Just wanted a place to post some other stuff I've written, namely poetry and little nothings, and things of that nature.
I Dislike Poetry
writing poetry is just so cruel rhyming, meter and rhythm too writing poetry is something I absolutely rue
villianelles, rime royals, and terza rimas trochaic, spondaic, iambic and anapestic why can't words be drab and rustic?
SpasMoDiC PoEtrY is EveN MoRe diFficUlT sonnets make me sob. Poetry would be the first thing I'd attack if I were an angry mob.
you say I'm writing poetry well I must protest
if I'm writing poetry I am scarcely at my best I quite dislike poetry
and won't pen a word at your behest. I won't give poetry a cent. And at the side of the deathbed of poetry I certainly won't lament.
-------------- Something about the main character from the "Publishers" stories. Henry Crestview was a regular man. His light blond hair spilled subtly over his somewhat stocky forehead; his vivid aquamarine eyes showing to their fullest under the awning of his bangs. His eyebrows were barely visible, his countenance stolid; yet appearing to hide a razor wit and a light of life. He was not a chubby man; his legs lanky; his arms thin. These limbs concealed a deceptive strength, born from years of safaris and marathons. He was by no means ancient. Yet nor was he terribly young; in his thirties, he has seen life at it's best and worst, the only thing left for him to discern which was which. His mouth was radically serene, his nose well-shapen. All-in-all, he was definitely a mundane-seeming person. Mundane situations, however, were just not his style.
Sorry for the double post....*has an inspiration explosion* OOOOHHHH!!! --------- Double Posting And thus is the horror of the double post the thing which all forumers fear the most. It crushes the beauty of the forum itself, and consigns it to the neglect of a dusty shelf. Perhaps this instrument of horror will be stricken from the forums, and the replies will quicken. But until that glorious, spectacular day, double-posts make thought more difficult to convey.
I'll wait for you on the doorstep. I'll wait all alone. I'll wait for a simple visit. I'll wait when it all seems lost. Daddy said you were gone. That you weren't going to come back. He said that after the plane crash you weren't on this world anymore. But I know that you're going to come back and smile to me again. I know that you're somewhere out there, waiting for me. And until that day comes, when I see you again, I'll be sitting on this doorstep. This old, stalwart doorstep. Waiting. Waiting. And waiting. ---------- Don't worry, my parents are still alive I just wanted to write something sad.
Wrote this for a class assignment. It has some forced enjambment and forced refrain, but other than that, it's pretty authentic. Hades
A rock for a brain. legs an icy waterfall. incredibly sharp pain, then grinding numbness.
Footfalls are heard, on bloody paths. any mention of living would be absurd.
Feet of chill wind, continue to scramble. all is reduced to dusty shambles.
It begins as plague, and unknown isolation. oblivious brethren consign you to the consternation
of treading the path of Hades' own wrath. Athena's wisdom is of no use then.
Feet of chill wind, continue to scramble. all is reduced to dusty shambles.
The sickening river called by some to be Styx. The grotesque Charon calls you hither.
âThe time is now, and malaise is high. Fall in line, or you shan't be allowed the luxury to die!â
Feet of chill wind, continue to scramble. all is reduced to dusty shambles.
The unholy oars spread the liquid apart. as you advance, with bated breath, you glimpse the infernal doors.
greeted by the king, you bow solemnly. on his finger a ring, and on his enigmatic head a crown
Feet of chill wind, continue to scramble. all is reduced to dusty shambles.
Guided by his hand, you travel far to a place that lava has scarred.
the area is crowded, like a modern metropolis. Spirits abound, searching for the Acropolis.
Feet of chill wind, continue to scramble. all is reduced to dusty shambles.
you join the wayward souls in searching, for something stalwart to be your crutch.
Consumed by instinct to search, continuously, through the searing rubble. Walking to no end laboriously.
Feet of chill wind, continue to scramble. all is reduced to dusty shambles.
all in blackness, hand in hand wandering forever. All in blackness, hand in hand, aimlessly wandering, obeying a driving fervor.
And yet this is no hell you are in no pain, death, war or din assails you in this hallowed place. Just kind, welcoming rubble and flame.
Feet of chill wind, continue to scramble. all is reduced to dusty shambles. ----------- Also, someone please comment? Pppppplllllleeeeaaaasssssseeeeee? I don't want to be the only one posting.
haha, very descriptive but you seem to use quite a few bombastic and hard words that obscure the plot a bit. Well I dont want to be the only one posting onmy own thread too!
I was going to think of something, but... I'm just too tired. I'm just too tired.
When writing when you're so weary writing when your eyes are bleary writing half-awake gives me so much ire. I'm just too tired. I'm just too tired.
Barely awake, yet so far from asleep. The sleep get rejected when it starts to creep into me, the need for rest so dire. I'm just too tired. I'm just too tired.
Yawning wracks my very soul it makes me feel so very old. Wishing I could douse my consciousness like I could a fire. I'm just too tired. I'm just too tired. I'm Just Too Damn Tired.
They give us incredible devices to bend space and existence. They say they'll give us cake, but I know the cake is a lie. They beset us many dangers, things that could make us die. They say they'll give us cake, but I know the cake is a lie.
They say, "if you complete the tests, we'll give you cake." But I'm hungry for a meal, so please just give me steak. They cut us a deal as they're cutting THEIR cake. They watch innocently from their offices. And no matter how hard I try, I know the cake is a lie.
The Letter Once, a very sagacious, solitary man, who lived in a secluded house far away from any other soul, received a letter. This was a puzzling occurrence, as he had no relatives, no friends, and no acquaintances. And yet, there was a letter sitting, subdued, on his doorstep. On the back, it simply, plainly read: "from someone who cares." No one cared about him. He was an exile. A hermit. There was not a single person who cared....that is, until he opened the envelope carefully. Inside of it was a piece of paper; a very subtle, elegant stationery. It was beautifully bordered, with a serene, floral print encircling meticulous text. The writing was a beautiful cursive font, handwritten with the utmost care, which simply read: "I'm still alive. Write back. Please. From, Sybil." The "L" was finished by a small swirl, which ignited memories from his past. Painful memories. Memories of a kidnapping; memories of a precious life lost to time. Yet with those few, eloquent words, all that was changed. All that was erased. And happiness filled the void, so much so that the man started to shake and cough, his body wracked by coughs of joy. These convulsive coughs shook his fragile frame to the core, so much that the old man could not bear the flood of joy. And so he collapsed o the ground, never to rise again, with the letter slowly falling onto the floor next to him.
Like what Robinson Crusoe said, "a man can be killed just as handily from joy as he can from grief." ^paraphrase
