Mitch

[size=1] I'm such an Otaku that when I played Metal Gear Solid last night, and I found Hal Emmerich after defeating Gray Fox, my fallen comrade and friend, whom was in his ninja costume. And after doing that and upon seeing Hal, he asked me to call him Otacon. And I knew that that was an anime convention, I was so Otakusavvy. I'm so Otaku I knew that. I'm also so posh I knew it as well. Honestly, no one here is an Otaku lol. Maybe James, if someone wants to say it. Inside joke that means nothing. Anyway. I'd say half the people here never even watch Anime. The reason I stay on this message board is for: #1) Crazy White Boy-- Charles is The Man. He is the reason I was as active as I was when I first joined. I was first gotten to know this Crazy White Boy by his gaming RPG he created. It was entitled Project Gamer, most certainly not the undertaking of an Otaku. Back then my name was much woed with the pneumonically blurred ulunation of "AnimeLover." I PMed Charles way back then, asked him if I could join his RPG, and from there, I talked to elcrazywhiteboy upon his AIM name many a time indeed. I am not an Otaku, and half the people on this site, at least, aren't either. I haven't touched the Anime forums much since first I came here. And it can be said that many of the most popular people here--Piro, Sara, perhaps myself, Alex, Charles, Crazy White Boy, Tony, Shy, Ken, all the others whose names go without saying--all these people aren't into anime too much. It's hard to say what draws us here to this board whose name is "Otaku"boards. I think we should rename this board. Name it JamBoards. Or maybe CharlesBoards. Maybe JamCharBoards. Maybe CrazyWhiteBoards. Maybe PoisonedTongueBoards. Maybe SaraBoards. ShymanBoards. Any name that one can think of, it could be taken. Yet still naming it only like this would accomplish nothing--for there is many a good person here, many people to get to know. Naming it one person over the other would cause an ulcerated self-righteous suicide which would not be fair to all the rest of the people who make up this community. Let's just call it O Taco Birds. Like Taco Bell only gone fowl and fair in the sky. O Taco Birds, whence did you be. Whence came you, whence came all this I see. O Taco Birds, grace be you, the holder of the times. O Taco Birds, O grace have a name. A claim, a fame. O Taco Birds, whence did you came, and flew upon. Adam's eve built fond. O Taco Birds, whose utterances were there heard. Whose built was felt as it perturbed. O sweet a thing as this be. O sweet the reasoning of the seen. O sweet and tasty does this be. O Taco Birds, the dwelling we feed. Yes, I'm Otaku. Just look at me. It just cannot be denied.[/size]

