Mitch

[b]That all Words are Created Equal[/b][E] Words are people of a government, ruled by the monarchy of queen Grammar. She's an aged woman, anal retentive but meaning well. In history, someone once yelled "The British are coming! The British are coming!" On this day, a special Word yelled, "The Syntax are coming! The Syntax are coming!" Thus began the Revolution.

[b]running two miles, then walking .10 miles[/b][E] runningfeettap whirwhirwhir runningfeettap whirwhirwhir runningfeettap whirwhirwhir breathheavebreathheave runningfeettap whirwhirwhir runningfeettap breathheavebreathheavebreathe runningfeettap whirwhirwhir wetsweatwetsweat whirwhirwhir runningfeettap wetsweatwetsweat breatheheavebreatheheave heave,heave,heave runningfeettap heaveheaveheave runningfeettap whirwhirwhir wetsweatwetsweat breatheheavebreatheheave whir, whir, whir running, feet, tap whir. . .whir. . .whir walk, walk, walk breathe, heave, breathe huffpuffhuffpuff heave, breathe, heave whir. . .whir. . .whir wetsweatwetsweat walk, walk, walk stepping off. . . huffpuff, huff puff huff puff puff, puff, huff puff. . .huff. . .huff huff. . .

[b]Menses[/b][M] "Mommy, oh, mommy." She ran. Blood dotted the floor. "Oh dear." Little Susan was holding a band-aid on her muff. "Mommy, it's bleeding, it hurts, but mommy - I didn't even hurt it!" "Oh dear, it's all right." They hug. "This is natural." "Natural?" "Yes." Mommy took the band-aid off. "You're becoming a woman."

[b]Deliquescion[/b][PG] Death had been working out. Muscles bulging, head cocked, he gave Life glance. Life, puny, pacified, shivered cold fear. "You've nothing to fear but fear itself," Death voiced. Death snuck over, grabbed Life. " I feel your fear," he said. Life whimpered. Things began to rot about Death. Soon enough, that would be Life. Life cried.

one day a new nation will look at our yellowed page in history and recount our trials and our errors one day the united states will not exist we will be dead dust in the past one day we will be to other nations as were the romans to us -------------------------------------------------------------------------------- every day, my feet, my legs run me two miles on a treadmill that takes me nowhere the ground moves for me and i'm forced to run along or harshly fall off -------------------------------------------------------------------------------- my irises are green envy a circular forest of jealousy trees reaching toward the light with rooted legs, barked branch hands my pupils are black and empty and nothing, a black hole, desolate and bleak they are the night sky of the forest i think i see fire somewhere in the distance a passionate, choking flame sputtering on its own fumes, a dancing lunacy eating foliage to its irascible, incensed, mouth this fire has determination from the oxygen it breathes and frustration hangs on the leaves as fall comes, withers the land and forces them to fall a fire is inside, it must be extinguished daily or this forest making color will die and vision fade to black and trailing plumes it must be fed, held back if you look, some days i might have devil eyes burning at you that's when i need release some days my trunk might have horns spiny pricks that stick on you and that's when i need release -------------------------------------------------------------------------------- i touched the end where the pleasure fills the abyss today i felt the rough edges of chaos with my fingertips today i dredged through a swamp of muck, and sticks today i thought of you but drowned you and called it a suicide your body haunts, your eyes dead holes, your body rag dolls baby doll today i touched myself but i was touching you i buried my soul's grave, laid dead flowers everything's dead the thunder bellows from a sky its mouth open wide somewhere i swear i see tomorrow full of streaks of pain and curtained in pleasure, darkness a privacy -------------------------------------------------------------------------------- you itch me itch me in the right place you touch my touch me in my face you can have you can take everything i am, everything i am you itch me itch me an itch i can't touch i feel dead, spinning a life it's full of aches can you take me let me off to that place? you itch me itch me, where're we going? what're you showing? -------------------------------------------------------------------------------- Wake up is the make up we wear on our faces dabbed on to hide how we are tired sleep would be the life but we're here this monday morning doing what's to be done

