Mitch

[size=1] An old poem of mine, probably close to the first, that I've memorized:[/size] [quote][b]Underneath[/b] Cloudy water endlessly deep for someone to keep Only underneath that cloudy water will you sleep[/quote] [size=1] I thought this poem was quite good, actually. I wrote it and it just came out as it is. Let's see...here's some snippets of old, old poems, ones that are at the beginning of my big word document with all my poems (which is now 1.06 megs now, lol) in it. [/size] [quote][b]Livie [/b] Living a lie is like being boxed inside insecurity becomes a partner paranoia raptures upon you a lineared line of step a lie is living watching as it all passes on by strangling inside seeing all the world crash into a pool of a hole falling into that fall as you waste it all time is living breathing in and out seconds of appointed pass seeing the hand of the clock immune to itself watching as you grow to rot as the hypocrisy of the clock just stares you on by and as you live a lie it eats upon time causing it to become a slow blur watching as time turns into minutes becoming hours years becoming decades decades becoming infinity infinity becoming beginning it all flows in a straightened pattern disengaging your will to accept that you're living a lie and insanity then becomes your time holding you upon the ground as time gets away with impunity watching as your life ages and grows moldy with that instilled insanity growing into a tangle of webs that grow deep from your mind that's the sacrifice of living a lie watching as time becomes no longer an understanding but a lie within every view of stare from your cries as you become but a secluded friend of time watching as it eats upon you from the inside [b]Behelden Beauty[/b] If beauty is to be beheld how is one to behold? is it grasped tightly and frantically until nothing is to behold except the true portrayal of the facade? If beauty is to be beheld how is one to behold? is it grasped intuitionally within? even is there a second time to doubt except that first visionary view? Because if beauty is to be beheld and one is to firmly behold it as one does faith is not beauty a formality of acrimonious glean put to outbuilding abuse? Uncertainly Certain I feel something inside of me a whimper of self-doubt a precontradiction of some eating intuition and I wonder to myself is it just an insecure turn to the left? or is it something so much more? uncertainty is always certainty yet still I can't help but wonder because wonder is uncertainty and uncertain is what I can be called decisions are only as hard as they look but looks can be the most devishly deceiving and if I am deceived I am wrong and to be wronged is to be certain but to be righted is to be uncertain in most predetermined choices yet alas this time I am ferally standing to be unwrong even if that does mean taking it all for what it seems because really this self doubt is really eating inside taking its godly good time granted that to mollify it is to faultingly blow the flame of uncertainty nothing has been such a certainty than that so here I still do stand accused by my very own conscience seemingly unable to find the true fiend of able wrong within my whispering echoes of my own subliminal incrimination [b]Knifed Heart[/b] Upon my eyes the moon does glow and bestow this radiance which feel I do all around the beauty I feel to the ground and so below yet all the earth alas doth reply is surround Even though this does the earth still embrace grant as of god's eternal unend of surmise so warmly the earth doth penance of scant like a warmly father of long concise And is not love of a like size of edge? a glowing shine upon our steep mortal ties but alas a knife forever placed upon pledge that so gently is knifed doth swing of binds And I see thy radiance of that heart keeping love in knife of all wounded part [b]Clifay[/b] If life were but a pile of clay nothing at the start and something in the end with what would you bend the clay? would you stand by and let the clay become? or would you take your very hands make it into a resemblance in your long assemblance make it into something worthy of you something with which you could do or would that clay become distorted shape an unsymmetrical pile to view a craterous image of you? because truly life is but a large pile of malleable clay able to flex and break in one notion shaping into a face of unknown due a conveyed reaction of hand-made you [b]Bleyend[/b] Can I but capture a slight'st view of blind? is what that is thy mind? It seems true that some eyes are shut but, ask I, is where be your eye? doth it entangle inside thine tissues? but giv'st me a look, then may I choose that I do, and now I see: blind are those which chose so be and chose that, that did thee fall thus down, down onto thy knee and try, try but see: see me true, that as I be there, now, do thee see: open thine eye, show away that dust capture away such trivial crust now, again I doest ask: do now, now thee see? this not be, now, do tell me stand true, make what is not haste, now, ask I again: do tell, tell now me, do thee see? tell something to you, must I now: chosen are you blind to me yet, I still persevere to see I need gone which clevers mine and all's vision as do thee welly need, as I, and I do try try yet is not mine chosen alas, must you, you must give chance you know I tried tried that for you give way, give but chance do not I deserve but even that? [/quote] [size=1] I don't hate these poems...I just feel I definitely have improved over this. Rather I have natural talent or such is open to say, but I think that is one of the things that eternally fosters me to keep writing, anyway. Here are some of my medium-ishly created poems (meaning they were created more recently than those above).[/size] [quote][b]commas of hair[/b] pause your lips on the comma of hair ulcer a period there ulcer a period there on the eight dangles of hair lick your tongue and indent the tail this indent has entrails teeth-marked spiders that squirm never a scorpion never a worm a semicolon night crawler broken stigmata to my eyes i see a scorpion but a period cries it salivas and tears and ulcers a period there crawly spiders that pause and stare eight eyes and eight dangles of hair and their eyes wonder if you care smelling and wrapping your lips the slow pressure of resist and the pleasure of buzz eventually the tail breaks off leaving a sigh and a flush the comma to a period as all touch ending first then much the lice infest semicolon nightcrawlers of what broken chains that say love emoticons of what was bleed ovaries for blood the first time is the last kiss cessations are hard to resist and it is good and it is right to pause to stop on a comma of hair of love, of care and to ulcer a period there so many are eyes wide and shut and with sigh and with a hush so much to ulcer a period there to watch the scorpion turn into a spider and all it can do is stare swelling and wrapping your lips their eyes falling like hips it's the dirt we always forget but all you can do is stare watch and wait until the exoskeleton bares it is better to be a comma and pause but even better a period to end parenthesis are nice like freezing it all in desperate ice sad to know even when you fight that a comma is only a crust of dust a scorpion in a desert soon to be lost one day to lose the tail knowing the heart and knowing the fail knowing the period falling on the eight commas of hair spiders and spiders squirming in despair ulcering a period there [b]lemur's about[/b] so cunning so wait the mouse tippy-tip penny's copper house the foutain of waiting it out smile it like you can pout mope the mope without name and shouts that's what lemurs about elephant tusk and mammoth white divine human isn't right god the god that damns might little mouses are cunning weak and weary they fight elephants cower at their sight promises are ropes in the head yank and pull you're almost dead anchor's going to fall steely-steel instead the open water's an ocean's sea to bed things are only as big as you led and small's my mouse's certain shed wood splinters and skull's a ted teddy-ted teddy bear's eye kitten puree pure as mine jacky-jack's work's as dull as a dime ten cent's work is a dozen's fine love you and isn't that fine so i'll smile like you can pout mope the mope without lemur my hang and shout that's what it's all about and don't anyone doubt that's what lemurs about [b]with the window down[/b] went cruising on with the window down radio radioing my frown cynic's got me smoking town when the seat's all covered and dirt's all brown smile's an egg no yolk to be found my car's mustard like mr.french's fry goes good with hot dogs bright and tasty thighs but no one knows why even the radio radios those sighs when this dessert turns to mud radio radioing my frown i'm going to hit the accelerator down smoke my car on down town with my window down you might think that's risky with the window down but i got to tell you cynic's got me smirking he's my bud and we're fine but no one knows why so my window's going to hang open i hope i catch something fly they say angels are always in the sky cynic knows why so maybe i'll just crash and die bent still's my cynic's mind stop lights are like doughnuts in time blured cream and clock's strike is wine grape sauce all over and it's fine eat them up while i'm driving by i'm just waiting until a car brakes and that angel comes to me sky being the sky that all's free and isn't that the way america used to be baby sure seems so i'm going to smoke town my wheel's burning a burn round cynic's on my dash that pinion tree that freshens my head dirt is all dirt needs to have found so i'm going to smoke town fall off this desert and down cruising on with the window down radio'll keep radioing my frown [b]a fist to bleed[/b] lie naked, on the floor lie naked, on the floor bleed the fist to the door bleed the fist to the door breaths cough fingers on eyes five gapes, a thumb to cry open the lid, open the side let the devil, let the doom howl a dog to the moon howl a dog to the moon lie naked on the floor make a fist cough a breath bleed the fist to the door five fingers on eyes flashes, flashes by flash, five fingers five fingers alive five fingers alive squirm. choke. gape. they move. shake. nails cold, steel pins rusty rakes, five knives of red creation, insignifigant hands touch the knob with rakes flashing by a new tint of lust. a hand of color to the eyes. open the liquid. the door chime. chime. chime. chime. so soon, alive so soon, so soon and so soon to die but for now--for now alive alive the rakes take the leaves grope them, catch them the rakes take the leaves grope them, give them hands a mouth. an arm. a fist to bleed destiny destiny the door is open garden to heave garden to sleep garden to be destiny just an open knob a fist to bleed lie naked five fingers the garden believes believes sudden gropes. sudden shakes. a breath forever leaving. darkness changing. chaining chaining the door is open a garden to heave to sleep to be chime. chime. chime. years later a gun to leave the door chime so soon, alive chime. chime. chime. so soon, so sooon and so soon to die but for now--now alive alive five fingers naked to two arms to two legs and feet lie naked, soon to grow soon to be a baby human a baby being machine to sputter to breathe just an open knob a fist to bleed the door is open ovaries a fist to bleed destiny destiny-- a naked body machine a naked body a dream [/quote] [size=1] I don't know about you, but I see a [i]major[/i] improvement here. These middle poems are actually some of my most favorites...I just love them. I must post more, lol. I have forgotten how much I love my own writing at times.