True sadness is true happiness. To know enough to know, and go on. Sad is he who knows. Sad is he who is truly happy. Sad is he who knows. The discipline to apply oneself is quite never found any longer. We live in an age in which we are a sluggish people. We are lazy. We do not know the true feelings any longer, we only serve these feelings, and leave them where they be. We no longer speak, no longer try, no longer suffer in ways sufferable. Once conceived, and once alive, we begin to die. Slowly we die, as slowly we tread. As a flower blooms, blossoms, wilts, so do we. Exposed to the world, we are enbittered. Set out before us is a set path?a set guideline?a set endeavor. We go to school. Learn of humanly created things, perceptions, afflictions, impediments, sophistications, all that are inset in us. We learn of math?cold calculation, numbers, symbols. We learn of science?reasoning, understanding, answering. We learn of words?expressions, definitions, dictions. Most of all we learn sadness. A sadness in knowing. Of learning. Of holding. We are multi-faceted?placed to learn many a thing, most of which we hold of little use but of its basics. And therein inside us all there is that one thing we feel we must do?that one notion which we feel as one in?that we feel we can apply ourselves in?that we feel we can discipline in, grow in, become great in. That one thing that seems set for us to conquer. That we feel a thing for. But still, knowing some purpose, and what to do, we are held back. Interdicted, we are forced to learn that which we care not, where we would rather be learning and applying ourselves wholly to that one thing we feel we belong to. And there are those among us who encourage our one skill we hold dear, our one reason we give. Yet others there are that feel this one skill should be melded, beaten, bruised, in some way. That all that is or be is never to be changed from how it does its work in its core. The normal is often the perception of many, and when one comes along who can exceed the normal, he is often unseen, unknown, unheard. He is only seen by a select few who understand where he comes from, and understands what he sets out to do. He who does what he wants and what he feels?that person is their own genius, their own discipliner. He is his own individual, his own creation. The set rights and wrongs before us are merely perception. There is no right and there is no wrong?there is only perception. Right being a perception, as well as wrong being a perception. When one hates they perceive with their own accord. When one loves, they perceive with their own accord. When one chooses they perceive, they choose one thing over others. They take their stand in what they hold dear or contempt. There is no right and wrong. Wrong is as right as wrong. Right is as wrong as right. No man can be wrong in his choosings, for each and every has his reasons, and he who does not is a fool, and ignorant. He who follows blindly, he is a fool. But he who sees, he is a perceiver of his own creation?of his own reasonings?of his own devices. He who questions seeks answers, and he who finds answers in himself is the most knowing. For answers are all within us, gathered from the physicalties which we have understood and infused with our conscious memory. A man need not exceed when he can fail. A man need not work when he be able to stand aloft and do nothing. A man need do nothing if there is no passion for what he is doing in his heart. For without passion there is not art, and without art there is no soul, nor is there feeling. And without feeling there is a void, a place of ineffable conscription not beset by the man himself, but by what others tell of him. One who is one alone and sees what he sees alone is one pompous. But one who accepts what others believe, and inaddeneds and absorbs all that is seen to his eyes, he is gracious, and he is confident, as well as a kinder man than one who does not. For understanding empathy is where truth lies. For there be no truth nor falsifications nor fallacies but where one perceives them. All is about perception, all is about how one processes what is set and given. One cannot be cold and calculating as math, but he must be human. He must pool together both emotion and reason's logic into one understanding singularity. In this world today a man can slack. In this world today there is no discipline. And all is vanity, all is vain. For one works for nothing but himself?and if one feels that he should not be doing what he is doing, then he is sad, and truly happy. For he has seen truth in his eyes, destroying his optimism in the processes. For optimistics are but hope?and there is no hope but what one perceives?and we all, as humans, as mortals, perceive death. Death is a hope. And when one asks how one died, one must answer with how one lived. For living is dying. When one is conceived one begins the process which is death. There is not hope but where you see it?and in society there is no hope?in organized religion there is not hope?there is only hope in you. And in what you choose to believe. But still one must accept the way things are, and thus be ladened with sadness, and be happy in knowing as much of a truth as one can perceive. If one feels doubt in what they perceive, may that make them stronger. For questioning should not be held within. Humans be quizzical creatures, ponderous by nature and curiosity. Question everything as much as you can, and derive as much as you can on all sides of what you question. Look to what your do not perceive as well as what you do perceive for answers?understand the other side's perceivation. For then you shall more understand yours, as well as be wise. For one who is wise is one who sees all with one's own self. The wise look to themselves and their experiences for support?they crutch on thought, and on summing all their parts to create something which is otherwise undefinable. When you see enemies, you see friends, and when you see friends, you see enemies. So it is with us as one person. If life is hopeless, let this be your hope. The hope that you have no hope shall push you on, shall make you live in the most ironically cold ways. But it is not far from the truth you see. For in truth there is cold perception?there is seeing things as simple as they be. And as simple as it can be, life is living, then dying. Losing all you gain is gaining all you lose. One who feels he has much has much even when he has little. In this world today we wear tidy habiliments, we visage ourselves in outfits which we wear in interred pride. One should not be so pride-ridden. One should not do something they feel they should not be doing. But one is always forced, so one must accept, while on the side, they must do what they feel is right?that one thing which the forever hold dear, the one thing they love, the one thing which is their discipline. Which calms them. Which they devote themselves to. They must remain strong in this their whole lives?or else they shall lose something they may be remembered by more than a few for. All deserve to be remembered?but few are. Let those few be the all. When you feel to cry, cry if it is you. If it is not, and you feel there is no reason to cry, for you have never felt the horrendousness that is the worst of things, then do not cry, but cry inside, and lock away the lushous sadness away, and articulate it in what you were born to do, and let no one stop you. For passion should not be wasted?it should be reticenced. It should be held within, and let to drivel out like rain coming down in torrents. And let all the people you hold dear know of your passion, for knowing of passion makes one feel it. And always know that true happiness is true sadness. That working all your life in a preordained, preset society with its morals will never make you happy. The human destination is not of control, but it is of understanding. It is of being free, and with those that are free, free. But liberty is a privilege, as is freedom. And even in the freest free there is no freedom but what you seek to see and perceive. Only in death is one unsuffered, freed, left to live as one always wanted. In death all makes sense, in all pain we thrive. Let this be our catalyst, let it catalyst us to reason. Let pain seethe in us, and let it bury us, and let it sadden and sullen us until we are bruised within. Do not let yourself believe for one moment that how you live is how you should live. How one should live is as trees blow in the wind. As Nature has prebeautied. When you walk within streets, imagine those streets were once gone; that once there there stood trees, and wild grasses, and feral things most serene and eloquentially feeling. One can only find happiness in what created him. And Nature is what creates. It has created wind. It has created air. It has created breathing thriving living organisms. It has created, and all in the same sweep, it destroys. Do not look on destruction as destruction, but look on it as creation. For destruction is the evener of creation, and creation the evener of destruction. Without one there would not be the other. For if things were only created, they would eventually not be able to sustain all that multiplied?for for there to be creation there need be destruction, there need be the losing of something for the gaining of another. And as we sit here in this day and age, technology has begun its hold. We have created and created as we have taken and taken from nature. We unbalance nature. We destroy its beauty its serenity. All things man-made are in turn created by a different nature which is governed, that is of mankinds' own devise. We are ungrateful. We destroy what nature has given us. We drain away the planet and kill it while it can do nothing. Fear is the universal appropriation of man and of any creature. And when a creature is impeded with intelligence, he is able to create his own devices out of fear to destroy this fear. We fear death. We fear working. We fear doing much. We fear living. So we create machines, we create technology. We seek to drown that which is a nature, which is a fear. Fear is the highest thing we feel the most. And it shall never die as much as we try?for fighting fear only leads to deviation of more fear, and more fear leads to still more fear. It is an endless abodely circle. It has no discipline. Man has no discipline. He seeks to give reasons to his actions when the reasons for his actions are fear. Why does a man go and get education? For he fears one day that he may not get a job, and may then not be able to feed himself, thereby living. Why does man enter into war? For he fears conflicts without resolves. He fears conflicts that have never been set straight, and in nature he turns his fear into valor, trying as he might to effuse what conflicts him with brave courage which is foundationed in fear. War is the horridest of all things. It is a sickly thing, a sullen thing. And it is raw emotion outbursted into a globally physical entity. It seeks to conceive rights and wrongs when there are none but what each side perceives. It is a dying reason to fight. For no one is ever right nor wrong, each thing a man says has some validity to it. Every concept has something which can be gleaned and thus taken in. Yet few can do this. Few can see both sides to one given situation as well as many. Man is gilded, he is decrepit. And only when he destroys himself shall he truly no longer live in fear. And only when he sees his own perdition will he finally see past all that he has done. One can only live as it is told to them. And in today's age we are to learn?and by learning we are saddened with intelligence. for with intelligence comes a need for discipline, just as a man greatly powerful in physical nature must inhold his powers. Once one knows they are happy and see as much truth as they can. Once they see this they become lost, uncertain, blown in too many directions. The physical is what festers as well as fosters the mental. Our entire mental capacities and images are encaptured in physical understandings. We see everything as we see from our eyes. And this shall never change. And it is only those who see through the eyes of others that actually see, and actually foster their mental intelligences in the right manner. And if one fosters this side of themselves long enough, they shall find that they are sad in what they know. Sad is he who knows. Knowing is he who knows, and by it he lives. Sad as it be and sad as it is, all one can do is live, or kill oneself as one stands. May man heed words which are spoken true. And may they die by them.

[QUOTE][i]Originally posted by PoisonTongue [/i] [B] [quote]Mitch, you're an idiot. Go and cry about me calling you an idiot, too. Get the sympathy. But know deep down in your heart, you have no frigging idea what life is all about. You accuse me of being an Idealist? Who's saying what here?[/quote] [size=1]Notice I said, and here [i]do[/i] I quote:[/size] [quote]You seem more Idealist than Realist.[/quote] [size=1]I did not say you are Idealist. I said you [i]seem[/i] more Idealist [i]than[/i] Realist. If you are going to rhetoric back at me, at least get it right, Sir Alex. You're accusing me of not knowing what life is about? As far as I be concerned, [i]no one[/i] does know what life is about. So don't sit here and tell me I know nothing--I simply believe what I choose to believe. As for me being an Idealist, as you seemingly point out? Get the tried-and-true knowing of [i]what[/i] an Idealist is. Because I am Naturalist. Everything I said in that post was spoken of that of a Naturalist. Naturalists believe life is bad I do. Naturalists don't believe in God. I do. Naturalists see life is a *****, and then you die. I do. Naturalists, overall, believe that we as humans are but dusts in the wind. That we aren't such great beings; that all the things we create die in the end, that all that we do is in vain. And this I do believe, and this is what I think, and if you want to say I am wrong, say it, because by saying I am wrong, you are wronged mostly your very self--for I am my own person, my own being, and I believe what I believe and you believe what you believe. I was kind in my last post, because I am a kind person. The very least you could do is return this--yet you seemingly cannot. I am not arrogant nor hubrant, I am merely [i]confident[/i] and out-spoken in what I do say. People take this as I am the first, but actually I am the latter. If I was not the latter, then why would I be saying that I understand what you said in your post, that in actuality one can believe that life is good as well as bad, or that it is good? If I was not the latter, how could I see that mine own beliefs are not absolute? Tell me how I am not the latter. You can't, because in reality, I am not. We are all selfish in some ways. You seemingly are the most selfish for not allowing me to believe what I want to believe. If there's one thing everyone deserves, that is for people to let people believe what they want. What's it to you that I believe what I believe? Nothing, if you think I'm an idiot. So, logic says to me and you that I must not be an idiot by this, that in fact, since what I say matters enough to you for you to endlessly bicker and snarl, that I am not encumbered with idoteque to this point, and in actuality what I say does matter to you, thus making me not an idiot. Anyway, enough of this. I won't say anything more. I've had enough of your fascist ways, and I'm not going to even listen your poisonous tongue any longer.[/size]

