yurhighnessmio - Tumblr blog

[yurhighnessmio]

Jax doodles from a grumpy, sleep-deprived state of being.

[yurhighnessmio]

THE CONFESSION BOOTH - Part 2

Surprise its been an angst comic this whole time

Part 2 of 3 (Part 1) (Part3)

Kofi✨

[yurhighnessmio]

same

gooseworx why is jax like that

because I find it attractive

[yurhighnessmio]

What would Jax do if you gave him head pats or scratches behind the ears

He would probably hate that honestly.

[yurhighnessmio]

Leaked footage from the pilot

[yurhighnessmio]

I watched The Amazing Digital Circus Pilot and really enjoyed it. I can't wait to get to know all the characters more when the series comes out :)

I especially can't wait to see more of Zooble and went ahead and made myself a Zooble plush. Nothing can ever happen to them. Not because I'm proud if how they turned out (that's part of it), but because I filled their torso up with 2 2/3 bags of microbeads and if they burst I'm not going to be able to get everything back in and will be finding beads for weeks after cleaning up. The rest of their body has been stuffed with normal stuffing. I did triple layer the felt in their neck to give it as much firmness as possible to be able to hold up their head. I wanted to avoid using wires or sticks as much as possible.

Zoodle belongs to @gooseworx! Congratulations on the show :)

[yurhighnessmio]

Some of my early thumbnails that were made as guides for the board artists.

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Some 2D previs animations I made as reference for the animators.

[yurhighnessmio]

Poem #14

Hymn

In morn, noon, or twilight dim,

Lord God, Almighty, hear my hymn.

I pray for blessings, the forgiveness of sins,

That he hears this prayer, as he does his saints and kings.

May our children grow, as they should,

and not pay for the crime of being small.

May our adults merry, when they could,

before they wither and fall.

And animals too, and plants, and things,

May they one day learn to sing,

Of the glory of life and how it brings,

us all as one - as living beings.

Lord help us all for we are human,

and our lives are short but hard.

May all the lives we live end in heaven,

and all in heaven, be happy, unscarred.

September 18, 2023; Monday; 11:17pm

[yurhighnessmio]

Poem #13

A Home That's Not For Me

For about a week I went to visit

A home that's very far.

I sailed in ships dipped in sunlit,

Rising, on the sixth morning hour.

Then trailed a trail that passed the trees,

One that's wavier than the waves,

And zoomed a speed that sounded the glee,

Of a child that can't behave.

I met some people, 'bout one or two,

And shopped from my check-list.

Then before I knew of my mudded shoe,

I arrived in a home I missed.

Only it wasn't the home that I remembered.

No, it was far from it.

It held the atmosphere I knew, however,

So it mattered not one bit.

The house was not that big,

But enough to hold plenty -

People, chickens, ducks, and pigs -

That made it all too lively.

The food wasn't much special,

But it was always very warm.

The ingredients fresh and local -

Best eaten in cold storms.

The grass was always dancing,

Swaying, with the breeze.

The flowers too were swinging,

Alongside the vines and trees.

Behind it all - a field of flowers.

Behind that - another one too.

The first one, was daisies, for hours.

The second, small types of pink and blue.

In them, the dogs would frolic -

In ways I'd envy I could -

They'd run, and jump, and kick,

And leave, smelling so good.

In between, was a path to a lake.

A small one with fishes - black and grey.

Where rocks were stacked by people to make,

A tiny dam of pebbles and clay.

Not far, is a fish pond,

Where the bigger fish reside.

Where, everywhere, you'll look beyond -

The hills and sky collide.

Above that, the clouds would race

With the wind that ran faster.

And above that, once again,

Was the grace of the golden sun's glimmer.

The people there were all too humble.

As kind as they were merry.

They treat with a love as gentle

As the footsteps of a fairy.

But these were why I felt unwelcome.

I sailed through their seas.

They showed to me the outcome,

Of my being there to see.

They complimented my sole efforts,

They smiled on my way,

Reminding me that the comfort,

Was only for my stay.

With my heart plucked from its vine,

I accepted what I could see:

The home that I thought was mine,

Was a home that's not for me.