[/size] [quote][b]clock man's woo[/b] click-clock click-clock i hear the creaking of footprints a hand on an arm dances and swirls what a charm click-clock man's no harm his kiss is a coo cock-a-doodle sing and he dances and he clings cock-a-doodle and leaves with a tilt and good-bye click-clock click-clock his three arms start and again i hear the creaking of footprints again the hands dance and swirl slow,give this girl a whirl she's going ot hurl slow,give this girl a whirl any faster and it's bye-bye world and down and right and left tick-tock click-clock twelve and three five and thirty mes click-clock man's a breeze he's no harm a hand and an arm what a charm coo-coo cock-a-doodle-doo again,alice now his kiss for you his kiss for you cock-a-doodle doo click-clock we-do click-clock his kiss's for you good-bye,see you soon my hand'll be back love you too he's gone as soon hardest little coo creaking-creak he's gone and flew hardest little coo clock man's no fool click-clock click-clock so much to do and i hear him creak-creaking foot-footing square dance-dancing and girl give it a whirl slow now girl,let's give it a whirl let's give it a try click-clock clockity-click tick-tick and i hear the creaking of footprints [b]monster[/b] there's some kind of monster in my window in my place he's faceless scarecrow with no face scares away crows that eat taste eats those cockroaches and maggots makes them erased this monster was created one conceptive day he was breathed and sighed in a field of corn where husks were children and raped to be born and i remember it like yesterday saw it from my window right from the shattered-glad glass was scream like a fly slow little buzz-buzzing cry and the corn fell back and died even the sun fell from the sky falling down on slow little buzz-buzzing cry then i heard a sigh the sigh of the dragonflies then with a lust and with a cob the husks all his the juicy slob's god ate his little dipshits entire the seeds all germinating like a choir the beginning and the end and the higher it all was just and all was fire then god raped those that were to be born gave them his own special little cob of corn gave them the faceless monster on their heads telling them that he was real and he should be prayed for at their beds and he's on my head get him out he's creeping through my window coming out said there's some kind of monster faceless scarecrow with no face scares away the crows that eat taste there's some kind of monster in my window in my place[/quote] [size=1]And finally, some of my more recent poems...here, I'll just take a smaller one.[/size] [quote][b]barbs' lips[/b] frowns, and blue tangled weeds sucked through. barbs' lips are in their tongues; the eating suck of iron lung. and hiss hiss hiss hiss hiss and hiss mists' breath on barbs' lips as steam 'scapes in hiss. kiss me down i'm laid bloom'd. come barbs' lips. suck my mallow bony bone flesh. the riblets' burlesque; stripper bleed your heart. bleed 't to the floor bleed 't to my brain; the explet' vain. perfect flow'r for me. romant' kisses 'scape scrape my soul's cage the bleed'ng blood'ng stains. kiss me down i'm laid. bloom'd. barbs' lips on rosey red bloodflow'rs wound' blue bloom'd an' black slew. frowns, and blue tangled weeds sucked through. [/quote] [size=1]As for stories...hm. I have a lot less of those. [/size] [quote][center]"Forest of Fog"[/center] As I sat in the back of Mick's run down '87 Crown Victoria letting my mind wander, Mick suddenly broke my train of deep thought. "So, what're you gonna do when we get back?" he asked. I put up my head, losing my train of thought, and replied. "Not sure, Mick. I'll probably just relax." "Sounds like a plan ta me." After our short conversation, I regained my pensive train of thought. As I did, time seemed to begin to slow down to a blurred crawl, and my eyes slowly grew heavy with exasperation. I am unsure of when I drifted off into my deep sleep, but when I awoke, the then light-filled day had turned into a foggy shadow of a night. As I awoke from my deeply netted sleep, I first noticed Mick's door was ajar, and then that he was gone. I then saw the foggy night which had come while I slept. A fear then began to chill into my mind, but I firmly held it down. Mick had most likely gone out to go to the bathroom, I assured myself. It had to be as simple as that. But still, the fear needed a drink of the truth to cure its thirst. So I then took my shaky hand and hesitantly opened my door. Stepping out into that creepy fog, I panned into the distance looking for any sign of Mick. The fog was so deep that I could only see a few feet ahead. It looked like I was on the outskirts of a small forest directly by the highway. It seemed to me rather odd that Mick would stop, but I tried not to let that gain acceptance into my mind, lest it augment my already growing fear. And as I panned around, I found no sign of Mick. "Mick! Mick, are you out there!" I screamed. No answer, nothing. Just silence. An utter and devastating silence that ate away at my already thinly contained fear. Already I could feel my fear slowly fizzing out, contradicting my complete unwant of it. Yet still I sought to quell it all I could. "Mick, if this is a joke, it isn't funny!" I screamed yet again, my voice echoing this time with the power of my shout, as no answer was returned. I then slowly decided upon walking through the small forest, seeing if I could find Mick by luck of chance. I first retrieved Mick's emergency flashlight from his glove compartment, then I was off on my way. As I entered the dark forest, holding out my flashlight as if it were a protector, I called Mick's name a dozen more times, with no answer each and every time. And that is when the noise started. It was an intermittent noise, going from high to low, low to high. It sounded as if it was a roar, but at that time my fear was about, creatively creating images of what the shouter's appearance might have been, so I am unsure if what I believe it sounded like was truly the way which I perceived it. All I remember is that it was the most ferally fearful noise I have ever heard. It seemed to chill upon my spine and mingle within my deepest paranoia. It was torture just to hear the roar as it echoed throughout that forest. Pure torture. Through that piercing terror, my fear was immediately snapped into action, and that fear was all that I could feel pounding throughout my body. I then began running meanderingly, sensing that the creature that had made the roar was getting closer. As I ran, panic trodding throughout my body, I tripped over what looked to be a root from a tree, and I then ran head on into the grower of the root. As I awoke from my unconsciousness, I found myself back in Mick's car. Slowly I came to my senses, and I realized the door stood again ajar, as if by some replaying of the torturous event I had just lived.[/quote] [size=1] Hm. I'll give "Cigs." It's pretty recent...although not done yet. I like how this story is going, though.[/size] [quote][center]"Cigs"[/center] Come over here, to the bathroom. If you look close enough you can see him right now. On the stall on the far left, the one that's been broken since who knows when. This is Ben Coper. He's worked in this building for thirty-five years of his wasted life. And everyday he comes here. Comes to this stall on the far left, the one that's broken. What does he do here? Well, if you'd ask him, he'd smile his fake smile and tell you he's simply doing his job. That he's just cleaning the bathrooms. But that is a lie. In the stall, his stall, he usually lights up a cig. A Marlboro Light. Nothing too bad. He sometimes even smokes another two or three. Or even four. The cigs really clear his head. They allow him to think. And his thoughts are usually clouded. But with the help of the cigarettes it's like he can finally breathe in his dead head. First it all gets fuzzy. Everything. The way his hands feel as he sits on the toilet gets fuzzy and farther away. His vision gets farther away and all fuzzy too. All of it gets fuzzy. If you were to walk into the bathroom right when he was smoking in his stall, you'd see smoke almost all over the bathroom. A large and billowing monument of it. Ben doesn't take chances though. He locks the door each and every time. This time is no different. But soon it is different. Soon things don't go like they have for thirty-five daring years. As he's smoking his mind and everything gets fuzzy. Everything starts to dance with an asphyxiation that falls right into Ben's eyes. Right into his soul. It goes like this for a long time. He smokes slow, uncertainly. Then his first cig is smoked to a small ashy stump. From his denim jacket smelling profusely of smoke he reaches into the front pocket. He takes out his package of cigarettes. It's a fresh pack. Only is missing the first cig that Ben just smoked. That's when it happens. His throat begins to feel like it hasn't ever felt before. His mind begins to think and flutter. His hands begin to shake like there's some earthquake all over the ground. He falls over. When he opens his eyes he can hear someone banging on the door. Shouting. Their voice is too muffled though, he can't understand a single word they say. He is about to stand up, about to go and unlock the door when his eyes fall on them. The cigarettes are still all over the ground. Without a single afterthought or a single second feeling he reaches out for them. That is when he is tapped on the shoulder. As he looks up, his entire body shakes as he is shocked in a sudden