[QUOTE][i]Originally posted by PoisonTongue [/i] Ahem. 1) An author can still put heart into a work when the work is highly structured. To say that structure weakens writing is preposterous. I suppose then, you're going to tell me that because The Graduate is heavily structured, that it's a weak novel? That Heart Of Darkness is so dense and heavy, layered with depth, exploding with atmosphere and mood (i.e., structure), that it's inferior to some unfocused piece of ****? Are you about to tell me that Russell Banks' "Sarah Cole: A Type Of Love Story" is inferior simply because it has such a specific narrative flow? That it locks itself into a modality of presentation and thus is substandard because you [i]think[/i] that because it adheres to guidelines or structured form, that it lacks heart? Mitch, you're wrong. Structure does not weaken writing, nor does it weaken the heart. Saying "that there is heart, and it is seen, and it is shown. Rules and organization in writing weaken this, cripple it--seize it. They make writing not one's own" shows just how inexperienced one is. Want to disagree?[/quote] [size=1] Obviously you did not understand my intentions as I said them. I said that if someone is writing something, they should write it how they want--not by what grammar says, not by what other rules may be made. Examples: those little rules, such as use who instead of that when referring to a person--they don't matter to some immense extent. If someone wants to use that, then they can if they want. If someone doesn't want to use paragraphs, then they can. I'm merely pointing to those things which seemingly are harped on. Such as, you can't use "you," "I," and so on, and how one must write in "standard essay form" when writing an essay. I hate these kind of things. They get in the way of my writing. Alex, you're completely right. Structure doesn't cause writing to worsen--I was merely saying that a writer can use as much structure, as much grammatical rules, as they want, when they are simply writing something, and not getting it published. Upon publish, then they can change those things if it is so stated by their publishers. It's a stupid thing to argue from the get-go. I was merely saying that I do not agree with rules, this is my opinion. And I also believe that simple little writing rules--such as one cannot use a noun as a verb, etc, shouldn't matter. If one is writing not for a publisher, then they shouldn't worry about this, but they should writer however they choose. Once set to publish--then they can change things as they are so asked by their publishers and what they say. You're right to say what you're saying. But I believe you did take what I said too far, but I do commend you for saying what you have. Because you are right--structure [i]does[/i] heighten the writer. I was merely saying that sticking something as cut and dried is never the way I see things--I say let someone mess with language as much as they want.[/size] [quote]2) "I would change things to a certain askewness that gives it what it should be to the [b]cold calculating governs of what people want to say that writing should be[/b]." Are you that self-removed? I mean, honestly. I'm asking. Are you [i]really[/i] that self-absorbed to think that the entire world is wrong? To think that the entire world is a cruel being that is going to kill you? You have to be really full of yourself to be treating the entire writing field like some evil, dominating beast. You're just afraid of the real world. Really, come out of the shell. It'll do you good.[/quote] [size=1] Yes I am this self-removed. Yes I am self-absorbed to the point where I think this world is useless and cruel. And yes, the world shall kill me. I shall live in it, and by it, I shall die someday when I am old. I am afraid of reality. I am distant to reality. I stay in my mind all the time. I don't think I'm full of myself. I see that I'm merely another person in the slew of things. Another useless being that is on this Earth for no reason at all. This is the way I see things. Deep down I'm more of a Naturalist than a Realist. I see the bad in most things. I don't believe in God. I feel that life is pointless--life is a ***** then you die. This is the way I see things. I am cynical. You are an optimistic fellow, I am not. You seem more Idealist than Realist. That is not me. We are different people who view things in a different perception. And I can understand where you come from, because empathy is one of the things I feel. But really, think about it. We live to work in this society as it says. And then what happens? We retire. And then what happens? We are rewarded for all our useless working with a death--an end--and what happens at the end no one knows. We assume that we know. Enough of that anyway. Just see this: nothing you say will change what I think. I do see what you say, but I am stubborn. I shall stick to what I think and that is fine. Why even try to tell me differently? I'm just another human being that has the same exact potentials as you, or anyone had and once had. Again, you speak the truth. And yes, I should come out of my shell. It would do me good. A good that serves no purpose.[/size] [quote]3) Mitch, if that's your attitude towards teaching, get the hell out. We don't want you if you're "falling back" on teaching. Don't do us any favors, okay? "And at this point I see that I'll end up being a teacher. Not something I'm excited about. Teachers are underpaid, underappreciated. And it just isn't something I'm amazingly happy to do." and, "I plan to major in English, perhaps minor in History. End up being a teacher, forced to it." This is gonna sound cruel, but blow it out your ***. Dude, with that kind of attitude you're displaying, with that kind of predisposition to teaching, you make me sick, and I can guarantee you'd make a lot of Teacher Prep instructors/advisors/aides very sick, too. Don?t even think about setting foot at the front of a classroom with your attitude towards teaching, all right?[/quote] [size=1] It depends on where things take me. I might end up being a teacher, I might not. Maybe I'll be a Journalist. Maybe I'll be a critic. [i]Who knows.[/i] What's your point? I hate monotiny, so thus I'll hate pretty much [i]any[/i] job I'm given. Working in general sucks no matter what you want to say. Being forced to do something sucks no matter what you say as well. Yes, my attitude is horrid, but bluntly, it's the cold truth. What is the point of teaching? Everything you teach shall just die anyway. Everything you teach most likely shall not remember what you have taught if it does not suit them. Most likely, most who enter your class are just the same as you or me or anyone--they're there so they can get a job doing someday what they love--writing. It depends though. If you teach high school level, you're a hell of a lot more prone to see kids in your class just because they have to. In college it's certainly a different case. I think education is pointless. The more I know the more I don't want to know. I see that everything I learn is useless--it is created by the humans that made them. I see it as pointless to know all this when I could be some stupid person that knowns nothing that is happy in his ignorance. But of course this is not the case, and I am no longer happy--well, at least truly happy. I would enjoy teaching on one level. I would enjoy teaching those people to who it matters. But this, more often than not, won't be the case if I teach high school. I know how mundane high school is. I hate education at this point. For all it's given me, I'd rather have it ripped away or never had. Again: this is what I think. I see the negatives in things. You are not going to change what I think. I understand what you say, but at least give me my breathing room. I am an individual and I reserve this right with this post. And what you have said is mostly true, and also what I have said is mostly true--at least to me. And that's enough of that.[/size]