August 6, 2023; Aunday; 11:37pm

[yurhighnessmio]

Poem #12

Summer Still

When summer ends with you having done,

Absolutely nothing, Is it summer still?

When you find summer's spent without any sun,

Devoid of summer's everything, Is summer, then, fulfilled?

Without a friend with whom you can bond,

And sing, and cling, to golden summer's thrill?

Without the time to even commend how it could've been fun,

To hear the waves sing the sea king's shrill?

Without a moment overspent, on popsicles, juices, and waterguns,

On camping, fireworks, swings, or nights with barbeques on grills?

When summer is but all spent with having gone to none-

Of mountains, of rivers, or springs- Is summer, yet, summer still?

August 6, 2023; Sunday; 9:27pm

[yurhighnessmio]

Poem #11

Job

Of all the nights that shook me wake,

Began with stars that spark of zeal,

I felt that clutch that aims to break

My chaste and evermoral seal.

In bits of miseries that aims to doom

The zest that's seeping from my eyes,

Bestowed, a blanket that overlooms,

A shadow, over bluest skies.

Like everyone's heads that stays bowed,

A phantismal horror takes place -

Consumes, the evergrowing crowd,

That's speeding, a fruitless rat's race.

Thus, I trudge, as expenditure.

A vermin is noshing my years.

Never have I met a creature,

That hides by the name of career.

July 11, 2023; Tuesday; 12:35am

[yurhighnessmio]

✍️ Dr. Prefesser was well known by everyone for his craft of making monsters in glass bottles. July 8, 2022; Friday; 9:01am

Short Story #11 - my own prompt

Dr. Prefesser was well known by everyone for his craft of making monsters in glass bottles.

He was hot, cool, a genius, and had a good sense of fashion.

Unfortunately, he was very, very, gay.

Worse unfornunately, there was no other gay person in town to fuck with.

Which brings us to why he was making monsters in glass bottles in the first place: he was lonely, and horny, and has desperately needed a good fuck buddy to bang whenever he needed to.

Meeting the townsfolk would have been a good way to cure his loneliness, but for the horniness...

Masturbation wasn't enough anymore. And he wasn't the type to fuck anything else that's not human.

So he took a bunch of dna samples and began an experimentation that involved a cruel process of human development.

But simply growing babies wasn't enough. That was not how he bent. He needed them fully grown, mature, and better, big-donged.

It was gonna be a challenge for sure. So he did whatever he could.

Even I, the narrator, don't know exactly what he did. But I know for sure that it was some pretty fucked up shit.

The baby development was the easy part of this though, but after a while, he found a way to develop babies into fully grown adults...

The problem was that he didn't think he needed to teach it how to walk... or talk... let alone fuck his asshole.

So, that was a bust.

He needed to do something about it so that the dude has some brains, for the love of god.

That's why he made another one.

But this one, despite knowing how to walk, and talk, he was ugly as fuck. How is he supposed to get horny over someone as ugly as a disfigured frog with a limp and a drooling disorder? For goodness sake, he needed to at least look like a decent human being.

So, he made another one.

This one knew how to walk, how to talk, and looked to be about as handsome as the carved lucifer statue near their church that got taken down because the block of statue was too hot for even the priests.

There was another problem with this one though: he was dumb as fuck, and the scientist wasn't about to lower his standards all for the sake of a fuck buddy.

They needed to be hot and smart at the same time. Who could blame him for wanting that, at least?

Everyone wants their partner to be be good-looking and smart at the sametime - that's just normal.

So he discarded that one as well, like he did the others, and made another one. But he found that this one was a complete ass who treated him like shit.

So he made another one again.

And he kept doing it. Again, and again, and again...

And with each new one, he grew bit determined after seeing their every development.

But at the same time, he grew more and more frustrated after finding a new flaw that he needed to fix.

And well, you know, that shit sucks, I guess.

He kept going anyway, determined to have the perfect fuck-buddy to bang his horny-ass at night.

(He seems to think it was worth it to go through five years of this crap.)

Anyways, as the years came, the pile of discarded guys grew.

They worked all the time as his minions that followed his demanding demands. They tolerated him because they were made by him, and most of all, they loved him, cared for him. It was disappointing that none of them were good enough to be his bed partner. So the least they could do is assist him is making the perfect one.