fear. He almost lets out a scream, but he holds it inward, not wanting to look too much like a coward. That's always been Ben's way. Just stay it cool. Not just staying cool, but he's always been one of those people that wanted to be cool, that wanted to be accepted. Wanted to be known. So he keeps his cool as much as he can?holds everything inward as he looks at it. At first the thing looks like what Ben had always feared. He'd always feared clowns. Not just any clowns, but ones that were scary. With big teeth, sharp teeth. And a snarl to match. That's what he sees at first. He's quite certain it can't be real as he stares it down, looks at it. But, as he rubs his eyes and touches the thing's feet he realizes that it is real. He almost screams. Almost. But the clown first puts his hand over Ben's mouth, blocking out what would have been a scream. All that comes out is dead air that falls to nothing in the stall that's always been broken, the one on the far left. Ben just stares at the clown. It's all he can do. He also tries to grab his cigs on the ground, but somehow and someway, he isn't able to?his hands fall right through them. Just like a ghost. As Ben stares at the clown in bewilderment and makes his wild grab for his cigs, the thing's face begins to change. It isn't an instant change. It's more like a slow change, a very slow change. The thing looks like a maggot as its face melds into nothing . It sits like this for awhile like it's thinking of what to change to. To what, though, doesn't matter to Ben at all. All that is going through Ben's mind is to get the hell out of the bathroom. And, secondly, to have a cig. Just one more, he wants just one more. Wants and needs it bad right then. He needs it like he'd always desired to have sex. Like he'd always desired to be cool. He needs it bad. But his wild grabs are doing nothing. His fingers, his arm, his entire body won't feel anything. It won't touch the cigs. They just go through them hopelessly. They just go through them without any feeling. The maggot-like face of what had been the clown now rebegins drastically changing. Not just its face anymore, either. Its entire body is changing, melding, molding. To what, Ben has no clue. And what it's changing into is the last thing on Ben's mind. Ben finally gives up on his cigs, and he begins to climb onto the broken toilet. But in his stupor and panic, he'd forgotten to close the lid. He falls right down as he clambers up. Right down onto the tile and hits his head. Hits his head hard. So hard that, as he later learns, he fractures his entire skull. For now, though, all he is left with is an extremely large open cut on his head. It's over almost his entire head. All of it except for maybe a quarter. A quarter and even less. The blood begins to flow. It flows all over the small stall, seeps under the crack of the door. The blood's also clouding Ben's eyes. He can barely see, and he feels like he's going to pass out. His entire body feels like one big nothing. All he can feel is the endless and numbing pain of the wound that's on his head. His breathing becomes loud and hard. It's like he's breathing through a mask that's hooked up to some loud and hissing bottle of oxygen. Every breath to Ben's lungs burns and makes his body ache. He's about to pass out. Then he looks up with the last of his strength. And, to his surprise, there stands the principal. His name is Mr. Hanning. He'd always been nice to Ben. Especially nice. Through the blood and blurred vision Ben barely makes out that it is Mr. Hanning. He squints more, and he can see that Hanning's holding something out to him. Something white. It's a cigarette. Ben soon realizes this, and he lets out a large wail. It's a lusty wail. A wail of extreme want and need. Through the pain all over his body, he manages to outpour his hand. His entire hand shakes in this attempt, but he manages to reach out just enough so that he can reach the cig. His hand touches it?or tries. Not surprisingly to Ben at all his hand falls right through the cigarette. And he cannot hold onto anything any longer. He passes out. Again. Ben doesn't know where he's at anymore. For a long time there's blackness. A blackness like his lungs probably look like. Then he starts seeing things again, starts dreaming again. Or whatever you call what he'd seen?the clown and all. This time it's more of a memory than anything. He remembers it very well, this memory. It's something that he constantly went through all those years he'd sat in the broken stall in his lonely school. He sees himself in a restaurant. This isn't just any restaurant, it's quite special to him. He had only gone there about three times in his life, but it's still quite special to Ben. The restaurant's name is Chile's Bar And Grill. It's a simple and homely restaurant. It smells like barbeque sauce. Pretty much breathes it. There's also peanut shells all over the ground like hair that dots a barber shop's floor. And just like the hair on a barber's floor, these shells are just there. Most people don't even see them, they're just there. To Ben, though, it just makes this memory even more surreal and lively. He walks into this wonderful part of his memory out of the blackness that he'd so recently had. He enters and finds himself sitting down right there smack in the front, finds himself waiting for a table. This version of him is much younger. He doesn't have the rough and white beard. He doesn't have the sandy and crude wrinkles all over his face. This Ben is younger. A lot younger. He watches the younger self with open eyes, sees how ignorant and stupid he looked. How hopeless and without a cause, a reason, or a place. The younger Ben is, of course, smoking a cig. It's what Ben has done since he was around ten and on. And the smoke from the cig is falling all over the place, all over this memory and tainting it for him. Every wheeze and trail of smoke that goes around shakes this memory, the restaurant's beautiful feeling itself, into a blankness. Into vagueness. He watches this asphyxiated: just like he's breathing in the smoke. And it feels like it to him, too. It feels like he can just taste that butt in his mouth, taste all of the smoke going in and through his lungs. It's a wonderful feeling to him, a bad one perhaps, but good all the same. He continues to stand there, everything blanking out, the smoke asphyxiating him, burning through him. Then the younger Ben puts out the butt in an ashtray right next to his seat, and stands up. He's going to sit down at his table along with the friends that Ben used to have. Used to have. Ben could care less about these friends. They had long ago left his life. They were not even friends to him at all, not a bit. Never were. He simply thought so. Ben follows the younger version of himself, he follows the memory. It's a strange thing seeing himself, especially considering how long it's been since he's seen this as vivid as this; but it's wonderful and bitter all the same. Ben comes to the table, and notices that already the younger Ben has another cig out. The same thing happens as before. Ben becomes asphyxiated with the smoke, and it falls all over the memory again and makes it fade slowly. It's like the cold flame of a candle; the smoke falls over everything and only gives it some light, some essence. It causes everything to flicker. But this butt is also soon put out, and as soon as it is, the waiter comes over. She's beautiful. She has long blonde hair that's wispy and thin as wires; yet at the same time this hair is also as full and lifting as a push up bra. Her hair's the first thing that most would, and is what Ben, notices. Her face is also quite entrancing. It's blushy and petite, and at the same time, it's quite curved and round and full?somewhat just like her hair. Her lips are red like a rose, and as bitter and small and closed as a rose's bud. Through her rose lips her teeth poke out slightly as she smiles to Ben and his friends. "Hello y'all," she says. He voice is slightly and, to Ben, sexily drawled like a hybrid of a New Yorker's and a Texan's accent. It's a very slight drawl, though. It's quite there, but can only be fully tasted in hearing at the ends of her sentences and the longer syllables she says. It especially flares up on the "y'all" in this case?very beautifully, in fact. Hellos are exchanged, and the waiter takes out her almost stereotypical writing tablet and pen. "So what'll ya'll be havin' taday," she says, letting out another smile, showing off her paper white teeth. "Soup's on specal, and we've also got ribs on specal, too. But first I'm bettin' ya'll'd like some drinks?" Ben looks casually over his menu as the waiter slowly goes around the table, asking each what they'd like to drink, and jotting down thinly on her tablet as she did so. Then she comes to Ben. "An' what would ya like?" she asks, bringing the pen to her teeth, nibbling on it impatiently. Ben looks her right in the eyes, looks right at her. "I would like water; ice water, m'am, if you please." There's a silent moment as she jots down, and then looks back at Ben as he looks to her. It's a strange moment, a quite feeling moment for Ben. Why they are looking at each other neither of them know. It is a very brief moment, very small. A look at one another like the fiction of wanting to know and give a damn about something. About anything. It's like a moment that was meant to happen. Not just happened, but meant to happen. It's like breathing, being alive, or being saved to an inch of life. Just there?yet, at the same time, looking it on the outside, there's a feeling that you can't look away; magnetism and some driveled, mirrored, and worn meaning of will and shall. And as this moment happens, quite amazing to Ben, he gets so many images in his head. First sexual, sensual images. Then something almost right from a movie, right from a projector. Just like on a projector, the images or quite faded, Ben can barely see them. He can see this lady, no, this person. He sees shadows of who she is more or less. Shadows of the past, and haunting shadows of knowing more about something than is ever possible. And while this all happens in his mind?this nostalgic feeling and knowing?she drops her pen as it falls from her mouth where she'd been nibbling it. He looks at the pen in lengthy detail; as if the memory has suddenly been slowed down to a sloth.[/quote] [size=1] I think that's enough lol...I did too much as it is. I definitely think I improve each day. And I definitely think that I will never reach my full potential...I am so very far from reaching my potential. Really far. Or at least from where I see it, anyway.[/size]