This is quite hard, but here we go. [b][1] Radiohead[/b]. If you're a fan of the band, then you know what I feel. I've listened to pretty much every song of theirs, and like each one in its own way. If you want to get into them, I'd purchase [i]OK Computer[/i]. The album was released in the late 90's, and is one of the best albums of that decade. You can usually find it for sale at Target some of the time, for a steal of $10. Or, if you want to go forth and search the net, I'll recommend some of my favorite songs. "Lucky," off of [i]OK Computer[/i], is probably my favorite song of theirs, I suppose. It's nearly impossible to just say this is my favorite song, but it's an amazing song. Basically, it's a love song, and it makes you feel all warmly cold, numbly lukewarm. Breathtaking and amazing. "The Tourist," off of, again, [i]OK Computer[/i], is amazing. "Scatterbrain (As Dead As Leaves)," off of their newest album [i]Hail to the Thief[/i]. Amazing song. It's really wailing, and sort of makes you just disappear in calm melancholy. Thom's voice is beautiful in it. I love this song, too, a lot of the time. "A Wolf at the Door," is an amazing song as well. Off of [i]Hail to the Thief[/i], I like the cut-off, snippy feel of it, and how Thom just keeps going on and on and on with the lyrics, they drivel out. About the middle of the song, Thom just keeps pounding away, and you can feel his alienation in the way he sings, and it's just amazing. "My Iron Lung," is another favorite. It takes some getting used to. This song was from [i]The Bends[/i], also released in the 90's. It was back when Radiohead weren't experimenting all too much, and had a punkish, alternative rock sound. The song is a mellow-at-times-then-catharsis-yell roller coaster. I love it. And lastly, I'll go with "Exit Music (for a Film)," from [i]OK Computer[/i]. It's a really sad, bitter song, and I like it. The lyrics, and the way Thom sings them, are also amazing. I also like how it's quiet then somewhat explodes toward the middle, and I love the bitterness and the coldness of the song. Beautiful, beautiful, beautiful. To get these songs, I would just send them to you if my internet was working, but it's not working right now. . .just add machineofbones to your AIM buddylist, or [email]dilapoid@hotmail.com[/email] to MSN messenger, and I'll get them to you when you catch me. That is, once I get my net back downstairs, if ever. Or you could try to find these songs using other methods. And then buy their albums if you find you love them. They aren't for everyone, but I think in general if you don't love them you've at least got to like a few of their songs. [b][2] Nine Inch Nails[/b], I guess. I think everyone's at least heard "Closer" by them. I really enjoy them, and Trent's lyrics and music make sense to me. I like the dark feel of almost every song, I like the machine-sounding monotiny of Industrial music. It's all so beautiful and something I can understand. This band must be great when you consider Johnny Cash did a cover of "Hurt," which is pretty crazy, considering Cash is Country music. Country is about as far from Industrial music as you can get nearly. If you haven't heard them, then I'd recommend getting an EP released 1992, called [i]Broken[/i]. Although it's only a few songs (as EPs are), it's a really great album. And it's also cheap. About $10 if you look on eBay. Or just pick it up where you can find it for about that price. Some songs to give a go with them are: "Last." It's from [i]Broken[/i]. It's one of the more heavy metal-ish songs NIN has. Broken's a lot like this song, too - more metal-y than most of what I've heard of NIN. The lyrics are amazing, Trent is amazing, the song is amazing. It rocks. If you don't like it there's got to be something wrong with you. Either that or you're anti-rock. Which is sad and makes me cry. "Something I Can Never Have." Turn off all your lights. Get rid of all other noise than this song. Sit there and listen to it. It's such an incredibly atmospheric song. It just makes everything dark and soft, sort of like when you go out and walk at night, and lights glare at you in the way they do. That's what this song is like. It's like escaping into a different world. The world of Trent Reznor's soul. Great, great, great song. From [i]Pretty Hate Machine[/i]. "Hurt." It's from [i]The Downward Spiral.[/i] It's a reflection-type song, and it's amazing. The lyrics, the subtlety, its simpleness instrumentally, its quietness to the point of numbing pain. If you haven't heard this song, just go die. Now. Or listen to it and don't die. "Somewhat Damaged," from the more instrumental double-disc album, [i]The Fragile[/i]. I like how heavy and noisy it is, and the lyrics are quite amazing. "Closer," also from [i]The Downward Spiral[/i]. I'm pretty sure many people have heard this song. If you aren't one of them, I feel your pain of being left out. Its lyrics are sensual, sexual, and genius, and not endearing at all, but blatant and yelling. That's the mark of genius. Have you women ever wanted to know what it's like to be a man like Trent and I? Then listen to this, and you'll understand. [b][3] Pink Floyd[/b]. I still haven't heard every single song of Floyd. But, I have heard most of them. I'm very certain a lot of people have heard their music on classic rock stations. Most likely a lot from [i]The Dark Side of the Moon[/i] and [i]The Wall[/i], as well as "I Wish You Were Here" from the album of the same name. Floyd is just amazing. They are the best classic rock band in my opinion. They beat out Zeppelin, AC/DC. Every other rock band. Recommended songs: "Wish You Were Here," of course. I don't think I need to explain. The song explains itself, and I'm sure many (if not all) of you have heard it. "Learning to Fly" is from [i]A Momentary Lapse of Reason[/i]. This is a pretty recent album, and it's missing a few key members of the band, but it's still a great album despite it. Not as good as their older albums, but good nonetheless. Certainly a hell of a lot better than a lot of the garbage that's released nowadays. I've actually memorized most of the lyrics to this song. It's such a great song and should be heard by all. "Comfortably Numb." What can I say? What needs to be said? I love the instrumentals at the end of the song, I love how much I can identify with this song. "Shine on You Crazy Diamond (all parts)." Extremely long instrumentals, nice lyrics, does anyone have a lighter I can swirl to and fro in the air in mellow feeling? It's from [i]Wish You Were Here[/i]. "The Trial." From the double-disc, Roger-Waters-looking-at-his-navel, [i]The Wall[/i]. Has anyone seen the movie [i]The Wall[/i]? This song is near the end of it, and it's such an amazing song in its own right, but paired with the movie and what it all means, it's just amazing. "Time." What can I say? Amazing song. I love the lyrics. I love the beginning, all the clocks clattering. It's from [i]Dark SIde of the Moon[/i]. "Eclipse." I love how short but wise the lyrics and the song are, how simple it is. From [i]Dark Side of the Moon[/i] as well. I could go on and on about my Floyd, but that is enough, but not all the songs by them, I'd recommend. I'll give my fourth and fifth place songs some other time. . .running low on time.

