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.
Summer piece, winter puzzle box the right placement is downside up near away, how it mocks chained to the spot by tight padlocks you cannot answer the door no matter how many knocks
no identification found empty notion is there, but offers no satiation they and you just ponder and frown they say there's no proof, but you know you're lost in translation
there's something there, you don't know what there's a tear, a rift, a paradox, a prime final cut a sinking feeling in your gut not lost, not found, it's an unexplainable mental rut
no identification found empty notion is there, but offers no satiation they and you just ponder and frown they say there's no proof, but you know you're lost in translation
Wow. Just wow. These poems are beautiful and somewhat emo-ish. :0 Well, it is very nice although I am still deciphering its meanings atm. Othere than that...
YOU'RE A FREAKING AWESOME WRITER!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! Maybe the best on AG.