[QUOTE][i]Originally posted by Trowa_fan [/i] [B]You read Bridge to Terabithia? [/B][/QUOTE] [size=1] Trowa_fan, don't post such inane and spammilicous posts. Otherwise, nice catch on the Eliot-ness, PT. I am not too familiar with Eliot, so I would have never seen it.[/size]

[size=1] What I have read of your poetry is very good. You manage to teeter between poetic and simply stating your facts. Sorry I don't have the time to do a roundabout look at one of your poems, but I am short for time. Post more, and then I'll crit one later on. Heh. [/size]

[quote]We?ve only been friends for a while But in that short time, you?ve crawled into my heart Leaving a permanent mark [strike]forevermore[/strike] [b]And?[/b] Piercing my emotions like a very sharp dart A new day will begin, my life a clean slate But I always remember that you are there And I regain my hope, my faith And my emotions are no longer bare But as quickly as we met, we depart And as we go [strike]each[/strike] our separate way[b]s[/b] My heart grows weary, my emotions weak But you promise to return again one day But can you keep your promise? Can you say you?ll always be there for me? I hope you can, once and for all, because Because, you are once and for always a friend, you see[/quote] [size=1] Above are my suggestions. I felt that the use of forevermore was unneedingly verbose [wordy], and also, if you wanted to make it rhyme more, as to attract the reader more, this also makes three of the four lines in the stanza rhyme. I feel it's a little zealous...so perhaps you want to change dart to something else by deleting forevermore, or perhaps you want it to rhyme that much. I deleted nothing from the second stanza. It works well and says what is says well, too. The third stanza, on the second line, I felt could have been made more even than it is. So I deleted each, then having to add an "s" to the end of way. The fourth stanza. I think the tailoring of because, and then the repeation of it work well to give the poem a sense of difference that hints at finality. I especially like the use of commas on the last stanza, and then the "you see" on the end. It gives the poem a nice ending over all. So I thought it was good, most definitely.[/size]

[size=1] Tony, that is so hilarious. Just have to say it again lol. I don't even want to know where I'll be in ten years. In ten years I will be twenty-seven, nearly in my 30's. You know how insane that sounds right now? It sounds very, very insane.[/size]

[size=1] I more agree with you, Justin. But that is just me. It's hard to say...but I'm a Poe-lover myself, so naturally that is when I like to write the best. But I also like this simple, unverbose, unobtuse style of writing I'm developing. You can't appeal to both worlds all the time, of course, so I guess that's just what I'm left with doing in the end. If I write like I wrote this poem, some will love it, and more will understand it it seems. If I write in my obtuse, beautifully poetic style, some will love it, but it's more esoterical than the other way I could write. Which one I prefer should be obvious by how often I write in one style over the other--which is definetly the Poe-esque style. In the end, my style is still developing every day. It all depends on my mood...and lately I've just gotten sick of writing obtusely, I just want to easily venue how I feel. So we have what I have now. Thank you all for your kind words. It's nice to know that some people love my writing...because lately I have been getting discouraged over it. Perhaps I'm too gulliable to a lot of things, but who knows. All that matters is poetry is starting to come a lot easier thanks to this fresher style. I'm sure I'll revert back to my more poetical style eventually, but we have what we have.[/size]