It brought a smile to me. It's just so Charles, as writing of Charles should be. Good job, old chap. You'd sell them like hot noodles.

Well, here it is again, with the rating I forgot (my apologies). I'd like an analysis of what the poem means to you. As well as what you think is good or bad about it, and how I can improve what is bad about it. [quote]my irises are green envy a circular forest of jealousy trees reaching toward the light with rooted legs, barked branch hands my pupils are black and empty and nothing, a black hole, desolate and bleak they are the night sky of the forest i think i see fire somewhere in the distance a passionate, choking flame sputtering on its own fumes, a dancing lunacy eating foliage to its irascible, incensed, mouth this fire has determination from the oxygen it breathes and frustration hangs on the leaves as fall comes, withers the land and forces them to fall a fire is inside, it must be extinguished daily or this forest making color will die and vision fade to black and trailing plumes it must be fed, held back if you look, some days i might have devil eyes burning at you that's when i need release some days my trunk might have horns spiny pricks that stick on you and that's when i need release [/quote]

[b]Clusterfuck[/b][M] "Do you know what Vietnam was, son?" Tom didn't know what to say. There was a correct answer, he didn't know what it was. "No." "It was a clusterfuck." A few students winced at the language. "It was a goddamned clusterfuck." His eyes looked tear-eyed, raptured in pain, but not a tear fell.

[b]Dance, Dance to the Revolution![/b][B] Dance, dance to the revolution! Your body's a fucking pigskin, a used and shattered slave to the machine, a resuscitator as it bleeds to death! His stress leaks away with each fell swoop of the foot. My stress escapes through locked doors and fingers holes, the welts, in me. This only exacerbates. I can't stop.

[b]Itching Sandpaper[/b][T] The nose a leaky, broken faucet. Reddended irritation. Lips chapped. Throat itching sandpaper. Sleep, rest, was far away. The day eyed him pissily. "Here's one who's weak," thought it. Sickness kept stirring him, a stick in wet mud. Round, round, round it went. Where she stops, nobody knows. By the time day was done, night prowled.

I think Tool defines grunge in every way possible. Amazing band.

Always remember there's ways to twist numbers to make them say what you want them to, and also that you have to make sure a poll is done with a random, diverse group of people, otherwise it won't represent an entire sum of people.

I've been accepted to Dickinson State University. I suppose I'd rather go out-of-state, to some fine writing school. . .but it'll cost too much money. But I don't know, I might consider going out-of-state, we'll see.

Two of my poems have been published in poetry collections for [url]http://www.poetry.com[/url], and I've had excerpts of my poem "Cocoon Swoon," and had my poem "The Desolate Shatter and the Open Plain" published in my school's first publication of its lit mag, [i]Anti[/i]. I was also on [i]The Star[/i], our school's newspaper, my junior year. Each issue I wrote a column in it, and I wrote a decent number of journalism stories, as well. I plan to write a novel before I die. Two if it comes to it. Three if it comes to it - whichever. Right now, in fact, I'm attempting to write a novel. It's abot 10,000 words at this point, and I've not written in it for a month or so, but my goal is to complete it before this year's end and the next year's beginning. I plan to get a book of poetry published, perhaps a book of short stories. I already have a big enough collection of poetry to fill a book (after I would sharpen the pieces up, that is), and I probably have about half of what I need for short stories to make a book out of. I'll also be getting a good number of my pieces published in this year's [i]Anti[/i], so much so that we've kiddingly called it "the Mitch mag." I still don't know [i]exactly[/i] what specific part of the career I'm going to dwell in, but I know I'll be doing something with writing. I plan to major in something with writing, and minor in something in science.

[b]Till Death[/b][G] Poetry [i]is[/i]. That's all that matters. That it exists, nearly impossible. That it's dying, there is truth. Poetry is expression. It is not cold calculating math. It is not so easily defined. Flaws are what make everything perfect. Perfection is unattainable. I will not lay down my pen. Now I will use it more. Till death.