[QUOTE][i]Originally posted by wiccansamurai [/i] [B] Maybe I'm just brain numb at 2:30 am, but I didn't feel a thing reading this. [/B][/QUOTE] [size=1] You're not alone, lol. I'll second you on that notion. It wasn't [i]horrible[/i], but I didn't feel it was much either. I mean, it's the same story we've all heard, or so it seems. It's written in a very acute, not straying, not having any emotion, way, and I guess that's what writer's block does to one, lol. It's commendable you wrote anything, though. I know how hard it is sometimes--and you know what this shows Leh? It shows you are committed to writing. That's what should matter with your posting of this poem. In fact, I wrote ten poems today, even though around the third or so I wanted to stop, and felt drained. Heh. I'm not gloating at all, I can be a prolific writer if I just allow myself to write; that doesn't mean some of my poems were terrible. I think some of those ten were. Keep writing, that's all there's to say. :)[/size]

[size=1] Again, this thread is pointless. People aren't going to post in a thread unless they feel the notion to do it. Just because they don't reply doesn't necessarily mean they are lazy, nor does it mean they hate you in any regard. This thread more or less belongs in the Suggestions and Feedback forum, not here, but I don't think it deserves to be open withstanding. Please, sixy, don't post anymore useless threads like this. I know your intentions are well, but really, you sound more like a whiner than anything--and honestly, people aren't going to post just because you want them to. They are going to post when they feel like it. This forum's always been pretty slow. Lots of newbies end up posting here, it's something like the new haven for those newbies which feel it right to post some kind of poem. You should see some of the entirely and wholly stupid poems I've seen while I've been here, as well as the amount of useless things. But, thankfully, the good and well-written things seem to exceed the horrid ones. Mostly, anyway. Although this thread isn't specifically breaking many rules, or anything, it's just a useless thread I'd say. I could move it to the Suggestions and Feedback forum--but to what reason? You would get about what you're getting from me in this post. And that is, candidly, that people don't care what you think, they are going to post when they feel like it, not when you want them to. We're all at liberty here. We don't have to post in some thread just because someone wants us to--we post in threads because [i]we[/i] want to, we make threads because [i]we[/i] want to. And as I've said, this forum has always, always been slower than most of the rest I've frequented. There's not much you can do about that. So while I understand what you're saying, Sixy, then again, discussing it isn't going to do much, so I'm just going to kill this before it can be killed. I mean everything well, and I think I've pretty much summed up what I should say, as well as what others would say, in this one post. Thread closed.[/size]

[size=1] Ten poems here. Written just now in rapid succesion. I got pretty devoid of what I was writing in the last few. But the rest were decent.[/size] [b]I[/b] i love thee in some fashion that i wear what be it that hugs my body tight the frame enwrapped bones and light what be it that wears me in this dight for when it is flesh and ripe bruise that is when and there is then found colorful hues [b]II[/b] some days wear i boxers and jeans faded flare blue as sadness carries its care some days i wear shirts most loose askew wrapped round lankily not showing off my beauty's frame some days wear i faces that wear upon mine face that feel like make-up powder and paste. mannequin be i faceless face lined. mannequin be i faceless face lined. [b]III[/b] my body naked is a machine pump-pumping the joints careen the bolts swing and there be time pendulum being. my body naked is mine own undesecrated flown. and there i wear it much as me while deeper in monsters breathe. my body naked is a machine pump-pumping those joint careen. puncture mine skin drain tward the flesh deep inside deep duress my body naked i see. [b]IV[/b] ribs and bone white polish shone. flesh hunkers hugs th' sides helter-skelter skeleton frame. therein there tamed machineofbones mine own slave. putten things upon layered deep and drawn cutten now then slaughter there all i am is bones bruised rare. cutten mine cloths cutten mine skin bleed profuse therein skin mine ripeness tempted taste eaten it all do not haste. then there be ribs and bone shone. then there be machineofbones mine own slave. therein be machineofbones yet still flesh hunkers hugs th' sides and whereto do i pry. skin me now then therein lie deep and dormant prime. for machineofbones am i. [b]V[/b] in th' begin' there was none then blackness seizured. an' there it began. a lifeless form was made built?boltered?framed. inhumane?urbane?mundane. and therefrom it was all made. dressed here and there th' blackness was dressed fair. wore he now the light an' hues o' colors lurkened slight. a green? a white? a yellow? a red? all many much more colors there were bled. the blackness felt most fine decorated he was sublime. an' he was given feeling an' emotions seethed. the anger risen? the peace interred? the lone felten? the horrid bared. the feelings synapsed combined then retract. an' emotions seethed. most of all as time went forth blackness came lone with want and with his nothing and with his all he built forth a figure tall. thereupon he built within deep dresses and wires and tendons thin. till had he built his whim. and O what lack?and O what great? therefore stood a figure gape. with wide eyes and cheeks so thin and innocence very grinned. an' emotions seethed. an' in incubation the figure made. hindered, slaved. till it was its own new color brave. it was colored most differeing. and it flashed and flashed. an' emotions seethed while in his blackness blackness be'd. thereupon the figure made grown and feigned was hurten with the way things were and was but a smear for blackness to upturn. blackness took him unawares smoting down him to bare. and in the act and in the ways the figure was much bruised. till wounded he died. a bruised smear wounded to a hue. and still that form lingered even in death. for what it had been and what it had done still had breath. an' emotions seethed as blackness grieved the most strange sadness he believed. and blackness cried till his tears hit thereupon the bruised smear. and blackness saw the wet dead with fear till in his sadness he could not refute his want of another to brute. then there was made another figure there. another bruised smear to have his fare. in th' begin' there was none. then blackness seizured an' there it began. an' there it ended. [b]VI[/b] comet carnage incarnate hit upon me thine console bore into the earth th' head like a hole. comet i see thine tail in th' dark smoking round wanting home come down thee comet come down lone with not a lover nor a need but with inevitablity obscene. comet comet in the night cometh down thine fright come come in the night cometh down, cometh the light cometual the delight cometual the idle blight comet you be th' most right. comet carnage incarnate hit upon me thine console bore into the earth th' head like a hole. [b]VII[/b] i sing to you my friend alone the song most sung the most beloved i sing to you as i sing to myself and sing to you like sing you deep inside you feel this way i know it my friend and i shall write it here today i smell the leaves of grass the grass that grows i feel it neath my feet and neath my smell deep here in the grass its death has already began and one can tell deep here in the grass there is yet water and the stuff that gives it life but one day it shall not see this, nor the light so my friend i sing to you i sing to you my friend alone the song most sung the most beloved i sing that there is no purpose but what there is and there is none there be or is but deep inside us all we must live just as butterflies are most serene and the trees growning are most pristine so are we but we are not so green for we take to our devices cold and hard the technology that has been made. what has been made cannot be unmade but only sheltered and effused drawn back and held to hard and something made makes things eased but too much goes to the point of no need. so my friend i sing to you telling you that you must live live as other have lived live as the grass has been and there you will find no hope within but a hope that living is living then. [b]VIII[/b] we don't need to multiply we don't need to grow we don't need the flowers we don't need the road i crossed my math with my crucify i killed the weeds with a pull i beat the flowers to bruised fulls and i cracked the road that i have worn my feet are undaunted my hands are thin and veined and my mind has been broken and framed. when i find it all i will find the question and then it will be asked and there shall be a beautiful answer for a beautiful question and death shall teeter and shelter from the storm. [b]IX[/b] have grown hairy with the age given new visage to haze with this sign?this bade i wear me blossomed soon to fade and when i wilt i will drain and when i wilt i will drain. have grown hairy the thorny nest has begun spidering down its lung. want to numb blunt the candid dumb feel it going to another going down the way and when i wilt i will drain and when i blossomed i felt engrained. have grown hairy with the age and with this given i shall fade. [b]X[/b] x marked the spot on the way i was gone the map was thin, my hands cold in the snow and there was treasure, but it was unknown the past was written on the map the x fingering me in the eye shooting me point blank with its vision its cry the past is a big gaping hole and i climbed back in it the monster still lived in that abode and in there i was eaten by him and found it was larger than i'd ever known the past is a gaping hole and i can't help but go back for the treasures there like a pirate that has lost his way going bout stumbled in the rain. x marked the spot on the way i was gone and i climbed in the musty hole and since then have ever been gone.