[size=1] This was so fun to write.[/size] [b]Ain't no feeling better than your natures[/b] I shuffle to school like a marionette my mind twirlin like a spiraling mess and when i sit in my desk, my eyes observant, i feel no sense of anything nor accomplishment. I open my books that are abound, and i read over many a mundane bore talking bout the twenties and its age of jazz, or geometrical garble, or latin language, and i eat it like an obese man. Each day my mind grows and expands, each day my brain feels squeezed down, each day my mind has a stroke and feels a certain need to vomit, and a certain need to spill. And i do it all like an obese man. Sitting in my desk, my chest is gaunt, but sitting in my mind i am not, and i feel quite prime, like a pig, and i feel like a hog. Been fed what's wrong, and as it chokes down my nose, and goes deep in me where it goes, it is fat, and quite energyless, and quite holding. And i eat it like an obese man. The garbage man comes round each day, and his eyes are a burning haze, and he looks me in, and rings my bells, comes up to me and tells, "Time to throw 'way what you don't need," and i give him buckets full, and i even give him some flowers. When all is done, he looks to me, and he bids me farewell, and goes tucking off and i'm left with what i lost, and my brain is still too full. My head's a crisis, call nine-one-one, and i can just hear the phone a-ringing, and can hear some dull voice answering, and i want to tell them i'm a pig, the most fat swine you've ever did. Heart attacks attack me down. Ain't ever going to break that much down. My head's at war, and the lovers are all biting nails, and as i sit in my desk, i just exhale, and i breathe some kind of romantic hope, and i die as my alliances noose themselves on rope, the stuff that climbs them too far down, that stuff ain't never the end. They still are at war, and it's the same as before and before, there's no guns, just beating gore. Blood smeared round memories, that thing that died alone, and still crawls in my mind, and the casualties are doing just fine, they're dying like heroes in my mind. The lovers just look to the skullies, the dead things on the other side and they just swoon. Dead can't die like that, because they're already dead. Hopeless romantics think they can still win nonetheless. And all along as i'm at war, my teachers are in no-man's land talkin bout their own wars, their sweet misery. One teacher looks too young to be so old, and another he looks like he's einstein, and still another looks like he's a bear. They're all fighters fair. But fallen as much as fighting. They're all caught in the twilight zone, the place where nothin seems to belong, and they are just making their dues, teachin kids bout things that make no sense. Things that they been taught to bench. School days are like skins, and i wear mine in and it's gettin too worn out. And my brain's starting to show and soon i'll be done and give up but still end up getting right along. My brain's a broken mess, and i don't need mops to regress, and i don't need helping hands, i make right along alone. I build my towers to the sky, and i topple my dominoes like flies, dead falling flies that ain't got eyes. And i think i'm blind, and i think i'm dyin but it's such sweet refute that i can't die. So i'll build nothing from nothing to cry. If you have built castles in the sky, they are allusions to your death, and hapless demise. Breathe a second from your eyes, and see the reality that is by and by. You can build bases to your castles, but they aren't so grand so just keep your castles a-floatin and full of empty cubicles. Ain't no other way, dreams are too critical they aren't bricks hard enough, they're soft and so they need to be demeaning. Reality's got more breathing than that, and more hard heart to have. School's like a home for the sick, and i got the hiccups and i'm figthing my infection. Gotta gain all i can before i get detention, and i'm sent to a job in a box. I'll be the most possum fox, so crafty but so lost, and so wild. Some kids at school, they're as dumb as rocks, they talk like they was shot, or broken somehow, and their minds are just exclamation points that shout. Some kids at school, they're as smart as they come, and they've got lots of commas and things to the side to say, but the teachers just keep goin on with their talks, never let anyone that wants to talk talk. Some kids sleep like a sloth, and teachers just go over to them and go off, and point fun at sleep and its laziness. Work does that to you, that black bruise, nothin beautiful bout the way the world works, and nothin neat bout working with a smile. My dad tells me i need a job, and that i am the biggest slob. And i feel like it too as i wheeze and shuffle, and go about my daily muddle. And i do everything like an obese man, the slowest way of the slow. And i do everything the last second, or as a last thought, never pushing myself much. I guess that is what intellect feels like. Feels like a broken record bein played morose, and spinnin like it's broke and sad. I don't want to learn no more, and i don't want to know much anyways, only makes me sad the way the world is. And my mind screams this to me everyday, and its wars battle on the field insane. And i'm getting ready to call nine-one-one My brain's in crisis, and i'm shaking the shakes, and i feel like i'm just going to break. As my mind gets to know more, it's more jaded and hurt. And i'm getting bitter as sure, and i'm getting a taste of reality. Soon it will all escape me, for nothin makes sense, and everything feels like incessance, and it just hammers me with nails that prick my skin into my brain. And here at school i go about my ways, and i talk to a girl here and there, maybe flirt where it comes around, and i know that what i'm learning doesn't mean much to me, when the simplicity is what makes the most sense, and not being encumbered with all these chains is the best. What you don't know is festering, but most sheltering. And maybe i'll get shelter from the storm, for the clouds are gettin grayer day by day, like a heavy fist that's gonna beat me down. The blackness just flitters around, wanting to create something more. And my heart is in the blackness, tarred and feathered, trying to learn to fly. And the tar is seeping in my skin, and burns again and again. And i feel so fat, and so empty, and so morbidly obese. My heart burns in my chest, and my brain won't give me a rest. What matters the most is what i've done since i was born and that's doing what makes sense, and what makes me glad. Ain't nothing in happiness but pain, and it stings like hell. This IV in my arm just won't stop pumping me full, the morpine's gettin old, and i'm developing a tendency, gonna break free. My natures feed me most of my meat, and in school i just feel prime. I want to roast on a grill, and be cooked to a black till i can't look back, and i want to eat my own skin, and know what it is that makes me tick, but i ain't got a clock, and my heart resists. I look at girls like they're going out of style, or maybe they'll just become extinct like dodo birds. I've noticed many a lady fine and fair, and i've only just gotten to stare, and not feel much else, and just go about my way. And i guess it's best that way, for i feel more self-sufficent than anything else, but deep inside my heart, i'm being taped all sticky, and i'm starting to stick to some fates. And that type of tape feels funny, and it feels fresh all the same. I wonder if some girls look my way, or if they are revulsed by what they see, or maybe they just don't take a liking to one like me. Lust's a funny man, and he's got a funny bone, and he itches you like you're just unknown, and everything feels like his own. And itches are meant to be itched as they twitch, and they're meant to be abated in a full release. Ain't no better feeling than doing your natures. School starves me, like a buoyant fish, and i rise above, and i have gills and lungs, and all of them need nourishing. And most of the time they feel unused, and dead as a bone, but other times they feel alive, and they beat in me like burning fire. When you bend one way, and this way, you feel something crack, and you know it's something you never had, and you resist everything but this temptation, and you realize you can resist everything but temptation. School's only fun because of temptation, and all the things you find so fine there, and it just gives you life to know they are there, and makes sitting bearable, and makes your mind just a crazed behemoth that thinks of the wildest things. And you get more obese each day, and more wicked cruel and jaded, and only the simplest things that give the easiest pleasure feel needed, and you let your mind have them eaten whole. I come to school each day, and i rack a sigh, and i wonder why, and sometimes i feel like dyin, but being dead's as much as livin alive. For i feel the same thing all the time. My mind's a crisis, calling nine-one-one, and calling an SOS. Gotta go on and fight my fight, gotta empty my messes to make more. Gotta live with something to fight for. And when i see something fine and fair, and when i feel like that i just stare, and when my mind feels broken, it fixes itself by being more broken than ever. Ain't no feeling better than doing your natures. And i come to school a marionette each day, and a twirl round my way. Life ain't nothin but a bust, we must do what we must. It fixes itself by being more broken than ever. And i'm always achin, and my brain's always bakin, and smoke's coming out of me in plumes, and things are flying in there like swarms. I'm the portly swine, and i feel empty outside, and inside i feel too full. Release never comes till you let go of all you feel binds you, and till you tell yourself nothing really matters no more. Being obese makes you fat and sore, but these britches hold so much more. And i'll vomit all over the floor, and eat just like i have before, and my mind'll be just a broken whore.