[b]Poemed[/b][G] The man told him how to write. No other way. Either the poem had meter, rhythm, rhyme, or it wasn't a poem. Juan detested this, it killed his creativity. Imagination. His sense with words. Putting down the pen, he laid his head on the desk. Wrote his poems in his head instead, didn't share. ____________________________________________________________ [b]What You Sit On[/b][G] The world had switched its way. Humans were eradicated. Chare, a whicker chair, stands atop the bodies. The furniture had won, glory was theirs. No longer would the humans sit on them, squish them, discomfort them. "Begin work!" says Chare. His race of people begin dismembering bodies, making the corpses into furniture. _____________________________________________________________ [b]Shoe-Tied and Twisted Just an Earth-Bound Misfit I[/b][G] "Daddy, I can't. I don't wanna," said Franky. He is trying to tie his shoes for the first time - with trouble. "Son, c'mere, no - no - hand it over, here - let me show you." He tries again, fails. "Oh, son, c'mon! You can do it! Here - I'll show you again. . ." Franky's making progess. Someday he'll do it. _______________________________________________________ [b]Phallic[/b][M] Wanda considered the banana. Its yellow outside holding succulent fruit within. She was trying to pry it open: no luck. Its phallical shape. Freud'd been around, he'd say something, for sure, about this. He would tell her, "You have trouble getting in mens' pants." It was probably true. Eventually she bit it, and it opened. ________________________________________________________ [b]Just Holes[/b][T] "I don't wanna see anymore, do it," says Lisa. "I'm tired of seeing. Being blind will let me really see." "Whatever you want, lady," says Jim. "Jus' gimme the money." A suitcase heavy with bills is thrown. Jim begins feeding her laughing gas. "Nighty-nighty lady," he says. "When ya wake up, no eyes. Jus' holes." _________________________________________________________ [b]Whizzing[/b][T] God called in sick today. Common cold. He was a-hacking and a-couging all over the damn place, so God found a random bloke to watch over things. That's me, Bob. I've managed to really jinx things up. I took a piss, a real big whizz in the Pacific Ocean. Flooded so many countries I can't see right. __________________________________________________________ [b]Time's Hands[/b][M] Time was being a bitch to John. 88 years old, he was a wrinkled piece of shit. Time had put his hands all over this man, loosed his skin, given him hell. John stared at the clock, watched the goddamn hands move. It beckoned him. [i] "Ready to die, fuckface?"[/i] Driving him mad. [i] "Ready to die?"[/i] __________________________________________________________ [b]Painful Happy Face[/b][T] The painful happy face greeted Ronaldo. Wal-mart it was if ever. He stepped in. His pocket was full of money. In his other pocket lay the lighter. An old lady handed out stickers. He took out his lighter, set the flame. "Wanna mess with me?" he said. "I'm a pyro." "Oh dear lord!" she said. __________________________________________________________ [b]Daintress Dead[/b][M] Sylvia walks home from a friend's late at night. An attractive woman, she walks in that dainty way. She carries a purple purse. Landers drives home from the bar. 5 o'clock shadow, slurred vision, blaring music. He's speeding. But he sees her crossing the street. Landers wants her, tries to stop, hits the gas. THUNK. ____________________________________________________________ [b]Ingested Creation[/b][T] The world was bent from its corners, torn and pried. Unwrapped and eaten like a twinkie. God was hungry, sick of His creations. He'd let them out into this world of His, He could take them back in. He shoved them all in His mouth, ate the entire earth. The stomach ache was coming. ____________________________________________________________ [b]The Android[/b][T] Alavov stood, admired. The creation was finished. It stood before him, the perfect synthesis of organic and mechanical. Of human and machine. He pushed the on switch on his control panel. A whir. Light flooded into its eyes. It moves. "Yes, yes, this is it!" he yelled. A fizzle. Flames. The android falls over, a dud. ___________________________________________________________ [b]Hard Silence[/b][T] We hug. He's too tense. But, that's the way he is. "I haven't seen you forever," I say. "Yeah." He looks tired. "It's been hard." I crane my neck. "Hard?" "Hard." I nod. Silence. ". . .How's college?" "It's all right." He looks at the ground, kicks his foot. "I'll see you later, mom." He turns. Disappears. ___________________________________________________________ [b]Sound of Night[/b][T] The grasshoppers. The sound of night. Deborah stood. Her eyes were open but unseeing. Her head was out the window. "The sound of night," she says. She breathes in deeply. She conjures up images of what the night might look like. She feels alone. The chirping lulls her. She falls asleep, head on window-sill. ____________________________________________________________ [b]You're Dead[/b][M] Death is breathing on you. "I'm breathing, on you." He's coming for you. "I'm coming." You're running. Stop. You fall in hay, beside the barn. Your eyes are wide afraid. Too late for you. "It's too late." Give up. Give up! You're sliced, you're diced, you're cut, lacerated, decayed. Gone, extinguished, extinct. Thanks for living. _____________________________________________________________ [b]He'd Say[/b][T] He was beautiful. On the outside. Inside, he was rank with decay. "You want my love?" he'd say. "You can have it. It'll be a whore's love." "All's pointless, non-existence is key," he'd say. "Exist is pain, absence of, beauty." "Love's a dried-up insipid word," he'd say. He'd say. He still says, somewhere. ______________________________________________________________ [b]Pissing Angels[/b][M] The angels had a bathroom break. "Hey, Cupie! I bet I can piss longer than you!" "Let's have a go," he said. The wind was strong, the fight was bitter and long. "Cupie, you're not wussing out, are you?" "No." Cupid's stream diminished. "Fuck!" he yelled. Covered his mouth, ashamed. Below, piss rained. Acid rain. ______________________________________________________________ [b]Lost Poetics[/b][G] The poem roamed alive. The steps it trodded faded by. It waved to passing faces on the streets of nowhere. Everyone was sad. Tired. Sick. Gutted to the core. Here the poem stood, beckoning the peoples' hearts. "Understand me," the words cluttered on the page desperately pleaded. "I can numb the pain." But most turned. . . ______________________________________________________________ [b]Welcome to Hell[/b][T] "Welcome to hell" outside sign reads. Hell is welcoming, isn't it? No fire here. Maybe every so often (ie, the two towers). No whips but the metaphorical. At the podium, he's in a devil suit. This isn't Halloween. He's showing his true colors. "God bless America." His horns horny, all servile pawns're in his hands _____________________________________________________________ [b]Sprawling Gone[/b][T] War was pointless to Jack. That's why he went. He figured life was pointless, at least war wasn't dull. He held the automatic, hid behind bushes. Heart thud-thudding, he gathered up courage. Ran. A hail of bullets hits him. The pain grasps him, he sprawls to the ground. The blood tastes warming. He beckons it. ____________________________________________________________ [b]Pig Sty[/b][G] He throws clothes out of my drawer. "These aren't folded." Some hit me. He throws the covers off my bed. "This isn't made." "You're a lazy slob." "This place is a pig sty." The story of my life. It's unconfrontable. His voice is always with me. Won't go. I'm never good enough, never will be. _____________________________________________________________ [b]The Mess that Felt Organized[/b][T] Adam wrecked his room in self-loathing. He tore down younger pictures of him. Ripped them to shreds. Stomped his measly trophies to junk. Broke the cookoo clock. Threw his bedsheets off. Crumpled the love letter from Betty. The whole room was a mess. It felt organized. It felt [i]him[/i], and no one else. ______________________________________________________________ [b]Don't Mess with This Woman[/b][T] A jab in the jaw. Blood wets linoleum floor. He falters back, catches himself. Puts hands in fists, arms up. He lobs for her head. She dodges, lands punch to his stomach. She breathes heavy. He falls, grasps stomach, lies prostrate. "Beaten by a woman. Hmph. You'll never try to steal my purse again." ______________________________________________________________ [b]He Didn't Care[/b][T] He banged his head against the wall till blood oozed out the corners of his skull. He smiled as unconsciousness eased its way. Everything faded. From far away the world was calling him. . .More specifically, a kind old woman who stumbled on him at the street. "What happened!" she was yelling. He didn't care. _______________________________________________________________ [b]Kibbles and Bits[/b][G] Lola the dog didn't get humans. They petted her. Why? They'd come up to her and bark. . .but it wasn't barking. It felt like it had meaning. They ate exquisite meals; she got kibbles-and-bits (although she got scraps sometimes). That was why when she came to the pearly gates, God had some explaining. ________________________________________________________________ [b]American Laugh-off[/b][T] It was the plastic bag going back and forth, a la [i]American Beauty[/i]*. A stoner's obvious reaction was laughter. We were cracking up, bad. "Dude, ohmygod, I can't even breathe," Larry said. "Jus' look at it, over there." People were staring at us. I looked to Larry, the bag, and started laughing again. *If you have not seen the movie, there is a character who finds beauty in the visual, and captures it on video or with photography. There is a part where he shows a video he'd took of a bag, going back and forth from the wind, on the ground, and he thought that was beautiful. There was music and everything at that part, trying to capture the moment. _________________________________________________________________ [b]Words Alive[/b][T] "Ready to die?" the bully said. [i]Sticks and stones may break my bones. . .