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
it's time for a paradigm shift to bask in the light of acceptance would be quite a gift more time to rest, less weight to lift and through these shifting sands you will sift
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
you acclimate, see the bright side it is minuscule, but in nothing you'll have to confide noone to befriend, none will chide it is a cold comfort to have the loneliness, you'll find
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
I'll be adding a verse and maybe a refrain until I think it's done.
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
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
it's time for a paradigm shift to bask in the light of acceptance would be quite a gift more time to rest, less weight to lift and through these shifting sands you will sift
you acclimate, see the bright side it is minuscule, but in nothing you'll have to confide noone to befriend, none will chide it is a cold comfort to have the loneliness, you'll find
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
Fear poem, won the poetry comp: (still not merit'd!!!111!1!!) It's intentions blood-soaked forlorn, devoid of hope no man or woman knows the reach of it's scope
it's a rotten denizen, untellably old the warm ember that leaves you cold the story we all know that remains untold
you need your senses, but they've deserted every ounce of strength you have perverted your mature psyche has been reverted
it's the man in the corner with the bloody knife it's hesitant, pensive and pure strife the gut-wrenching lurch that pervades your life
the feeling of falling and drowning on land the feeling of can't when you already can the feeling of sinking in quicksand
fear, the lurking shadow in the light the indescribable shock and fright against this foe, the strong have no might
the mark on everyone, the empty desolation the living death that offers no reanimation silently slow live cremation
as it raises the knife to pierce you so it's being goes in, around and through shrinking back, there's nothing to do. . . .
Apart from deer, all my animals have no eyes. I took them out in a fit of rage, and fed them to my shadow. And what did that ungrateful swine do? Swallowed me whole.
Apart from deer, all my animals have no eyes. I took them out in a fit of rage, and fed them to my shadow. And what did that ungrateful swine do? Swallowed me whole.
I destroyed a planet once. . . .
I was as if a million tiny souls screamed out in terror, and there was sudden, blood-choked silence.
I killed a million kitty cats, and took their fur. Then I made the fur into a carpet, which I promptly used for my toilet.
Then I recorded their cute screams, and listened to it as a soothing lullaby.
I took the tails of a billion puppies, cut them off with a rusty chainsaw, tied them together into a noose, hanged each one individually with that noose, then I untied the noose and to this day use it as a whip to keep my tortured slaves in line.
I took the tails of a billion puppies, cut them off with a rusty chainsaw, tied them together into a noose, hanged each one individually with that noose, then I untied the noose and to this day use it as a whip to keep my tortured slaves in line.
Huh, I did all that. PLUS I finished all the cookies on AG. Beat that!
Nothing but a poor excuse a pale barrier of protection a neon sign would be of better use a weak tool of attraction, reflection
you don't need glasses to rob someone blind or a crutch to be crippled divinity to be kind or a pond to make a ripple
don't need fire to make a spark don't need dynamite to light a fuse don't need to be naked to be stark and you don't need a reason when you have a poor excuse
Chill's expression betrayed nothing. His messy hair and dully pensive countenance placed an embargo on emotion, and his cold stare didn't help either.
Slender and rather tall, he wasn't as athletic as he appeared. His arms held little strength. His speed made up for it. His face held some gauntness, though not enough to look vampiric - his head was full enough to counteract it.
He was swathed in a blue hoodie sweatshirt, an undershirt which was invisible due to aforementioned sweatshirt, jeans and shoes. If needed, he could hide his eyes almost completely with his hood - a handy way to withdraw.
He almost always had a mug of tea in hand, steaming and comforting. It helped soothe his migraines. A ubiquitous comfort in also ubiquitous nights of little sleep, it helped wake him up because he knew he wasn't going to get another second of rest if he opened his eyes after sleeping on any given night. . . .
Among other things, he had a domain over majick. Proficient in the use and manipulation of water, (thanks to George) it was his main method of defense.
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I could practically write a book to describe my character. . .but this is good for now.
