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Lady Asphyxia
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[size=1]We're almost all writer's here, and most of you have been writing for a while, if not a few years.

My writing has improved greatly in the two years I've been writing creatively. My syntax is better, and my stories flow so smoothly these days, as opposed to some of my first works.

As an example, here is some of my first writing endevour:

[i]?Ohh,? she gave a theatrical shiver. ? I just love days like this. All the best gossip comes in on days like today. Do tell, Mena. What?s happening with Kathy Falcon and Tetia Montaro? Have they been on dangerous missions, or gone to different realms? Have they been assigned here? Come on, Mena, spill!.?

Hell, Mena thought, I don?t want to tell them yet. I want to tell everyone at once. I will, she promised herself; I will wait to tell everyone. Mena had a problem with opposing peoples demands. But this time, she thought, this time I?ll get to tell them the best gossip.
[/i]

This next extract is from my latest piece:

[i]Emily had stared at the ground. She didn?t understand the old feuds; But the part about family pride did needle at her conscience. She was proud of her roots ? who wouldn?t be?

Nonetheless, she was friends with James McDonald. She wouldn?t, however, be friends with him for much longer. If her mother found out she was still friends with him, she?d take away Emily?s books. James was just like Emily ? he?d understand. He knew how precious Emily?s books were to her. But he also knew the folly of the family feuds. He was sombre and wise, something she assumed he?d picked up from his boarding school. [/i]


To me, the difference -- and more importantly, the [b]improvement[/b] -- in my writing is really quite amazing to me. I never really noticed it, until I went back and read my old stuff.

So tell me -- how far do you think you've come since your first creative exploits? If possible, quote some of your work for us, so we can judge the difference ourselves.

Do you think you'll get much better, or see your style changing? Has your style changed with time, or is the essence still the same?

So come on, don't be shy. This is a chance to boast about how much better you are![/size]
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[color=firebrick]I think that improvement, or change if you will, is inevitable if you write for longer periods of time. At least if you are somewhat dedicated and have a genuine interest in the written word.

Personally I have kept my style in writing [i]simplistic[/i] and short, but I have found that it's "evolved" slowly over the years. Writing has become easier, less entangled and strained. Not to mention the growth of vocabulary that brings nuance and thereby reduce the trap of repetition.

And now I also embrace everything I write which has made a huge difference. Now there's no end to the possibilities : )


- Mimmi[/color]
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[COLOR=indigo]I not only think I've improved as writer when it comes to stories but also as an artist.

I mean we I first started writing about a year and a half ago everything had to be about the same subject, thats all I cared for nothing else was worth writing.

Then I wrote, and wrote and wrote and slowly realized something. Writing isn't a tool to enhance one small portion of life and bring it out so that every sense can be portrayed. Writing is a tool to enhance every day, every detail. Sure it can be death, but it can also be that tree outside your window.

I think through writing I've "broaden my horizons" (for lack of originality). Its let me see things in not only my own personal point of view but also a possible point of view from another. Each tiny thing in life now holds such a dear foot hold in my life.

So in less words basically what I'm saying is writing has not only imporved my vocabulary, writing style, structure but it has in some way improved the mental aspect of my life.

If that makes any sense, some of you I'm sure think I'm a sap; but atleast I'm a happy sap![/COLOR]
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[size=1][color=006699]Yeah, I have improved greatly. Oh my gods, if you saw how I wrote this time last year.. I mean.. it's just horrible. I didn't know what the hell detail was, and I didn't know that you had to give depth within your characters.

I think the thing that is hardest for beginning writers the the transformation from their mind to paper; you can see it in your mind, but it's hard to write... that was my problem, anyways.[/color][/size]
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[size=1]

I've improved dramatically, Rae can vouch for me on that.

^_^;

Basically I've had a quantum leap form the cursed;

[quote][b]
P1: 'Blah blah blah'
P2: *picks up stick*
P1: 'blah blah blah' [something misspelt]
P2: [devil smily]
[/quote][/b]

To my current SYF narrative style of writing, which I'm really quite proud of.

[quote][b]

?Liam?? Bradley grunted while walking towards him. ?I am going?to shoot you.?

?No you?re not.? Liam said brightly.

?Why not??

?Because I have your gun.? Liam spun it happily.

Bradley drew a second pistol. ?I have another, you [I]moron.[/I]?

Liam frowned and looked up into the sky. He could make out the figures of the rest of the team happily floating to the earth, enraptured by the spectacle below. Liam also noted the gear.

?Look up.? He said pointedly.

?What?? Bradley asked while following his gaze
[/quote][/b]

All in all, a huge improvement. ^_^[/size]
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[size=1]I never really got into the script style of writing, but even then, I have to agree - there have been drastic changes to the way I write over the years. At the end of middle school/beginning of high school, for instance, everything was basically one huge paragraph. And every sentence started with the same pronoun... [i]"She did this. She did that. She also did something else. Blah blah."[/i] I cringe just thinking about it.