[/i] ". . .But words will never hurt me," Shain whispered. He tried to fight it; he was losing - he was giving in, it was too fast. The word entered his head, and came alive. Soon he was on the ground, grasping his heart, convulsing. __________________________________________________________________ [b]The Hole that Got the Star[/b][G] (Hello,) the Hole said. (I'm here.) (If you want to see me.) [Hi,] the Star beside it said. [I see you, wouldn't want to be you.] (Why's that?) [You're empty. Nothing.] (This's how I like it. I can suck everything inside me, not feel anything.) [What's it like?] (I can show you, if you want.) _______________________________________________________________ [b]She Canvas[/b][M] Her legs're spread open like a book. The pages turn, I'm trying reading them. You should never judge a book by its cover, but instead, by its insides. There's a person within a person deep inside us. A real us. The one who's hiding. I take out my scalpel. I'm an artist. She's a canvas. ______________________________________________________________ [b]Robotic[/b][G] Christopher had worked many grim days of his life. Same desk. Same computer. Typing away. It was monotonous. That was why one weekend, he built a robot out of cardboard. He named it after himself. He spray-painted it metallic. When he was done, he figured this is what he really felt like inside: robotic. _______________________________________________________________ [b]Weed's Seed[/b][G] The weed's seed landed on the green grass one summer's day. From it sprang roots which fed on nutrient, which made a dandelion. A time later, it dies, its hairs turning white. Jessica picks it. "He loves me." Picks. "Loves me not." She keeps picking until, "He loves me not." "Loves me not," she says. _______________________________________________________________ [b]Spoon It Over[/b][G] "Spoon it over," Quique said. He owned Park Place. Vern had landed on it. "Phrase's '[i]Fork[/i] it over.' Git it right." Vern hands him his money. "Take it, ya basterd." "Maybe I'm a bastard, but this bastard's winning. My turn?" "Yah yah yah, ya basterd." Quique rolled. Vern lit a cig. The stress was getting. _________________________________________________________________ [b]Cocoon Swoon[/b][T] Wanda was beautiful, she just didn't know it. She was still in her cocoon - that's what it was, had to be. "I'm ugly." She stares at the mirror. Stares at her hollow confines. Butterflies were meant to be free. Right now, she was caterpillar in the way of things. This was her cocoon swoon. _________________________________________________________________ [b]Tex Mex[/b][T] "You're a bad, bad man for what you done. You gone and done the worstest deeds I ever seen laid on. You're a real son of a gun, Tex." "Ain't it 'truth?" "Oh you well bet." "And now it come down to this." Tex put his hands on his guns. Harry did the same. "Draw!" __________________________________________________________________ [b]Goodbye[/b][T] Goodbyes souring are gumdrops in your mouth. Goodbyes whispering are hisses. "Goodbye." Benjamin walked away. [i]Goodbye[/i], such an insufficent word. It tastes longing, sickening, empty. That goodbye was a harbinger of the inevitable slaughter of my son. Oh, I'm crying. Tears are rain - turn away, don't face me. He's just a numb number. ___________________________________________________________________ [b]My Neck Broken Wood[/b][G] I'm not depressed. The tired, monochrome, wailing feeling tunes the right note. I'm a guitar the world plays, hand-for-hand, sometimes softly, sometimes crass. You'll hear my music play. If you hear it you'll hear it. If you ignore it you'll ignore it. Far away my strings break. My neck broken wood. ____________________________________________________________________ [b]What He's Thrown Is Better than He Thinks[/b][T] A garbage full. Crumpled nothings. Letters written the wrong order the wrong time the wrong place. He sits in digs around his head. Pulls off his brain's clothes, prances it around naked. A flopping excuse. One of his neuro synapses must be blocked. Perfection ruins. Flaws are pretty. What's crumpled is probably genius. Too bad. _____________________________________________________________________ [b]Geraldo Gets Zombied[/b][T] The zombie was coming for Geraldo. It was moaning as if in orgasm. "That's right, moan for me baby. I know you want the action." It did so. It was getting closer. "Can you believe this perv? I'm sure in orgasm speak he's saying, 'I want your ass.'" Closer. "You can't have my ass! Sorry!" _____________________________________________________________________ [b]Fine Swine[/b][T] The pigs oinked. "Now who among you," said David, "ate the hens' eggs." The pigs oinked. "One of youse gotta fess up!" The pigs oinked. "So this's how you're gonna play? Well, I can play." He took out a shotgun. "Tell me. Or else." The pigs oinked. He grabbed a pig and shot its head ____________________________________________________________________ [b]They Were Never Meant to Get It On[/b][M] Life and Death were having a little romp. Death was a gaping emanciated hole, Life was a wrestling hopelessness of smacking passion. They necked each other, they kissed each other. Death was quite aroused. Inside his hole he felt an itch. Life shone himself inside. Death moaned. Death hollowly orgasmed, Life sweated away his pain. _________________________________________________________________ [b]Fessup[/b][G] "I jus' can't buhlieve," says Gerald. "For how long've we been slaves to the blacks?" "Since forever," says Ward. "Now ya better hoe. Seer's comin' this way." Gerald hoed the field. The seer, Angelo, stands, hands on hips. "An' what I jus' heer of yo' tue?" "Nothin'," they voice in unison. "I heerd sumthin'. Fessup." ___________________________________________________________________ [b]Was It True?[/b][T] [i]Forgive them, for they know not what they do.[/i] The second of God's sons sits in an electric chair, a black holder on his head. [i]My name is Wenton Mallin. I'm the Next Coming.[/i] They don't believe. Electricity thunders. He rocks back and forth. His eyes're just whites. It stops. He's dead. Was it true? ____________________________________________________________________ [b]Lungs Might Burst[/b][T] Sweat falls off face, legs running in place, hands up and down, breath heaving in, heaving out. Dexter ran from it all. The past, present, future, life itself. That was his fear. He runs until his lungs might burst. He finds himself on some interstate to nowhere. The sun is leaving. He collapses. He's leaving. ___________________________________________________________________ [b]It's to a Sand Castle[/b][G] The sand, the beach, the fun. Fred sifted it through his fingers, shimmering. He took the bucket, plastic shovel, began work. When he finished, he was the sole owner of an immaculate sand castle in the far-reaches of the Sahara desert. It had sprawling walls, large towers, an atrium. Until dad stepped on it. __________________________________________________________________ [b]Glass Ball[/b][G] Everything got bigger and bigger. Atoms, cells, tissues, organs. Humans, Earth, space. The Maker held the glass ball in his hand. He could see nebulas, novas, planets, galaxies. It was all his own, small, kept in his hand. He smiled, reached inside, flung a meteorite at a stray planet. The bang amused him. He laughed. __________________________________________________________________ [b]Boogey Man[/b][T] The boogey man was gonna get me. I was runnin and runnin. . .everything fades around me. I saw his shadow in back of me. I wasn't gonna stop. He wouldn't get me. Fear was banging. Suddenly pain flared. My eyes opened and blood was in my hand. I'd hit the wall. I started cryin "Mommy!" __________________________________________________________________ [b]Wasn't a Cockroach[/b][T] My absent mind crawls. A spider's web full of dead or dying insects. Exoskeletons of what was. I lost your love because I wasn't a cockroach. I couldn't survive the winter, our winter. Too cold. It cracked my lips, sored my fingers to numbing. Now you're gone, reborn in this hexagonal beehive. I'll heal painfully. _________________________________________________________________ [b]Winter Keeps Bitching[/b][T] Softly whispering kisses on summer's dead, wilted bony hands. "I love you." You see her breath. Taking away warm lips touching each other with fingertips. "I love you." The deep voice of masculinity, "I love you, too." Scrapes away the numb. They hug in serenity forever. Winter keeps bitching. The temperature's negative. Cold is harsh. _____________________________________________________________ [b]Drowned in Alcohol[/b][T] Life was boring. You tried to stitch it to the happiness on the wall, but it didn't work. Everyone was damn bored, so they drowned in alcohol. I just watched as they became less and less human. More and more gone. It's a slipping feeling. By the night's end, they had passed out. I hadn't. _________________________________________________________________ [b]Dying Finger[/b][T] The dying finger prodded the trigger and pressured it, the gun discharged a bullet which flew its trajectory, flew into the sky. Gravity put its hands around the bullet and it flew down. Landed someplace to be forgotten. The man dying was to be forgotten. The murderer drove, dumped him to the river. _________________________________________________________________ [b]She[/b][T] She broke the mirror into shards that were broken flaws too beautiful to be perfection. When she looked at herself in the shards the right way she looked stunning. Perhaps if the shuffled deck of genes she had been dealt were more fortuitous, she would've been beautiful like everyone else. She wasn't. She hated herself. ________________________________________________________________ [b]He[/b][T] He stood on the edge of a problem and the beginning of a solution. Each day parts of him were decaying, others augmenting. He was a walking mansion. Hidden rooms, haunting ghosts, renovations. Outside his property were other buildings. Some were for sale. To co-own. He wasn' t up for the game. He felt foundationed. _________________________________________________________________ [b]Put to Sleep[/b][T] The dreary drug whispered [i]go to sleep[/i] to her. Her eyes were the heaviest weights she'd ever lifted. They were giving out. She yelped a tiring sigh. She moved her paws slowly back and forth. They stood around her, watching. She couldn't hold any longer. The last sound she heard was crying. She slept. Forever. _________________________________________________________________ [b]Hypothermia Killed the Santa[/b][T] Santa landed atop the roof. A jingle of bells, he dismounts from his sleigh. He begins walking to the chimney. Suddenly, his feet slipped from under him. He slid off the roof, and landed with a crash on the ground. He'd broken bones for sure. He lay there all night, died of hypothermia. He was missed. _________________________________________________________________ [b]Intelligence Kills[/b][T] The doctors had been giving Randy pills. He was stupid, they said. Inferior. Below intelligence. So they were devolping drugs to increase his intelligence. After many weeks, he had much improved intelligence. The doctors told him the effects would wear off. Knowing this, Randy tried to overdose on them. His brain swelled and he died. __________________________________________________________________ [b]Thriving[/b][G] The sun rose. Day began his dance. Night went to abyss. The sky was a blue ocean. Some planes swam in it. Skyscrapers scraped the world's ceiling. People skittered and scattered. Time counted the doom. Life was eyeing with wonder. When would this all end? It was too good to be true. But it thrived.