Until one day- or more like one night, since this bitch was a night owl - it was done.

He made the perfect guy.

Looked good, acted good, smart, genuine, flirty, big-donged, and everything he could ask for in a perfect man.

Everyone gathered to the lab to meet the newer, more perfect, and loved version of them.

But the years of frustration and great desperation made the scientist impatient.

Immediately, he dragged the perfect fuck-buddy to his bedroom and began to strip.

After all his hard work... After all his effort... His patience... He needed this, after so damn long. He deserved this. This better be the best fuck he'll ever have or else, good lord.

However, the perfect partner, asked him to stop just before he could strip completely.

This shocked the scientist enough to break his flow of joy.

He asked why.

But ho! How he should have known! He was too damn happy way too damn early.

The scientist was so mad that he screamed, and shrieked, and began breaking the bedroom furniture so much that his discarded men could hear from downstairs.

A sigh couldn't help this one, he was so damned pissed because he couldn't even think that it was possible that the dude could be straight.

Damn the gods. Straight!

He dressed himself quickly, and out of frustration, went out for a walk for the first time in years.

It was a little after dawn at this point, and he passed by every house in town.

After a long time of walking, he stumbled into a bar. It wasn't there before, and was apparently in business for about two years still. So they were fairly new.

They didn't know who the scientist was because he never came out, but that was good.

He didn't give a fuck anymore, he just needed to be fucked right now.

He went in, got banged, and damn, was it good! Very good! Amazing!

Had he known about this two years ago, he would have been a regular...

But that was a stupid thought.

He didn't know, so what's the point? Anyway, he could now.

So, he became a customer... of this one cute guy that he didn't expect to like so much.

At first, he came once a week to avoid being recognized by the townsfolk.

But as time passed, every week turned to every night, and it was all good... for him.

The discarded minions didn't like it though. His absence brought them distress and so began their own investigation on the matter of what's keeping their beloved scientist busy every night only to come home with more bruises than the last.

But upon finding out the reason, their anger, jealousy, and envy, grew within all of them.

He wasn't even that handsome, probably not smart, and who knows? Probably wasn't big-donged too. They just didn't understand why the scientist would prefer someone like that man over them.

So they plotted and killed him in broad daylight while he was asleep.

They burned the gay bar too just in case the scientist developed an interest with someone other than them.

Finally, they were at peace... or so they thought.

When the scientist heard of the news from his butler, he went up and killed himself by jumping off the roof of his manor. No hesitation. Just walked up and flew, knowing he would fall.

Knowing he would die.

There was a panic between all of the discarded men.

A great deal of despair and misery lead them to blame each other for his death that a massacre via mass homicide that occured until none but one of them was left: The straight.

He had been in one room alone wthis whole time. With the butler assisting him, by lending him proper clothing, giving him food, and treating him with kindness by visiting him from time to time for a chat because, unfortunately, he had no one.

He wanted to get along with the others soon. He wanted to wait until the professor came back to experimenting to show them that hey, they were the same afterall: unwanted, discarded, broken.

Cuzza the homicide, however, there was no one else left alive to be with him.

For months, all he's done is clean up for the mess left behind and live in total silence and solitude.

The yard turned into a graveyard, the lively, lit-up rooms, turned into dorms of darkness that no one but him could use, without someone else to share with.

It was a very lonely life, and he hated how it was so.

But he was too scared to go out and talk to the people of the town because he felt too different.

Too inhuman.

So when he went to the late scientist's study, found all the documents of his studies for the last five years, and started working. And that was the beginning of how Mr. Perfect became well known by everyone for his craft of making beautiful women in glass bottles.

🌟

Questions?

Comments?

Advice?

No?

Have a great day.

[yurhighnessmio]

Prose #10

My Best Persuader

I am my best persuader.

The optimism I have about

The idea of pessimism,

Allows me to convince myself

That I am not a good person.

Though I fool myself that I am.

I whisper that I try.

But I am a hypocrite who cant even

Tolerate herself.

Like a fly on the nose.

I smack dead the peace

that wraps itself on the chaos.

I have found that my heart

has a talent of keeping secrets.

From everyone, even me.

And I conclude that it's why I cry.

Questioning a question

I refuse to believe:

Am I, by the standards of horror,

that cruel and terrifying,

even to myself?

