The words aren't coming
The flow has stopped
The spindle runs thin
The flowers cropped
The letters dropped
Hand on her chest
Wishing she wasn't
Entwined in this mess
The honored guest
To maritial ties
All too late
To bid her goodbyes
I'm not a fan of structured poems, at least
When they're imposed on me, like subtle frames
Of written code which keep each line the same
The trapped voice a bird that yearns for release
Allow the flame to grow, please free the beast
Don't snuff the candle's fickle, frozen flame
Set meter and rhyming, you are to blame
Rendering my creativity deceased
But for you, I'll accept the forms you wish
Consume, swallow words with a grain of salt
My heart, wrapped in paper, I'll give to you
In a stanza, a line, or a swish
Of reason, confining words to a fault
Just don't think you're the only one who knew
I'm lying here on a table. Nothing but the sweet hum of machinery, both around and within me. They'd mentioned something beforehand about my hearing. Something about sensitivity that wouldn't hurt in higher decibel ranges.
My hand twitches to touch my new ear, but it remains limp by my side, paralyzed. I think they'd mentioned something about the risk of muscle atrophy in low-gravity environments. Something like that.
I'm hearing my heartbeat now. It's strange to hear such an organic sound in this sterile environment. If I cut myself, would I still bleed red? Or had they replaced my blood with a substitute? Was it still red, or ano
Ever been haunted by a ghost of the past? You know, those recurring memories of a time long gone, the ones that float uninvited into your head? Maybe it's triggered by a memento, or a visit to a sacred place, or the mere mention of a name. The moment relives itself in your head, then disappears, leaving you with only a scrap of cloth or a pressed flower to remember.
But what if these ghosts aren't really ghosts at all? What if they're still living, breathing creatures? Maybe you never see them anymore. Maybe you live too far apart. Maybe you see each other on a daily basis, but you both pretend the other no longer exists. Maybe you're
A writer in a group of artists
Is hardly a place to fit in
In a glance, one can admire a picture
But writing takes much longer to sink in
We've all learned our native language
But not all have picked up a pen
Yet sketching is somehow extraordinary
Simply because not everyone can
We can both stare at a vase for hours
Yet come up with an empty slate
And our details of realization
Rarely come sooner, but late
For despite our apparent differences
Our goal is the same: to learn
And only by way of practice
Can this mastery of skill be earned
A mourning dove hobbled across the road
And I wondered, "Why didn't it fly?"
Does the pleasure of crossing the pavement by foot
Outweigh the risks if it should die?
Maybe the bird remains ignorant
That a passing car could lead to his demise
Unsure of the dangers in the world of man
With no sense of fear in his eyes
Or perhaps he is simply cocky
As he struts across the road in pride
Knowing all vehicles will stop their procession
In order to let him pass by
But I, for one, think he enjoys it
In the way a human walks instead of drives
So the next time you see a bird walking
Maybe you should be the one he walks beside
Version 2.0 is ready
The beta is complete
Its release date is tomorrow
And I've heard it will be l33t
This one's fully moddable
No need to deal with flaws
And it's piracy-protected
So you can't break the law
The calendar is built-in
You'll remember all your dates
And the autopilot feature
Will ensure you won't be late
It's compatible with everything
The computer, the tv, the phone
And it'll download all your contacts
So you'll never feel alone
But if you choose not to upgrade
You'll be alienated, at best
Your communication will be archaic
And your accuracy, second-guessed
This isn't really an option
Conform now, or be scr
Today is a sad day.
Why is the sun shining?
I thought the sky was supposed to reflect emotion
Like a heaven-mirror
Answering the prayers of the living
In the form of precipitation
Are the clouds our gods now?
They are notably absent
In this clear sky
An expanse filled with light
rain is not the same here
drawn not from oceans and lakes
but from rivers and pastures afar
distant origins aside
here, it is simply melted snow
not the prisms of sunlight
that I used to know
infrequent as this precipitation might be
i still yearn for the rain
even if it's
not the same
Oh, little dream, come back to me,
And weave more stories of eternal spring.
Show me once more that unknown land
Of glistening star and glistening sand.
Reflect my thoughts in a shallow mirror.
Evaporate those that remain austere.
Spin them into a moonlit web,
And place it securely within my head.
Direct my eyes to the place within,
Where my lovely, treasured dreams doth spin.
Treat me so with a wondrous surprise,
Whilst scrapping those with moans and cries.
A place where cuckoo clocks strike thirteen,
And denizens of Genidox lurk unseen.
Remind me of royalty once revered,
Where toast is indeed a thing to be feared.
Mirror, mirror, on the wall,
Will I be the first to fall?
If I do stumble, if I do quake,
Will these days a lifetime make?
Castle, castle, in the air,
Is your fairness truly there?
If these fair dreams of mine exist,
Then why do nightmares still persist?
Candle, candle, on the stand,
Why do you flicker in my hand?
When times come that I need light most,
I find that you are first to go.
Flower, flower, in my hair,
Why are you still sitting there?
He placed you there, but even so,
That was nearly a week ago.
Selfish, selfish, I digress:
My love for you grows less and less.
Or so I'd often like to think,
For I'm still waiting
Bluh bluh infodump.
I'm too lazy for that right now.
Anyways, I just made this nifty little NaNoWriMo donation page, so I thought I'd stick that here >> http://www.stayclassy.org/fundraise?is_new=1&fcid=158905#