I took one year of Spanish my Sophomore year, didn't like it, and went to Latin. Right now I'm in Latin II, and I'm a senior. When I go to the uni after this coming summer, I'll be taking my generals, etc, and probably more latin. Also, I believe to get my major, it may require I take another language.

[QUOTE=AzureWolf][FONT=book antiqua][SIZE=2][COLOR=blue]Only 55% of the US population believes in Darwinism, and most around here have an ill-concieved notion that Darwinism can somehow coincide with their religious beliefs. What you are thinking of, Chabichou, is either Intelligent Design or Nomogenesis. I personally prescribe to the former.[/COLOR][/SIZE][/FONT][/QUOTE] If you prescribe to the former, I beckon you to read this article: [url]http://www.millerandlevine.com/km/evol/design2/article.html[/url]. Anyone else who's going to reply in this thread should also read that link. It's amazing. It certainly blew my mind. Here is another, opposing above article: [url]http://www.discovery.org/scripts/viewDB/index.php?program=CRSC%20Responses&command=view&id=1831[/url] The first article still packs a lot more power. The second is just what the first article said IC and ID, in general, is about: it's about being one step ahead of the ignorance of science. Saying that since something hasn't been explained yet, it must be IC, there must be ID, and Darwin must be wrong - things couldn't've happened by natural forces, there was something that did it, is assumptuous, and is only pointing out holes that have yet to be filled in the theory. Also, check this one out: [url]http://skepdic.com/intelligentdesign.html[/url]. The quotes at the beginning, and the ensuing article are a good read, too. ID is a really assumptuous and unscientific stance. I am not saying Darwin's theory is true. It is just what it is: a theory. It is not a truth, but there are more and more claims surmounting that support it. Until there's solid evidence against it, it's the best we have as to what got all that is here.