I am my best persuader -

and the answer was simple.

June 12, 2023; Monday; 10:52pm

[yurhighnessmio]

Prose #9

Noticed

You were nothing to me.

Time kept ticking, and everything

remained the same, but I never noticed,

even sensed, a pinch of you.

Yet, at some point, when my eyes

searched for something, it

would face at your presence.

Tell me, what made you appear?

I wanted to wish it wasn't how you

looked like the sense of the peace that

I've always waited for, or how you smelled

like drew-drowned leaves cloaked in a fog

during a the pleasant october morning,

nor how the sound of my name lay swetter

while wrapped by the warmth of your tongue.

You were not a burning essense that called

the sight of the people around you like a star,

nor were you a burst of catastrophes that

dared to threaten beings with your mere

existence.

You were a treasure that settled at the

bottom of the ocean, doused in the

loneliness of everything that drowned

you - Waiting to be found, wanting to be

loved, and unknowingly worth so much

more than your shimmering eyes could

allow you to see the reflection of your glow.

But be honest, did the rumbling of others'

music dread your heart, in comparison

to your precious sound? I saw you

perform in theaters behind closed

curtains, and I glimpsed at the canvased

mountain that you climbed without

looking back, I saw the way your hands

held more passion than gods can love,

and how your soul bore a will that sent an

immortal's desire - to die - back to the grave.

You were nothing to me, but I saw you

and suddenly whole continents were

a street away, fireworks resembled pop-

rocks, and comets were mere pebbles.

Come now, and tell me the truth. If I were

destined to witness the brilliance of your

glimmer, that hid in the gloom of your eyes,

I beg, what else am I supposed to do but

love you?

June 3, 2023; Saturday; 8:32pm; 10:36pm

[yurhighnessmio]

Prose #8

A Child's Strength

I've been called a child by my friends because I walk without a care in the world. I am drawn to the colorful, I dance to silly songs, the big, the small, the extravagant, simple, the amazing - All seem to have the power to steal my gaze and encourage my heart to dream of better worlds. They all find this funny. In a sense, it probably is. The way a fine tune would fire my sense of curiosity, or how flowers would find themselves drowned in my eyes, or even how I see blood as just another type of color. It makes them laugh, it makes them smile, it makes them embarassed, it makes them cringe. To them, it was a curious thing - being drawn by the things so simple - as if nothing seemed to come after its life. Because who had the foolishness to be so open, and put their hearts out for anyone to break, but the innocent, or strong? My friends had hearts that have repeatedly been broken. Hearts who have lost their crown, forgot how to rule, and refused the honey-doused myth of themselves in their memories. They're souls that trickled long and hard on a rocky road - pyring stars left to burn alone without mercy. Who could blame them for putting up walls? Who had the audacity to judge them for turning themselves to stone? What monster would call the hurt, cruel, for trying to protect themselves? Except, the innocent, or, the strong? Perhaps, in a sense, I am a child. But not the type of child that walks blindly to the world's terrors - nor the one that seemed too good to be broken like fine china - but the child who has seen the things it was never meant to see. The child whose skin was canvased - roughened like ripped denim - but touched others with the brush of a light feather, and loved with a love that let love run free. Please, by all means, call me what I am, because I am, a child.

May 21, 2023; Sunday; 9:01pm

May 24, 2023; Wednesday; 6:56pm

June 3, 2023; Saturday; 2:48pm

[yurhighnessmio]

Prose #7

The limit to her love

There is a hole in my heart that only my mother can fill. I miss her. Or, more specifically, I miss how she loved me the way she loves my bother - and not just be treated as just another extension of herself. A copy. A tool. The third parent. Her extra eyes for her other child that she can't hold. I am neither her daughter nor her child anymore. I am just another set of half-beaten controllers in her hands that she forgets needs her caring too. I can't imagine being held by her arms in any other way without knowing how her mind thinks of someone else in the process. I love her. I love my mother so much...but the very identity of who she is hurts me - enough at least - to stop wanting to love her when the idea of being loved by her can only ever be painted in colors inside my dreams.

May 21, 2023; Sunday; 1:56pm

May 24, 2023; Wednesday; 7:02pm