[size=1] I don't care. So I stand on the most level-headed side; which is pro-choice. Both sides have their merits, pros and cons, respectively. Choosing one over the other is not seeing things right.[/size]

[size=1] Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles. 'Nuff said. I wish Cartoon Network had the old cartoon of this. I wish to death they did. I mean, they have Captain Planet, which is also a classic in some senses....but no Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles? I miss that show so damn much.[/size]

[size=1] The first paragraph is amazing, Charles. I've missed you--missed you posting in this forum, all over OB, chatting on AIM. But besides this, I am here to talk about the piece at hand. It suits my feelings at this moment well--very well. And it's written well. Bleh. I'm not in the mood to take it apart piece by piece. You should know you did a good job, Charles.[/size]

[b]The world today is such a sad creature, and so many things cry[/b] I am sick of reality and its implications, its inflections, its incantations and how it is so, and how it is known, that coma, the one of them, the way it makes me tired, i'll sleep in death, the coma lulled. People walk round like they are so happy, so fucking glad, like life is worth it, and the feeling is so well when deep inside, the place of the heart they are broken and falling apart. Every smile I see should die, every eye that feels it likes the way all is, i feel they should expire and their eyes gutted out so they can actually see, actually be. There is nothing much to be happy for, nor is there much to feel when all has been done, and all is going to die. Yet still mouths smile, like there is reason to, and the genuine are all dead in their graves crawling round in nothing. The reality of birth is the most uncompassionate, babies are born from lust of others, and marriaged fathers and mothers, and forced to be born, and forced to be made from urges that will never change. Fuck love, it only festers feelings and leads to more insipid life, and to the birth of new life, the babies raped into existence like a swarm, raped into existence for a race that has no purpose nor need, that only is on the earth a disease, building machines where nature stood. And a baby, he is actually happy and smiles true, and as he grows, gets to be grew, the way of the world begins to make him heartless, and as broken as us all, and once grown and grew he smiles for no reason, and lives life when he needn't, and lives life as he feeds it, the thing he was given for lust of others, marriaged fathers and mothers. All is vanity, all is cometual, all is interred, all is burdened, and wisdom only leads to sorrow, and intelligence leads only to sadness, and knowing everything only leads us forlorn. I am sick of how this world works, how people go to school all their lives, like maggots turning into flies, and then they are expected to get a job, they are expected to live from paper, the money that holds all value. I am sick of how unkind we all are, we talk of our god and his son jesus, and say we are so great, and jesus-like, when deep down all we want is what we want, and we are heartless, never seeing that we need not what we need not. A man who does not go to church is not a bad man, and a man who does not believe in god is not a bad man, but he is a wise man, and a great one. For a man such as this, he does not believe in something simply to believe, but he believes in what he believes because he has reason to, and has reasons other than himself to live for. Fuck your god, the bible is only paper and ink and tall tales, and jesus was just another man. Worship your god if it makes you feel better, get on your hands and knees and pray to him, and tell him what you want when it's not what you need, and pray for all that you feel the world bleeds, and tell him all your troubles, inanity as all, and live for heaven and its wishes, and its calls, and be not what you feel your heart says, but be what you feel machines say. Breathe your iron lung, the fuckery that wheezes dumb, suck your thumb, toilet trained and dumb, for god comes from the machine, he comes from society, and its needs. To believe that god is real is to be self-serving and unseeing, and i know there is not a cataract in your eye that blinds you so blind. God is hope, and hope is god, and reason is hope and god is reason, and none of these does life have, and none of these does life need, for living for someone else is not at all right, when in your heart you feel elsewise, but not living for someone else is not at all right too, when in your heart you feel elsewise. God is an illusion, an aim to know something that we shall never know, and heaven is an illusion, an aim to know something that we shall never know, and if something is not absolute and true, then it must be a lie, one that comes close to truth and lie, and if there is a god, no one knows, they only choose to say there is, just like the romans did, with their multiple gods they had, and just as the greeks, and just as peoples before peoples, and us before us. There is no need for church to believe in a god, nor organization, nor a bible, nor hymns, there is only need for belief, only need for your personal gains, not others, nor any else. All that is needed is your own devotion, for religion is a personal matter, not a community one, not a church one, not a greedy one, and to believe in more or less is to be away from the truth of the matter at hand. So I say fuck your god, he is an unlikely chimera for you to worship, one with many heads, and many facets, and many needless needs. I am sick of talk of religion, and as it tires i have seen the truth, and that is that i do not care if there is a god, or if there is not. For what is the point to try and believe something you don't understand, and what is the purpose to give existence where you know not it there? There is not point nor purpose in this but hope and reason to our petty lives, and that is what is not there. So I say fuck your god, he is an unlikely chimera for your to worship, one with many heads, and many facets, and many needless needs. I am sick of so much, and when one is sick, they must cough or hurl, and regurgle what is poisoning them. Or they must be given medicene, stuff that heals, or their bones must be wrapped in a cast, to be put back together what was once broken. And I am sick of fixing what was once broken, it only makes me weaker each time. And I am sick of knowing as much as i know, it only makes me weaker, for i have less reason to heal, and i have less reason to feel. And I am sick of coughing at my sickness, and writing it in the wind as it flies away, unable to be seen by my eyes. And I am sick of regurgling my sickness, and letting it float around in a flushing toilet, its chunks little effegies to my brain. One can only be sick so long, and bellyache their problems so long until they get sick of it all and act well, and smile at hell, and smile at everything, and say it does not matter in their hearts, for it shall end some day, purposeless, and full of one last suffering. Have you ever stopped, as you lie alone, and heard nothing but your heart. And have you stopped, and realized this is all you are, that you are organic, and frail, and meaningless, and your heart is all that keeps you alive. And you feel pain in feeling your hear beating, and you feel pain in knowing such a thing as disquieting as that. Then your mind leads this way and that, and you realize that when you swallow something, it goes to your stomache, and then your realize that all the organs in your body are all that keep you alive. It is sad to be so frail, and sickly built, and to know that all you feel is a joke, it is merely your mind, it is merely chemicals entwined, mixing in a slew to make you fine, or worse or how your body feels. We are a slave to physicalties, our mind is melded by what we see, the gravity that pushes us down. Our mind is only a personal recollection of what we find, and the way the physical world is. And without both neither could exist, for you need your brain to have your eyes see, and you need the physical world for your brain to be. It is sad to know all this, for it only makes reality more real, and makes you see what you feel, and how useless it is to care. All we learn is not all pointless, but much of it is, for we go to school all our lives, maggots turning into flies, and we learn many things we will never need, and remember many things that have no point. And in reality we only keep what we want, and we only do what comes easy to us, and try to adapt to getting as so. I have tasted the real world, and it is not as it is now. Society is a heartless being, a machine that sucks out your heart, and rips out your soul, and grabs your eyes, and turns them all to you, and makes you feel as it does. It is not right that that is so, but we do it to ourselves, and it started ages ago, and now it cannot be stopped by the few that fight it. We are a slave to our devices, and one day they will crash in crisis. Intellect muddles all, and makes the vainest vanity. What many would give to not have it, it is hard to say but also easy to explain why. By nature's device, we would not have clothes, and we would not have homes, and we would not have cars, and we would not have jobs, and we would not have education, and we would not have language, we would simply have what is simple and that is to live. There are too many distractions, too many things that turn our eyes from this, and few realize what a slave they are to all and everything. And for those that realize it, they are ridiculed, and stepped on, and homeless and alone, and have nothing but what is their own. And it is wise to have your sum of all parts and to use them like this, but few do, and few have the will. I dream for dreams. but my heart has died. And I dreamed for dreams, but my heart was ripped out by the world today. And what i have realized, and what i have feigned, and all that i have given a place is all unsettled. Dreams are not meant to be, for reality murders all. It murders your life, it murders your reason, it murders your heart, and most of all it murders you. I dream for dreams. but my heart has died. And I dreamed for dreams, but my heart was ripped out by the world today. And what i have realized, and what i have feigned, and all that i have given a place is all unsettled. Dreams are not meant to be, for reality murders all. It murders your life, it murders your reason, it murders your heart, and most of all, it murders everything and all reason. There does come a time where a man must think for himself, not let some god think for him, not let some other speak for him, and there is a time when a man must just give up all that he does not truly heart, and just fucking live. But few come to this time but in death. I was at a nursing home yesterday, and if there is a smell of death, that is its smell. All the graying there live there in their beds, they lie all gray in white sheets, and they hold bibles are round like rusted steel, and they all go to church each day, holding on to nothing. The people there, i could see it in their eyes, they wanted to die, and for their suffering to end, but they still lived just to live, some of them, and they did not have god to crutch. To those i feel so much, for that is what true courage is, it is standing up for something when you're down and out and you know it is so. And at that nursing home, i saw my grandma violet, she was a smoker in her time, cigarettes smoked her fine, and now she is hooked to an oxygen tank that keeps her alive. And the doctors there, when they see she is depressed and distressed, they feed her full of pills to numb the pain. Today i awoke to my dad talking on the phone, and him explaining that grandma violet was having a mental breakdown, and that she would shut her eyes and scream, and not respond to anything. This is what living does to us all, and it is wicked cruel. I am sure if i could see my grandma violet's eyes as she opened them only to close them i would see a tortured life, and death breathing like a sigh. When an animal is suffering, we shoot it or kill it, and end its pain. When a human, also an animal, is suffering, we laugh at it and say it is funny sad that such as that is had, feeding them full of pills to numb the pain. The world today is such a sad creature, and so many things cry. At that nursing home, gray wrinkles of figures would stare me from their eyes as they sat in their wheel chairs, and they would look envious and denied. And that feeling crawled up my spine, and i realized not for the first time that one day that will be me, grayed and lined. That thought is quite benign. And mankind is the only animal that needs to blush, or that needs to cry, or feel envy, or denied, or needs to regret, or feel a want other than what it truly needs. We are so obtuse on our knees, and so acute when we please. That nursing home was full of pictures upon room's walls, the adorning smiles from far away small, or from close big, and it was full of TVs, and full of stuffed bears, and young nurses that cared for the grayed, and all around there i felt youth that was dead. Even in death people clutch to youth and life, it is sad it so. It is funny that death smears on us all our lives, and we live to foster life, and then we are so scared of what has bleated so very long. Age is a universal thing, it comes with time, and comes with its eyes always getting wider in our view, and so many feel afraid, and push it aside. I can tell you that death is a thing that will come, i could see it in those graying figure's eyes, and how they desired what they once had, and no longer deserved, and how they looked to be suffering, some of them, and how some looked weary and already dead. That was courage in some of their eyes, that they were willing to suffer for nothing all the time. The world today is so overplayed, when suicide is committed, it is seen that it is a problem, nothing more and nothing less. We all feel we should die one time or another, and many will profess they could not do it anyway. In the time of the romans, suicide was seen as noble, and people died heroes at their own hands. What is so wrong about taking a life that is yours, and being free from reality? There are some things wrong with it, and other times there is not, but death is inevitable, as much as we fight it, and age only brings this closer to our heads, and shows us that we will die when it comes, and that when it comes there will be some release. Death is not an end, but a gift that ends. And life is not a gift, but a purposless suffer, and it takes all the courage one can muster to live for yourself, and to know what you want, and not be tempted by the things that make it easier. For most can resist everything but temptation, for tempation is the ultimate sensation. Call me a pessimist, for i am a realist that hates these realities, but sees them for what they are. For dreams rarely happen, and wishes never star, and twinkling things are often dull scars. Too many live not with their hearts, but i do. And my heart is a dead thing often, but deep inside it is opened wide, and it has the most strongest things to say, and the best to proclaim. Few live life for what it is, and complex themsevles with distraction, and find that as their infatuation. Others see life as something simple, as a cycle that will spin, and they see they are nothing therein. To suffer is to be happy, and sin is just god's word, an outline for what is morally upturned. Follow your heart even if it is wrong, even if it is against the law. For what's right is wrong and what's wrong is right, and not much is absolute, and right and wrong is certainly not. If you are happy, and smile, and feel entire, then you are quite easily amused, and quite easily conclude. For deep inside you are not happy, and never will be, and will suffer, and that will make you happy. Pain is the universal lover of us all, and even in happiness there is pain, and even in pain there is hapiness. To discern this is to be at best, and to take your pain the most. To take crutches is wicked cruel, and is to be a fool. For numbing pain only makes it hurt more later, and only leads to false happiness. And I am sick of reality, and its incantations, and its abrations. I feel that any that smile, that they are grinning under their pain, and trying to be inhuman and brave. And in that bravity, i see they are depraved, and just as sad as us all. Get rid of everything that is not your own, and make it bent and broken as you are. Get rid of everything that you do not need, and burn it like a bright star. Start living for your heart, and fucking live, and fucking feel alive as much as you can. If you search for happiness, you search for perfection, and if you search for perfection, you search for lies. And if you search for lies, you search for dreams. And i have dreamed many dreams, and i have seen many things, and i have watched them all die. It is better not to try, and better to live, and not ask why, and better to not know anything more than is needed, it is much less contrived, more sublime. Beauty is not in ugliness, put it aside. The most simple things are the most fine.

