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.
It was a strange sensation, drowning. Once could not call it unpleasant - though it by no means was a joy ride, it brought about a morbid calmness. Even though he could have grabbed on to one of the scraps of metal from the blasted-apart boat he was passenger on, he didn't. He would never know why. Of course, the few waterlogged minutes he had to contemplate this decision as his lungs filled with saltwater were not suitable for mulling over such an issue - quite to the contrary, actually. Perhaps it was some sort of requiem he had been searching for. . .? An elegant ending to the trainwreck that his life had been, a way to add some flair to an otherwise gray experience? Of course, this led onto another tangent of thought - why is gray always considered boring? Is it a stereotype? A general walk of thought? A trail of thinking paved over and 4-laned for it to become a highway of synchronized human thought? A widely accepted epoch of relation?
He would never get the chance to finish thinking through this tangent. One's brain can only function for so long with no oxygen, after all. I guess it's time to return to the water. . . .
He had always found sanctuary in some aspects of Hindu and Buddhist thought - the reassurance was something comforting to him.
Of course, this was not a common circumstance - a idiosyncratic death sequence, to say the least. He had, all his life, lived on a British island. It was during WWII - U-boats were patrolling the water, shooting down any ship that left port. Vultures, willing to kill for an evil man and an evil cause. . .even civilians were the enemy, of course. . . . He, however, wanted to leave. The attacks had come to a lull, and he was confident his ship would be spared from the salvos of torpedos customary for the ships attacked before, especially since they appeared to be departing to some other mission.
He wasn't sure that his family would beg him to stay if he had one. He had always viewed them as a burden. People who live with you? Talk to you all the time? Depend on you? what a waste of molecules, families are. . . . He prided himself on his lack of a family to a point whether it wad genuine or a psychological filter put up by his subconscious to feel less self-pity was not something he could determine - nor did he want to. So he didn't, and he never would.
He took his money and his ticket to the port, presenting them to the manager of the place. He waved him through - appearing more concerned with his lack of hair then the chance of his passengers dying painful deaths - and the rest of the passengers as well, snatching the money and stashing it.
He gripped the rail as he got on the boat. He could move to London, write a book or two, and sit on what he had - easy enough. Of course, for him, the boat ride itself would be the hardest part of the path to success for him.
He hated riding on that boat. It never stopped rocking enough to give him a rest (he was a light sleeper) and the food was platry in flavor when applied to his (according to him) impeccable palate.
Then, he was shocked out of his half-asleep state on his bed. The captain had ordered the passengers awake. They were to prepare to be sunk, just in case. He didn't deem this necessary. He sneaked back into his room and did his best to re-enter that state of dazed resting.
Then, he heard a crunch of metal. A visceral tearing of the ship's hull, the inside exposed to the ocean. The water seemed eager to pervade the interior - to soak the decor, waterlog the halls, and lap against every door. So it did. Ocean water is not easily denied entry into a boat - not least when the entrance is so large. So, the humans yielded to the saltwater.
Then, another hit - the ship couldn't stand being hit twice at all. It was torn apart. Shrapnel flying every which way, scraps of metal and wood relaxing on the waves. The passengers were not so buoyant. Not being proficient swimmers, most of them drowned.
He had the clout to resist the water by treading it - an audacious act that couldn't go on forever. So it didn't.
The water seemed never to lose it's energy - it was always hyperactive, splashing around, coaxing his head under the water. He conceded. Such battles of force are not like debates. Oh, how I wish they were. . . .
His mind wasn't racing - it was taking a walk in the park, really. It sped up to a jog, before breaking into a run the deeper he sunk. It was short-lived. As aforementioned, you can only think do long when waterlogged and deprived of oxygen.
It looks good, but the only problem you have is in the sentence:
"He took his money and his ticket...".
Who took who's money? He took his money? Who is he and who is his? If I hadn't read the previous sentence, this would have caused some confusion. It should have been "The manager took his money and his ticket..." or if the man the story is about had a name, replace his with the name.
Some poor ideas for a Title could be: Deeps, Buyant... (like, Buoyant lead, people... They would be oppostites)
Ok, there lame but its all I could come up with. I dont know the thoughts that were behind/went into the story, so I'm not one to name it.
Hmmm, ok if you must beg. I was going to write a follow up to this poem, mine not LazyOne's but since you ask. It will be about him thinking about suicide beacuse he just can't stand to live with himself. There happy? Ohh, yeah, Could the title be Suicidal Thoughts.
I'll try. . . . I'm not in a rhyming mood, so you have minimalistic rhyming. Suicidal Thoughts (Sequel to to a poem by theLazyOne) The pad is out the paper's crumpled the rain smears the ink
the pen's dried and dying no room to think try to reach out to a friend
silent calls fall on deaf ears wait and wait, no condolences sent encephalon tortures stuck in place
shut in a box, taped and shipped when you can't run, change pace can't get out of your head, then go further in
Thought doesn't penetrate or the kind words of friends and kin try a more forceful approach?
take the gun in hand, to drill deeper end the tortures and pain encroaches lead can break suicidal thoughts
Ohhh, sorry. I'm tired right now. And my brother got into a lot of trouble last night and will probably charged with a felony, and to top that off he already has an unpaid speed ticket. So I'm kinda stoned right now.
Leik Yeah!! I am always stoned out of my fricken mind, cause of drugs. Probably more than Skater.
Lulz, just kiddin. But I am stoned without drugs. It is awesome.
What did he do?
Well, I don't know the complete story but I heard my dad say that him and his friend snuck out of his friends house and Starting throwing rocks at some other persons house. That is all I know about that.
And when my dad went to get him at 3:30 in the morning yesterday he came in and yelled at him (my brother).
You should think the lady that got the SH.IT beat out of her to save your life.
So I am wondering about what happened there.
And my sister heard my dad talking on the phone about something with my brother's friends parents and she something about them saying something about pressin charges.
So, to conclude that I am still comtemplating the whole situation at hand.