[b]Absence of Faith[/b] [G] "Everything's pointless," I say. Dad drives the truck, snow covers the ground, coldness shivers up me. "That's what happens to people with no faith," he says. I sit, do not say anything, he has said this many times, I would like to combat it, he would only say I was saying "psycho babble." We drive on.

Everyone seems to have forgotten me, lol, but it makes sense since I haven't shown my little face around here for quite some time. . .well, at least ole Drix put me down. I don't know about the whole meeting someone you know online thing. It would be strange and different. I could list a whole bunch of people. . .but. . .ah. . .what the hell. (They are listed in a certain order. All the jerks come first, and the better people come last.) [/sarcasm] They are listed in no order. Charles Charlie/ Heavin' Cloud Shinmaru Alex vegetarocker Sara, Sarah James Corey Mist Megan Erin/ Karma Alan Drixy Baron Babygirl (she's deceased) Shy [strike]Tasis[/strike]Zeh (he's deceased - oh, don't make me get into it, that whole thing was. . .bleh) Ginny (gone, as well) wrist cutter Desdos the sex maker Ajeh ( I miss that guy, he's never on AIM all too often anymore) Hugo/ Solo Mimmi Ken Aleia Rahia Dan L . . .I missed a lot I am supposing. Oh well. [quote][i]By Charles[/i] In relation to the topic, I'm not against meeting internet people per se but I've no desire to do so. It's difficult to explain. It's not easy to put my perspective into clearly definable terms so I'll put it this way: removing the mystique anonymity from the Internet and making it into something more personal than I would like.[/quote] Translation: I'm actually a fifty-year-old pedophile and rapist and I'm afraid I'd be banned from this message board and then I'd lose it, because this place is my life, goddamnit, and I wouldn't function without all the nice kids I meet here, and women.