[size=1] One brother, his name is Kellan. He was born in 1992, making him about 11 at this point. He's a neat little guy, and lately we have been bonding more for some reason. Not that we always haven't, but let me tell you, the kid is pretty wild sometimes. Do you have a brother that [i]spray painted the garage doors of your house?[/i] I do. Do you have a brother that [i]started a fire in the kitchen one day?[/i] I do. Do you have a brother [i]who pooped on the sidewalk when you asked him once, when you were younger?[/i] I do. I used to be pretty jealous of him, but not really anymore. He seems to be a lot less hyper lately, since we've taken him off his ADD medication (I was also diagnosed with ADD when I was younger, and once took pills for that as well). But he can get really, really hyper. I remember a while ago my friend Adam came over, and you know, when friends come over he just has to be the most hyper little thing. Adam ended up giving him a "swirly" in the toilet, among other things. Pretty crazy. My brother is also prone to striptese at moments. When my friends have come over, he's often ripped off a stray jeans, even underwear. But he has seemed to grown out of this finally. I remember that Adam's sister, Rachel, used to babysit us. My brother once held soiled underwear in her face, not to mention grabbed her breasts. He's a sex-starved sexual little kid that doesn't know what sex is yet the energy just wanders in him in some weird, odd way that I cannot even explain. But he's my brother. And I love him.[/size]

[size=1] I want to be a writer. Simple as that. But the type of writer that [i]I[/i] would like to be is seemingly not what most consider a "writer." I'm not obsessive about my writing. I don't sit for hours and hours on end. But I do write good things when the inspiration comes--I do write good spur-of-the-moment things, which I think always end up becoming my best stories. A while back Alex (PT) mentioned that revision is a must. And I totally agree--I just simply think that raw writing that happens instantaneously makes the bare bones for something that, with a little revision, ingenuity, and work, can become great. Of course revision is a needed thing--but then again too much revision is possible as well. Anyway, that's what I want to be. A writer. What kind of writer? I'd like to, at this point, mostly consider myself a poet--as Poe did, as many past authors have mostly conisdered themselves. Because poetry is something different--it's something that's so creatively-fueled that it works well for me. It's so easily bent to suit. Sadly, I highly doubt that I shall become some great writer. From what Alex has said, I find that people are encumbered with a type of certain vision that writing must be. And that isn't what writing is to me--it is not something that is cut and dried, that is interdicted with rules. Writing to me is as much me as I can put down or say to someone. I cannot tell people well my feelings--but through writing--through that, I can. It's a catharsis at times. It's a friend at times. But most of all it is a personal tool I use. It is a personal thing--personalized endlessly to suit what I feel like saying. At times it is obtuse in what it says, other times not. And the main thing that I feel matters most in writing is that there is heart there--that there is heart, and it is seen, and it is shown. Rules and organization in writing weaken this, cripple it--seize it. They make writing not one's own. As far as I am concerned, I do not care if I cannot use that in place of who, since who is to be used for people. I don't care. What I care is that I write from my heart--and that it is me, and not what some other person says. Not that I'm not open to suggestions. And not that I wouldn't change things--but that is if I am to be published, then I would do that. If I was going to have, say, a book of poetry published, I would revise it all for better readability--I would change things to a certain askewness that gives it what it should be to the cold calculating governs of what people want to say that writing should be. I have decided not to fret over college this year, nor to make it some large ordeal in the future. I don't care where I go to college at this point. I'll probably end up going to college here. At NDSU, or perhaps the college in Fargo. It doesn't matter to me at this point. And at this point I see that I'll end up being a teacher. Not something I'm excited about. Teachers are underpaid, underappreciated. And it just isn't something I'm amazingly happy to do. If I had it my way, I'd just write poems all my life, or writing, and get it published. With no money or money, just as long as at the same time I had enough to keep food on my table. I plan to major in English, perhaps minor in History. End up being a teacher, forced to it. I plan to hopefully, someday, get a book of my poems published, perhaps get known in a small way. We'll see. And that's about as far as the rabbit hole goes so far, and that's as far as I want to think ahead. Edit: I'd also like to learn to play the guitar, perhaps become a musician. Or a songwriter. Sing my poetry, weaving them into songs. Because music is another thing I love--and often is what catalysts me to writing. [/size]