[size=1] Good stuff, Mimmi, of course. How long have you been speaking English..? It'd be neat to know. Yeah. That is about all I have to say. Too tired to say much else.[/size]

[size=1] Well, I'm glad you had a good time. All I've heard of AH is one song I downloaded. Hopefully once you send me the CDs that will change immensely. So...yeah. There's not much else to say.[/size]

[size=1] .........O.o[/size] [size=2].....O.o[/size] [size=3]...O.o[/size] [size=4]..O.o[/size] [size=1] 0.o That was the must humorous thing I've read in a while. Hm. Asphy has it covered. 'Nough said. Improve your quality, or consider getting banned.[/size]

[size=1] [url=www.google.com]Need to remember a song? Click here.[/url] Once you click to the link, you will be brought to a page called Google, which is a search engine. Once there, you will see a text box from which to type in. Type what you wish to search there, and you shall find what you search.[/size]

[size=1] I think at least half the bands you mentioned never broke up. lol. Metallica didn't break up, they recently released a new CD, [i]St. Anger.[/i] As far as I know, Red Hot Chilli Peppers aren't broken up. I remember seeing that new video from their new album, it had something about a car in it. Slipknot did break up, I believe. Tool didn't break up. A Perfect Circle is just a side project for Maynard. I'm not sure if they'll ever make another album, but I have my fingers crossed. But they didn't break up. Ah well. You're entitled to think what you think--but at least get your facts straight.[/size]