What can I say. Americans are fat and angry, and if you put them in a car they are in a car and fat and angry, and thus they shall scream at whoever is in their way. I see it all the time. I seem to do it, too. It's not road rage, but you scream at anyone or say something in annoyance whenever you're driving and some old person driving makes you slow down, or whatever else it may be. I bet road rage is a clinical disorder and they'll have to develop some pill to treat it. I bet some doctor would diagnose me with a minor case of it.

Oh, this reminds me of Christina singing. It was such passionate displace to my young heart, and thus I went out and purchased the album with said song on it. It was my first music CD ever purchased. It's needless to say that I listen to much better music now. [quote] Oh whoa... My body's saying let's go Oh whoa... But my heart is saying no (no) If you wanna be with me, baby There's a price you pay I'm a genie in a bottle You gotta rub me the right way If you wanna be with me I can make your wish come true You gotta make a big impression I gotta like what you do I'm a genie in a bottle, baby Gotta rub me the right way, honey I'm a genie in a bottle, baby Come, come, come and let me out[/quote] I can just see her in the video, I saw it so much. Now, to the task at hand I suppose. Although my hand's kind of busy. [Did I say that?] :p Yes, a perverse mind is good. Now: [b]Wishy wish # 1:[/b] I would want to know how everything that is in the universe came to be, and why, and for what purpose, and all that beautiful drib. Then I'd know if there's a god or not and then I wouldn't have to be agnostic anymore because I would know the truth and I could walk around screaming the truth and I'd probably end up institutionalized because people would think I was crazy. Maybe some other people who didn't think I was crazy would think I was Jesus, the second coming of him, only instead of suffering at the Jews' hands, I would be suffering at the goverment's. [b]Wishy wish #2 :[/b] I would wish that all Otakus meet in a house of great grandeur, and we have a party there. Beer, champagne, punch, soda, all that goodly stuff would be there. Some people, such as James, would be drunk off their ***** and rolling happy-lappy by the end of it. It would be a grand time, and I'd also be able to meet some attractive ladies, such as Sarah, Sara, Erin, Ms. Japan, Toriness, Jenna (I would specifically ask for her presence to adorn us at it, even if she is no longer with us), Mimmi, Megan and whatever other girls I have missed (don't worry, you're all just as wanted). And yes, there are two Sara(h)'s around here if you didn't know. Well, now you know so what's there to know? I'd also get to meet Shy, James, Alex, Alan, Mikey (Shinny) and whoeverelseImissed. The awesomeness of this wish is hard to comprehend. Of course, at this party, we would have to take pictures and make a thread in OL full to the brim with said pictures - oh, it would be a memorable thing indeed. Think of it, all the members of OB, all at one place. Can you comprehend it? I cannot. [b]Wishy wish #3[/b]: I would wish to sleep forever and dream the most vivid dreams of my life. My real life is quite dull, I just go to school and work and do whatever inbetween, write and other such nonchalance. Sleep, sleep is great. You get to exist without any consciousness. It's an amazing thing, something I wish real life was more like. But that'll never happen. Eventually, after I dreamed for long enough, my dreams would become my reality, but it would be a reality I created and it would be all acid trippy and insane and wonderful. I wouldn't have to work, nor go to school, because I would be omniscient (all-knowing) and omnipotent in my world due to the fact that I created everything in it.

I have no resolution. I find them pointless. If you aren't doing something you want to do, then you've been putting it off way too much and chances are some "resolution" isn't going to make you follow through with it. Instead of saying words, go out and do what it is you want to change, whether it be getting in shape, learning, or whatever else satiates your little heart to joyous feelings.

Taking this thread to a deeper note. Chapter 3 of our A.P. Psych book addresses how much our parents really [i]do[/i] influence us as who we are. Despite popular claim, parents [i]do not[/i] influence their children as much as you'd like to think. Parents only account for "10 percent of a children's personality differences," but they do pass along more of their beliefs and values to their child. "Men resemble the times more than they resemble their fathers." - Ancient Arab Proverb. [quote]"It may be scary to realize how risky it is to have and raise children. In procreation, a woman and a man shuffle their gene decks and deal a life-forming hand to their child-to-be, who is then subjected to countless influences beyond their control. Knowing that lives are formed by influences beyond the parents' control is another reason for caution in crediting parents for their children's achievements and blaming them for their children's troubling traits. And if our children are not formless blobs sculpted by parental nurture, then perhaps we parents can relax a bit more and love our children for who they are." [i]P. 121, Psychology, 7th Ed., David G. Myers.[/i][/quote] Amen. Other things, other than parents, that influence us, are obviously peers, and our culture. "If you want to blame your parents for your own adult problems, you are entitled to blame the genes they gave you, but you are not entitled - by any facts I know - to blame the way they treated you. . .We are not prisoners of our past." - Martin Seligman, [i]What You Can Change and What You Can't[/i], 1994.