[size=1] Santa isn't real He's a chimeras head with crayons scribbled on paper lead. Santa isn't real He's dead. Wasn't shot Wasn't born Wasn't dead But died all the same. Was once a kid Was once a clown Once was happy Once was down Knew the laughter Knew the sounds Santa came And left me ground. All the presents were on the tree Ripest thoughts and ripest dreams The christmas choir choir out the door Singing, "O Merry Christmas." Those whores like a choir. And Santa's empire. Wrapped in plastic Wrapped in paper And the boxes over my eyes Cut through the lies. Told a lie--told a truth Told nothing but wasteless use Christmas is about Christ And there I have no hymn I cast all these threads to the abyss. For Christmas is a waste of time. A present mediocre--a time not to find. Families are together and that is all that sees. For Santa died long ago like Fall's leaves. So die these threads made For too many is too much and all in vain. Ken and I shall shoot them all And end what was there-- sever is fair and too many threads is too many threads. ------ I am so tired of all of these Christmas threads it's not even funny. I think that each year that Christmas comes, James or someone should just make one thread which is on the general topic of anything containing Christmas--and in this thread, all the threads that have become a rancid fist all about this forum shall be therein, and there shall no longer be an inanimate clutter of threads all specificing to the apprehensions and the happenings of Christmas. Christmas honestly doesn't need as many threads as it has in this forum--I mean, it's quite obvious the forum is pretty much overrun with threads all about this one topic--so why not make one general thread? It would be so much more logical, and so much less cluttering this forum. As for Santa--he is not real. So thus he cannot bring me anything. And what Santa I once had died a few years ago with my realizations of things I'm sure many have come to as well. As for what I recieved. Here is a brief conning: A leather, black jacket. Max Payne 2: The Fall of Max Payne. Lord of the Rings: Return of the King video game. e.e. cummings complete poems 1904-1962. The Complete Tales and Poems of Edgar Allan Poe. Three H.P. Lovecraft books which have yet to arrive. Headphones. $75. And that is all, and well enough.[/size]

[size=1] In the future--please explain why the book is so good. Also try to tell a brief synopsis of the story. Say anything that could perhaps get some discussion going--because I've never heard of this book you're talking of, so I'd like to know if it's worth checking out. Not that you did anything wrong...just post a more in-depth opening post to threads, otherwise the thread will probably go as far as you took it, and in as much depth as you took it--which, in this thread, is not much.[/size]

[b]maggotula rose[/b] would i were a maggot where could i be so dry sucking sweet divine. would i were a maggot turning hereto to a fly with wings of gild of gold of age being most sucking sweet divine. perfunctory?that sad sigh most enduring, livid creature wherefore do you ride? wherefore i think i knew but lost as innocence hast cocooned alas a hush?alas a mush? onward horse thou must. neigh and weary quite blearied quaint and dreary perfunctory?that sad sigh. still i ask day and out? wherefore dost thou ride? upon a steed most astute aseiged from whence we grace?and whence we race the horse of no face and hereupon?graced and songed perfunctory dost ride. would i might? would i say? wherefore dost thou ride tonight? would i were a maggot? sick and vile. most wonted?most futile. would i were a maggot there must i say the rawness would feign. and there i would be sucking sweet divine. changing into a fly. where here i am and here i be? human being, when in my heart the strokes the art i feel i am i feel i see all i ever will be. would i were a maggot? whence i already am. so sad melancholy feast till full be the beast whereto my heart? whereto beats. so sad melancholy feast whereto decay till full be the beast. whereto my heart? whereto beats. so sad melancholy feast where here i am and here i be? human being, when in my heart the strokes the art i feel i am i feel i see all i ever will be. [b]brother thou brother thee[/b] i cannot listen to euphony for it is late and my brother?he hears me. for here i shall and here i be but without the glee. in the music mountains whirl as clouds wrestle among the trees. and i cannot listen to euphony. my ears are quiet silence seeth. shall i ever hear the leaves. for here i shall and here i be but without the glee. in the music brushes paint and as i feel i feel daint. for here i shall and here i be alas! but without the glee. [b]hitten[/b] hiten up hitten down hitten round hitten there hitten loud hitters hustle hitters hound hitters hear harsh resound. hitten under hitten down hittten upwards hitten round speaking easy speaking sound never stopping being round. hitters here never proud has here held silence found has here hounded yelpers down. hitters here hitters hair hitters horde hitters stare. beaten bruisen hitters fare. beaten bruisen known there. hitters here shall i bruise you till you're brown hitters bruisen like you do now shall i hammer you till you're ground. hitters graven buried loud. shall i eat you till you're bound. hitters hunger handled down and shall you be back to come around. we are all hitten and we are all down. when we are up we are down. here say heathens here say hounds harking harking the reverber resound. silence on a grave on a skeleton in the ground buried most deeply heart full of sound. by he here hitten by death down.

[size=1] Double posting isn't allowed. You're new here, so I understand completely. But I'd ask that you go and read the rules, and follow them. Just be knowing of the rules in the future. I took the liberty of merging your two posts together.[/size]

[size=1] Forrest Gump came up with it. That guy's my idol. :([/size]

[size=1] I'd say you could've just posted this in the, "What does life mean to you," thread, and hopefully a mod whom mods this forum *nudge nudge* will merge it there. Because, generally, this thread could easily go there--and less clutter is better for the smutter smut smut. I think life is an angel with scabbed wings pointing a gun to your head--holding that binary choice in its hands, not allowing you to choose. That's me anyway.[/size]

[b]Bruised Smear[/b] Step in my nothing, into the hole to see just how far it goes. Deeper--deeper--deeper--dig the dirt, thrown. Step in my nothing, into the hole to see just how far it goes. Deeper--deeper--deeper dig the dirt, thrown. I now aged--I now ripe--I now arise raped--raped--raped--violated, segregated, irate. Buried--burned--buried--burned--sate. Held a gun to my head, held a gun to my head. Shoot me now--shoot me dead, shoot me now--shoot me dead. Let me bleed--let me bleed--let me bleed-- shoot me now--shoot me dead. Held a gun to my head. Womb can you cadence, womb can you fall, womb can you hear me, womb--my offal. Womb can you bear me-- womb can you fall me-- womb can you break me. And kill us all. Shoot me now--shoot me dead. Everyday of every hour-- sit in here, sit in here--sit in here raped, beaten, sour. Everyday of every hour-- sit in here, sit in here--sit in here raped, beaten sour. Everyday of every hour I awaken to the sun. Bruised brute, nun, the color like skin, the color to my eyes. Sun rising--sun diving--sun going--draining falling, going, gone, leaving, eating, away-- its colors like skin, bruised beaten skinned. The sun rises--sun falls--again. Given life--raped, fruit sour. Given life--sexed, overpowered. Given life--dominated, bruised scour. Given life--a gun--cocked son--trigger lung. Sun rising--sun diving--sun going--draining falling, going, gone, leaving, eating, away-- its colors like skin, bruised beaten skinned. The sun rises--sun falls--again. Given life--a gun cocked son--trigger lung. Breathing fumes, breathing huss. Breathing--lungs bust. Pull the trigger, Nancy, Pull the trigger, Bob, Pull the trigger, Steve, Pull the trigger, suffer me. Pull the trigger, can't see. Sun rising--sun going falling, bleeding, bruised skin. Cracked ribs. Eating kids. Jaws of hell. Sin. Cracked ribs. Eating kids. Jaws of hell. Sin. The gun--the metal--the clink. Life cadenced, life congested, life sinks. Little ship on little shore--glad-hand whore. Kiss me some more. Life is a gun--held to my head--held to me till dead-- can't pull the trigger--suffer instead. Sun rises--falls--and I'm still here-- bruised smear. Still here-- bruised smear.

