponds, butterflies and all

The jealousy, envy towards a thrall.

To have dreams with one can break walls. 

Saturn has one too many rings to fall

Out of line, out of sight. 

Hail storms help those to recall

The attic, the dust, that was used to stall.

Oh, hail one that dares to crawl

Out of sight, out of mind. 

Sunflowers, tulips, roses and all, 

The fairy that withdraws the pall. 

A spiteful befall.

Ocean waves, known to leman,

The echoing within a shell hidden under damp sand.

Floating in space, drifting on wood.

Isolation, fear, 

Scent of salt and rotten pier.

A story told by sailors and elves alike, 

A history, a history to dislike.

An entombment used to engulf the rage, 

A minor death, left to drown and age.

One can remember some

While one can remember all. 

But she– the one who dares to question, 

Argue against her majesty, his bride, 

Remembers all.

As it was she,

Who died.  

The attic, the castle,

The meadow and the sea–

Something that one tends to forget because no one is free. 

Do you see her soul?

Do you see the fairy fly? 

Or have you forgotten 

That night– 

When the flowers started to die. 

Wither, winter, spring and grow,

The elves dancing– prancing for gold.

But one elf does not twirl or beg, 

They are meant for the flower bed. 

Lying and crying, 

Mourning and laughing. 

The smell of salt and sound of hail,

Oh, please don’t forget the veil. 

Flowers, 

The honey, the comb.

Iris, Peony, and Manuka are thrown

Not at her tomb stone, no. 

But at the majesty’s, the lord, 

And no one below.   

--------------------------------------------

In truth

The Queen’s light-hearted winter.

Cold, bitter, 

We always knew he was a quitter. 

The heavens, the uranian,

Look at the new Heather!

Romanticists broach vastly

To a new moon.  

The witless prince thought he could swoon?

Ha. 

Praise the rise of the skies, 

Praise the rise of the star clusters.

My heart, oh my, 

To see someone’s whole life in a night’s sky. 

The yearn, the mourn, the emptiness, 

For something that wasn’t even there.

A new moon, or a new dark age? 

The Queen’s dark spring, 

Pasque flowers and lilies of valleys.

Worshipping a wedding ring,

Bewailing a regrettable demise. 

From dawn to nightfall, 

From love to loathe. 

An oath meant to be broken.

Flatter thy, satisfy he

Who dares question the crown. 

Hate, hate. 

Ball gowns and wedding cake. 

How can one forget

The Heather, heaven, heathen?

I’m not one to shiver and click

When one thought they were slick. 

Who thought a royal like me could see a fallen crown? 

I can be sincere, 

I don’t need the roses to be red. 

Just listen to me

And there won’t be bloodshed.

Who dares to question the crown?

Who dares to question me? 

Pasque flowers and lilies does not mean you’re free. 

She had to die,

The skies were aligned. 

The new moon is my oath

And it will not break. 

Which they seem to not understand…

I’m always awake. 

Oh, welcome the new dark age. 

Oh, welcome the new cage. 

Pixies and fairies does not belong to me

But what’s the point of trying to flee? 

-------------------------------------------------

A human in a mushroom house

A funeral for someone who dares to question power, 

a shadow obligated to cower.

A love towards another could be a one way stream, 

while the amour propre of the other could be dead scream– 

a sleeping lake.  

When will my Inamorato wake? 

When will fairies start singing for thy 

Instead for the Queen?

Oh, her majesty, the Queen, 

What a joke, what a pity!

Nothing seems to make them witty, 

Their own Queen died, not from poison. 

Pixie dust doesn’t fix everything, does it? 

His love, his bride.

A fairy that reminded him of the clouds

Who kissed the sun in a hush lullaby. 

As the moon, red as blood can be, 

Replaced it at night. 

The Queen was replaced, yes!

By a human, no less.

A minor death, left to rot… 

As the human queen, was never caught. 

---------------------------------------------------