Forums → Art, Music, and Writing → The Words and Workings of Wolf

>.> yay for not editing myself and thus misplacing words.

The line is supposed to read:

And I'll burn this town just for fun

"You know, I don't give a d*mn soldier. You either pick up that sword and fall on it out there, or I pick it up and make you fall on it right here."- Captain Hren

[/b]Moving On[b]

There's nothing left here.
It is only a memory.
A memory of better things
And of better times.
I'm still broken
With all I have to endure.
But I'm fixing myself
Ever so slowly,
No thanks to you.
So I'll take my memories
And I shall hold them dear
For they are all I now have
All I will have for now.
When you think on me
Let it be of times we shared
And let them twist you
And make you feel shamed.
You have broken me.
But I will be repaired.

The whole thing speaks for itself really. Angry angry vegeful.

He he, vegeful. It's vengeful.

From The Writer's Desk

It's a tiring life out there. Between the working trying to get by, to the craving of our flesh. Whether it's s*x or food. Makes a man think on how we ever came this far. Argue the semantics of morality all you want, you have to at least admit we're out of synch. We're indifferent, to so much these days. We fear cancers and diseases; broken hearts to financial squeezes, but. Do we ever actually think on what we might be missing? Oh we bicker on languages and cultures like picking over half rotted carcasses, we're vultures, and to what extent do we seek? Is it just a ploy to undermine the poor and the meek? And whether we agree, disagree or meet somewhere inbetween, this isn't what defines us. Oh no, it's what we've seen. It's what we've tasted and what we have smelled; it's what we've molded and what we've meld. it is who we are, and who we are supposed to be. And I know, at least one of you, is going to criticize me. You'll say I'm ranting and raving, that my language skills have started misbehaving, that I've run on sentences half a mile long, and you know what, dear reader, you wouldn't be wrong. But, you forgot to think. Perhaps I have purpose behind this gramatical cataclysm, that in some circles of experts would start a fightful schism. How dare I use poetic form to mix and mince devious words, that I misplace commas and semi colons and miss use such absurds. That I simply write to be free of this confining mess, this overloaded world of ours that ever causes distress, over the simple things such as this and that, and theses and thoses, from the tip of out heads, to the top of our noses. Oh yes, how dare I, I the one with the ability to say, and speak and write free. Oh dear. How. I. Dare. To. Simply. Be. Me. And so I leave this to you, so that you may do whatever it is you wish to do. Whether it be to simply laugh and giggle, to dance or to jiggle, or to even argue and bicker with the foulest of complaints. You are free to do so, I bear you no restraints. But, before you do. Think.

Made me laugh, made me think, made me think

=0
THIS could be published Wolf.
It is AWESOME.




And I am completely jealous of your talent. But that's okay.

It does make you think about alot... Geez this is amazing.

A very short story, just to change things up

Wanderer

It had been some time since she had had any company. In this blasted wilderness of mouldering concrete and half glassed asphalt, with the glare of obsidian, compnay was hard to come by. The sky was a constant putrid grey with swirls of brown running through it, and where bird once gave sweet melodies silence now ruled unending. The only sound aside from her ragged breathing and beating heart, was the slap of her rag covered feet, hardly a whisper in the empty world she roamed.
She had wandered for as long as she could remember. She gathered what little food and water she could, but it had always seemed to miniscule to overcome the needs of her flesh. She was naught but a skeleton, poisoned by everything she had partaken in. Whether it was the air she breathed or the food and water she consumed. Poison was ever coursing through her fragile shell of a body. And, there was no one to comfort her.
There was no one to comfort her, no one to whisper the sweet lies that everything would be alright. That there was a warm place that was filled with the green grass, the blue sky and chirping birds of her childhood. Where children ran in a carefree frenzy knowing that no harm could befall them, knowing that the world would not move one. Ah...such lies. Yet, even if someone were to tell her them, she would dismiss them in cold cynism, for this world, filled with its poisons and half mad savages, that were once call human beings, was a cruel and uncaring mistress.
She totters on, only to fall and dash her skull against the cold unyield ground, that gives of a sickened heat all the same. She tries to regain her feet, but the effort proves too much. 'So,' she thinks, 'this is wear I will end my wanderings.' Her breath comes out in a sigh like a death rattle. And as she closes her eyes in preparation for a time she thought would never come, she hears a voice, 'Hello?'

the world would not move one

this is wear

>.> my bad for the spelling errors

Mors amarum sic

We were once among the living,
We who have given all.
The crosses mark where we now lay
And the red flower surrounds our grave.
Far off the guns still roar
And cries of comrades haunt us ever more.
Here we lay in silent wait
We, brave men, who served our fate.

Mors amarum sic.

From The Writer's Desk

I feel self assured in calling this the bast@rd child of Poe and Dr. Seuss; but it's fantastic :]

I love how you were able to work in a bleak look at the bleaker idea of realism with some fantastic literary devices. The only problem I have with it is I want more philosophy thrown in there when I got to the part discussing the methods you used to write it I found myself wanting the ideology back.

I live to frustrate

I feel self assured in calling this the bast@rd child of Poe and Dr. Seuss; but it's fantastic :]