So you're searching for an angel. Someone to make you whole. Quit dreaming Dorthy and the deeper you'll go. It's the genius of the hole. Like Einstein. Like Hitler. It's the genius of the hole. So you're searching for an angel. Someone to make you whole. Quit dreaming Dorthy and the deeper you'll go. Woke up here. My head was a veritable carcass of pain. Headaches were shaking me. Smelt nothing. My eyes were closed. Didn't want to open them. Didn't want to see. I didn't want to know, but I heard the click of metal. It was a gun. Someone was holding a gun to my feeble head. So you're searching for an angel. Someone to make you whole. Quit dreaming Dorthy and the deeper you'll go. They were speaking to me. Their voice was loud and booming. It graced my head, racked it, screaming to me. Telling me to open my eyes. To see. To keep breathing. To keep along. I didn't want to--I didn't want to open my eyes--I didn't want to see--I didn't want to be--I didn't want to know--I didn't want to see--but I was forced, the gun was to my head. Slow, very slow, I opened my eyes. Tap two feet together the slippers will take you home. Tap two feet together the slippers will take you home. My eyes opened, and I saw for the first time. There was a gun to my head, and it was held by a fallen angel--his wings were scabbed--his eyes were cold calculating death--his hands were sternly demented--and in his hand there stood his one affluence to me--his one power to me. That binary choice--that two-decision road that whispers to you with its lips red. Life or death was shot in front of me. But I had no choice in the matter. Only this angel did. Only this angel. A fallen one--with scabbed wings, his cold calculating death. Only this fallen angel. Nothing more. Nothing more Nothing more Angel angel angel At my door Knock--knock--knocking As before. Nothing more. I asked the divine being what he was--why he was--why I was. He didn't understand me. All he did was shake his grim head, his scabbed wings shaking with him, his eyes just as cold as before. And he moved his mouth open slowly--clunking--like rust to steel. And like rust to steel he articulated one word, just as if it were draining him to say it. "Life," he said, slow, loose, yet firm, heard. Life. That was all. It was cold to my naked form, very cold. The word then meant nothing to me--I was feeble, I was just a baby. But he said it as if it was final. As if it was everything--nothing. Gather ye rosebuds while ye may The yellow brick road--the yellow way Gather ye rosebuds while ye may. The angel with scabbed wings then slighted his hands to and fro, giving me presence to look around my surroundings. Most was dark about me--very dark. But I could see I was in a hole. I walked over and felt the hole's side. It felt soft. Warming. It was skin--it was flesh. Ripe flesh. I looked up, and what graced my eyes was most hoping. Up above the hole I could see light--a warming light as warm as the flesh I had touched with my hand. And as I stared and I looked, far away I could see a cross fashioned--but I could only see a side of it, and nothing more. From this cross I saw a dangling arm--a prostrate arm which was bruised, as if beaten. And blood trickled from this bruised hand. It fell from above to the deep hole--and the blood seemed so far away. Blood is red ripe dead Blood trickle cadence speak it say Blood is red ripe dead Blood trickle cadence speak it say Loud and most atrocious most named Hear it hear it and gray. Hear it hear it and gray. The hole was so deep that the blood never fell straight down. Its fall ended it on the sides of the hole--on the flesh--the ripe, alive flesh. And it would trickle down all the same--on the sides--and at times it would dry, and it would stain--but other times it would make its way all the way down. And it would there dry. Like a sad tear that has been allowed to touch the ground, it was much like. And that angel with scabbed wings would eye the blood in a most sad way--as if it were his own blood there falling. It seemed to move him--make him almost cry. But he seemed to withhold in my presence--he seemed to not want to let me see he was crying. I wondered why he would cry over something like that--especially in my then feeble mind--I wondered, much like a jack-in-the-box comes out of its box, loud exclamation, but calculating all the same--just like this angel's cold calculating death. Why wonder when wonder wings the scabbed answerer--mercury's bring Why wonder when wonder wings It is better off not knowing. The hole was slowly being filled with the blood from above. It was a maddening process. The angel with scabbed wings kept getting more and more closer to crying his emotion as it went on. Most of the blood dried as it came--but eventually the entirety of the hole became stained, full of blood. It was around this time that the angel, his eyes pushing me over and on, got me walking with his gun still pointed at my head. I put my hand on the side of the hole again--it was now covered with blood, mostly dried. That was when the angel turned his gun away from me, and began to fire. Fire boom bang it licks like tongues hips birth has come birth has lips birth has come birth has lips. He fired at a part of the hole--firing off many rounds in rapid succesion--a cold calculating process that ended as soon as it began. Out from the freshly wounded skin of the hole came blood, a sickening, smelling, grotesque blood that made a splattering noise as it came to the floor. It bled shortly--succint. And there now stood in front of me a hole that was but a little bigger than my frail baby form in comparison. It seemed I would be pushed through. I resisted at this point--but with no reason, nor no demand. Soon the gun was to my head all the same--a scary scare whose eye was black in its socket--holding within it metallic elegies for me. So I pushed onward, into the vile reaches of the hole, and I began to cry, that simple baby song always sung. The cries the tears baby crawling baby fears the cries the tears baby crawling baby fears. The stench was horrid, overpowering, seething. It went into my weak olfactory, forcing me to adhere its vile odor. I was so overpowered by its smell. I could not see where I was going--all I could do was smell what I smelled. So I crawled on and on--crying--scared--afraid--all alone--and then in the darkness I fell. The angel caught me, his hands were especially cold, I could hear his gun clacking in his other hand. My dispositioned fear was all about me--a crawling spider spidering its webs, those thin, white, strands that weren't there as much as they were. My eyes were closed. I did not want to see again. I did not want to know where I had fell. But I was tempted--I was augered--yet still drawn by the angel with his scabbed wings to open by his device of terror--his machine of death. I opened once again--and found myself in a little lightier abode--but still it was another hole--just as deep--just the same--save that it was a different hole--that it wasn't the same hole. I cried profusely again. I cried to the angel, but he did not harken. I cried to the inner outsides of the hole--I pleaded with its inanimate form to save me from this place--this place of endless fear--of endless distaste. And this time, I was answered. Not by a voice--but by a hand. The hand of life the hand of grab the thing which ceases the thing which mads savor these moments--save them well it is the thing which ceases the thing which mads the thing which hoists which grabs It was a large hand--a very graceful hand. Its finger's nails were well manicured--well kept--and I was drawn by its grace and beauty. It swept down much like a seagull will sweep down and grab its prey--much like a gull will hoisten its feet in just the right way as to grab the most slippery thing with it scales. But this was no gull; it had no intention of harm--no intention of pain--of bruising. But its intentions were to hoisten me up. Even in my feeble mind then I knew it was so--I knew that it would be. The angel seemed afeared at the sight of the hand. It sweltered deep in the darkest part of the hole--as if not wanting to be seen. And there I was--I was hoisted up--still crying--still saddened. As I was taken up the angel with scabbed wings made his last stand--he began shooting at the hand--began trying to injure it. But it was useless--he could not aim--he was too decrepit. So from within his side he pulled from a rope--it was made from his wings--I could tell by its feathery wisps it had. Even so it was still a tool of death. He flung it at me--and it stabbed me in through where a navel is. It stabbed in lightly--and then the angel with scabbed wings pulled and pulled--but it was to no accord. I believe he meant to noose me if the chance came--but within the hand's grasp I was safe. There I now was--and I was crying--crying not just for being taken out of the hole--but for where I was now. I lay prostrate upon a warm form--with flesh just as that of the place whence I came. The form was holding me in its arms--was groping, hugging, kissing. Then there--in the sky--on the ceiling of where I now was I could see the angel with scabbed wings again--but he was withheld in the hand that had brought me up. Still he eyed me--still he held his gun towards my head. His glare was warning, a warning that he shall always be there. There to point his gun at my head.