[QUOTE][i]Originally posted by Shy [/i] [B]When I first read that I thought it said "Samaritin" or however you spell it. Heh. -Shy[/size] [/B][/QUOTE] [size=1] It's spelled "Samaritan," I believe. That's the same thing I thought when I saw it. Spamilicous post, yay. I've already said what I've said...but really, a name isn't a big deal. And it shouldn't be. So if and when I get married, which I doubt will happen, it doesn't matter to me. A name doesn't make a person nor a marriage nor anything.[/size]

[size=1] I hate my school too!1 All the people are complete jocks, and they walk around with their arms all muscely and strong, and they even wear [i]caps[/i]!11 How could they wear caps, of all things? Those things are so ugly and they hide your face so you can't see your face, and makes all the jocks look evil and mean and somesuch like that. My school should be burned down. All the jocks should suffocate with it. I think also that my teachers should be shot on account of doing what is their job. But mainly I think people that make fun of me should be shot!11 They are such meanies! OMG! :rolleyes: This is just another completly inane topic which in essence is complaining over something that doesn't need to be digressed and discussed. People are going to make fun of other people. It's ingrained. Learn to live with it. *is sick of these topics*[/size]

[QUOTE][i]Originally posted by cloricus [/i] [B] [/B][/QUOTE] [size=1] That is amusing...but so what? There have been worse presidents than Bush. Anyone can attest to this fact. If you can't say he's at least an okay president, then I don't know. I also don't even think it's your place to really care for Bush, and thus you're off the bat going to label him as stupid and imicilic. Ah well. My guess is he was handed the book like that, and was talking to the girl over his shoulder and a shot was taken before he realized that the book was upside-down. This picture really prooves nothing when you think about it, other than you think it's funny to make a mockery of things in the most subtle ways. It's not a bad thing, though. I like it. If you want to totally hate Bush, then do so. I myself think he's an okay president at the least, not an imbicil.[/size]

[QUOTE][i]Originally posted by Transtic Nerve [/i] [B] I heart Chibi Horsewoman. [/B][/QUOTE] [size=1] I do as well. I also heart what you've said, TN. Crimson, before saying something, know [i]what[/i] you're saying and exactly what you're talking about instead of just making "minute-o-the-second-facts." If you don't know enough about something, it should be obvious that you don't talk about it. Well, at least you got what you deserved. I will say that your last post was better handled. At least it wasn't a vehement argumentive splatter. But I only think you finally tamed down because James came in here. As for the Patriot Act...all I have to say is I highly doubt it's anything in par with the Sedition Act. So it's not [i]that[/i] much to worry about. But it really depends. Of course the government's going to abuse the powers the Patriot Act gives..but I'd like to hope our government isn't ran by imbicils, and thus I see that they won't completely abuse it all the time.[/size]

buried myself and buried myself today dirt tastes like maggots and i can see it all; gonna fall, gonna fall. it feels so damn good. so damn good to bury. and i can' stop the hearse is nary, and cold and close i must fake my death before it comes to me, and elopes.

the dog in the mirror starin' me on can you hear? he gots the smallest breath can't even see; he talks 'bout death absolute free. he ain't got me chained; and i ain't walkin' 'im in the park. i'm just looking at 'im that's all. the dogs we know ain't nothin' like and the dogs that howl, they feel him in the light. gotta jiggly, gotta sigh gotta tell ya, saints cry. i'm gonna weep, ain't no reason not to nor reason why, just gotta do it the dog sees me fine.

[size=1] Wisdom is how the trees blow in the wind, and they do not speak, only stand. Wisdom is how the air feels on my face as it cools me and numbs me. Wisdom is something that is in everything, as long as you choose to see it. Wisdom is close to experience to me. But it comes more from being experienced in experience--meaning, being able to know something without even giving it a too certain overlook. I've somewhat equated wisdom with old age. Old, decrepit men that are as gray as meek clouds. Wisdom is something that looks unendearing, yet once dug into with wanting fingers, the simple beauty is shown to you. Ah, here. Here is what it says in my good-book, my bible, about wisdom: [b]wis·dom [/b] ( P ) Pronunciation Key (wzdm) n. The ability to discern or judge what is true, right, or lasting; insight. Common sense; good judgment: ?It is a characteristic of wisdom not to do desperate things? (Henry David Thoreau). The sum of learning through the ages; knowledge: ?In those homely sayings was couched the collective wisdom of generations? (Maya Angelou). Wise teachings of the ancient sages. A wise outlook, plan, or course of action. Wisdom Bible. Wisdom of Solomon. Insight then. It's being able to take the sum of your parts that you own, and applying it to something that isn't a sum of your own parts, and knowing sure and certain how to absorb it to your sum parts and use it correctly. I think it's principality. It's knowing the basics of what you know, and using that to simply come to a thought-out conclusion over some conundrum or crux. Common sense comes to mind--but I think this is common sense to its more higher extreme. Wisdom isn't something that's known, it's something that finds you from knowing principles and basises of the reality of situations, memories, some facts, failures, and so on. It's the sum of all your parts being used to ingest something that you've never ingested. Wisdom is a lot more slow thing than common sense to me. Common sense is what [i]fosters[/i] wisdom, but you can't have wisdom just like that, and no common sense. They are stacking of one another. They build up from one another, like a baby growing to an adult. They must be born, nourished, and eaten and defecated daily for them to keep at the momentum they are. Just because you've finally gotten wisdom doesn't mean you fully have it. You need to keep using it daily, using pieces of your common sense as well as experience. So, in short, wisdom is experience and common sense combined together in a sort of fascistal extreme. Now, there's another side of me in this argument. My nihlistic side. It's telling me that wisdom is just a word. It's simply a notion at some emotional or astute founding. And that is all that words are. Also, wisdom can be imnumberable different things to different people. To one person it won't be at such a high and opulent standing; to another, it will. But in the end it's just a word. A notion at something that is quizzically great to have. And really, you can never have something that isn't real, but only a ghost, only a notion. But you can excel to have it. I'm getting a little verbose and even over myself, but I've gotten my point across. As for wisdom in the world today. Of course there is some there. I think that people that choose to stand alone in what they believe are wise. I think people that see so many different sides to any one thing, and examine it highly before speaking, I think they are wise. But they aren't exteremely wise. They only have bits and pieces. I think wisdom is mostly an unattainable thing, then. It's not a case of either you have it or you don't, it's more of a case that you gain it slowly, and have some of it, or you don't, and end up being ignorant to you and your surroundings[/size]

been buildin' bridges where they cross screachin' like a banshee, the rain's so cold, ain't never gonna find a way to cross. there's a troll and he's lookin' lost, got a sneer on his face tells me i'm not welcome an' i just tip my hat to 'im and smile, an' all he gives me is a stare. "stop who go thar," he say, and i already stopped, hold more still, even havin' trouble breathin' in. the rain's all over me, an' he's all over it, he licks his lips an' speaks to me 'gain. "if ya must pass we need yur heart," he say, lookin' at my chest like it's the best. i just look on at 'im, lonely in the rain. a heart's not worth nothin' 'less you got it's name, an' nothin' 'll warm it 'less you got reason to. the thunky thunk of my heat was on me.

[center][img]http://www.angelfire.com/yt2/keepdacarebearspirit/TreatHeartPig.jpg[/img] [size=1][color=blue][b]Hello!! My name is Treat Heart Pig. When ever you are feeling lonely and blue be sure that I will have a treat for you![/b][/size][/center][/color] [b]Name:[/b] Treat Heart Pig. [b]Color, I guess:[/b] Orange [b]Symbol:[/b] A heart-shaped ice cream cone. [b]Stereotype:[/b] Obssesive-compulsive.