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lunaotic · 3 days

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Not Deer - Lunaotic

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ex0skeletal-undead · 3 days

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Party Crasher by Erika De Luca

#art #illustration #digital art #dark art #horror #fantasy #macabre #werewolf #creature design

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nepertenebras · 2 days

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#dark art #dark aesthetic #gothic #horror #horror aesthetic #dark #gothic art #horror art #spooky #inferno #ai art #skull

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satanasvincit · 2 days

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"A Good Little Devil", Roland Topor, 1977

#esoteric #occult #dark art #dark surrealism #devil

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sloppjockey · 5 hours

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egamii. graphite

#graphite #illustration #dark art #horror #skull #artwork #drawing #sketch #pencil

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bebs-art-gallery · 20 hours

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amateur-scribbler · 2 days

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Romance is dead.

It’s a sentence said with such malice, something bitter and twisted; it carries the same pain that comes from choosing to sip from the poisoned chalice.

White roses tinted red with the blood of the romantics, who push this truth up a hill begging the mountain to be forgiving or kind, truthfully it’s all semantics.

Let’s forget we’re lonely just for a second, forget that you don’t love me, and pretend this isn’t an ocean of thick bitterness we’re attempting to swim in.

Romance is dead.

I see it in your eyes when you look at me as just another conquest, yet another prize.

I can’t remember the last time I felt myself get lost in a love song, that feeling that sweeps you off your feet and drowns you in the rose coloured visions of that certain someone.

Love isn’t a quest of convenience, or a tale of simple transactions. It’s heavy and all consuming like quicksand in action.

Romance is dead.

Maybe I think that because I’m lonely, or maybe this gaping hole where romance should be is starting to rot like a tree felled; the earth will claim it, as death has come to claim the love spoken only in soliloquies.

The roses at the funeral will be dripping red like the beating organ that is supposed to embody this lovely feeling. And, it will be quaint, few will mourn the idea that most only know fleetingly.

Because when romance died it came as a shock to no one; the greatest tragedies are almost always predictable, and love has always been all consuming, like Icarus selfishly soaring into the sun.

bury me with the romantics - t.k.o.