[size=1] And your point with this thread is..? People are greedy. Get over it. Jesus is dead. Get over it. Christmas is just a holiday. Get over it. Let people be greedy. Is there anything you can do about it? No. Does saying that people are greedy mean you're doing something about it? No. It only means you're complaining, and not taking action. If it's such a big deal, then act, instead of pointing fingers I'm greedy. As much as I want to say Christmas is about family, as well as the religious aspects I differ on, it isn't. To me it's always been about getting presents. It's just like having a birthday--only better. Any person that actually is true to themselves will honestly say this to an extent.[/size]

[size=1] My new year's resolution is to not have a new year's resolution. And that's that. Period.[/size]

[size=1] Sixy, if you continue to ignore the rules, I'm going to have to send you a warning. Again, read the rules another time if you have to--[i]double posting isn't allowed[/i]. If you keep breaking the rules after I've already told you to look at them again, then I'll be sending you a warning this time. I mean this all well. I'm not trying to sound egotistical or anything. This is how things are done here at OtakuBoards--you either follow them and respect the way things are, or you get banned and don't come back because of your lack of respect of the rules. Sorry if I sound mean--I'm just doing my job. If you want to continue to get pissed at me for doing my job, then you'll be out of here soon enough. Respect the rules and they'll respect you--it's simple as that. The poem was pretty nice. It was some fontal errors--truly--not truely, and so on. But it worked well. It felt like your heart, so good job on that. And that is all I have to say.[/size]

[size=1] *quickly makes a poem*[/size] tape feels good on my lips cover wrapper that truth hides in the deep hole of red dyes kiss kiss kiss baby kiss fall hold cleft resist hold mame wrist crush smack lisp kiss kiss kiss baby kiss fall hold cleft resist the tape on your lips kiss kiss kiss baby kiss tape feels good on my lips my red lips the lips' smooth smoothen over smoothen through going down deep into you break the barrier break the noose the tape held together by your lips' grooves smooth as dead as leaves as alive as moans kissing the kiss drone blown thrown flittered wrist kissing the kiss kiss kiss kiss baby kiss fall hold cleft resist hold mame wrist crush smack lisp kiss kiss kiss baby kiss fall hold cleft resist the tape sticks.

[size=1] It was good until the last stanza. I didn't like how it ended like that. Just stick to the concreteness of the poem, ending with, "All the while my fortune faded." As a whole, I liked the poem, mostly because of its rhyme, which pushed it forward in a way only decent rhyming can do. I enjoyed the repetition, the images. It worked pretty well. So good job, heh. Insantaneous things are always the best.[/size]

[size=1] Of course you can post it, and the censors in those forums won't block it. You just need to put in brackets, in the thread title, that it has coarse language. Something like, "GTA Fan Fic [Mature]" or something. Then it's taken care of. I wouldn't say you may want to put this warning in the thread title, I'd say you should, and probably have to. James mentioned it was important to do it--so I'm going to force the little Poemites and Literaturites to do it. :)[/size]

[size=1][b]The Ballad of Rock[/b]--live life in its moment, live it and caress it and live in its moment, not its future, not its past, not anything but what is happening then. Live for that day, that hour, that minute, that second, that millisecond, that blip in time, that second where you are moving your arm, and you think in your head, and you are you and are alive and are in the moment. Music shows us this--music gives us rhythm, shows us that life doesn't need to be remembered over, pondered over--but life should just be--life should be lived in as happy as you can be by knowing that at that very second, that very second is all that matters. That is what the poem is about. As for how you handled it--it was handled well. And ending it with that you don't live for your seconds, years, times, amounts--but you live for someone else's--that worked well. It rhymed here and there, had a nice flow that easily kept the reader reading--it worked. I thought it's very good. You also seem to be a decently prolific writer--you seem to have quality easily on your side as well. This is good. This is what makes anyone good at something--including writing, including poetry--and that is doing your art, your thing of love, as often as you can allow it--sometimes even forcing yourself. [b]Heartless Living[/b]--Some people live too much for money--which is, in essence, a distraction. That is what this poem is about--it is about going against what one thinks for material things, for physical things, over mental things. It is about not thinking about everyone else, but thinking about one's self. Living heartlessly, without interdictioning emotions, without encumbering realizations of care. Money's coins are cold things, and as cold as the countenance of the men they bear. The poem works well--especially at its end, with the blunting of all those bad things in one sentence that the person shall do--as long as they get paid. Sorry it took me so long to reply. But you've got your reply all the same, heh. I think you're most definitely a good poet--and I say post more, write more, think more--do everything that makes writing better more, and makes you feel what you feel more.[/size]

[size=1] They aren't bad at all. I've seen, far, far, far far far [i]far[/i] worse than this thread, let me tell you. You're just developing as a poet. The use of simple words, the use of simple rhyming, the use of simple, mostly-even lines. It's you and your voice, and as you continue to write more of it will come out. I did like the last one better--even though the two poems are almost interconnected in a way, almost about the same thing, only at different levels of refute. Keep writing--as I've said in other threads I've reviewed today--because that's the best advice I can give to a poet.[/size]