Thankfully, however, I've learned a little more about syntax and grammar and the like, and as somebody else said, my vocabulary has increased significantly. The computer's dictionary/thesaurus thing is my best friend now.

My style has also changed in that before, what I wrote was purely actions; He said this, she did that, they walked over here. Now there's more thought and detail, and I try to focus more on the person's thought process. I like to show how or why a person "does this or that", instead of just writing it as it is. If that makes sense.. >.>

Still, I've got plenty of room for improvement, and I'm definitely looking forward to reading the things I write today in the coming years. Then I'll laugh at my "old" habits, just like I do now. ^_^ It's gonna be fun.[/size]
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Very, very, very old story of mine...probably from first year of high school...maybe Sophomore year. You want to see bad? Check this shit out.

[quote]It all began on a Sunday afternoon in the CHS Auditorium. Scott and I were sitting peacefully, playing our GameBoys. All of a sudden we heard strange music coming from the organ. We turned to see who was playing it. Nobody was there.

We didn't know what to make of the music at first, we just thought it was one of those things that happens. After all, it's Cinnaminson. That's what we say when something weird happens. However, we didn't know just how weird things were going to get that evening...

It began snowing early on that afternoon. We were all hoping for a snow day on Monday. The atmosphere in the auditorium was really cozy. With the snow outside and the warmth inside, I felt secure. But we weren't safe.

During our dinner break in the cafeteria, Mr. Cook warned us not to go outside. At the time, I thought he meant because of the snow. But as the night went on we saw some strange things that arouse our suspicions.

The first incident happened during the song, "If I were a Rich Man". Alex Jordan was doing an exceptional job at it this time around. Anyway, I was walking behind the flats to get to the Stage R when Scott rushed up to me and told me about something he saw. He claimed he just had seen peering through the window in the back of the auditorium.

He described it as having an elongated face with pulled-down eyebrows and a pointed nose. He said that as soon as it saw him, it dashed off to the left. I went to the double doors to investigate, and found a series of small dots in the snow. I estimated they were about a foot apart and my fist-width wide.

I started hanging out by the double doors, hoping to get a glimpse of the strange being, but I never did. Scott seemed to be the only one who saw it. I was starting to doubt him. I thought he was creating all of this. He might have opened the door a crack and threw some rocks out there, but I know Scott too well. He doesn't have the moral flexibility to perform such treachery. The look on his face showed true fear and you can't fake that.

That's when we heard a large crash coming from the cafeteria. We all rushed over to see what happened, and what we saw shocked us. A whole section of the windows had been punched in and broken. There was glass everywhere. We looked around and went back to the auditorium. What we didn't see was for the best. The creature was inside, hanging from the ceiling. We never thought to look up. That was our worst mistake.

In the auditorium, we took a head count. Everybody was there. We locked the doors and continued working. We were on the final scene when we heard the most blood-curdling scream. With that scream, a body fell from the ceiling and landed on the student director's desk.

I looked up. There I saw the most hideous sight. The creature screeched and swooped down.

We scattered like a pack of mice. The creature was the hawk. It picked up Alex Jordan. He fought valiantly, and it dropped him back on the stage. We all ran out of the auditorium, entered the band room, and locked the door. We could hear the creature pounding on the band-side auditorium door.

Bethany was crying. She told us that Mike was still in the lighting booth. She ran to the door to get out and go to him, but Ryan and Al stopped her. She was hysterical. She was crying, kicking, and screaming. We calmed her down by assuring her that Mike was okay and that we'd go get him. We assembled a team consisting of myself, Justin Knowlton, Alex Jordan, and Chris Hemphill. We exited the band room and crept down the hall. We reached the door to the lighting booth and opened it. We called Mike's name and he answered. He slowly came down the steps.

Mike was just four steps away when the creature crashed through the lighting booth's window. Luckily, it couldn't fit down the steps. Mike jumped down and we ran back to the band room. The creature fell down the steps and chased after us.

We made it to the band room and I reached for the keys. I couldn't find them! I checked in my pockets! They weren't there! I searched the floor! I found them!

I picked up the keys. The creature was at the choral room door. I could hear the cloppity- clop of its hooves on the floor. I heard it gaining. I fumbled with the keys and unlocked the door. I waited a second, then opened the door. The creature couldn't stop in time. It slammed into the door and fell. We got into the room and were closing the door when the creature grabbed it and started pulling.

Justin, a second degree blackbelt, kicked the creature in the head. That knocked it back, then we shut the door and locked it.

Panic was running rampant. All of the couples were hugging each other, comforting each other. Groups of people huddled together. The rest of the guys were busy searching for weapons that could kill the thing. Mr. Cook said we should contact the authorities before doing something we might regret. We agreed. First we tried Mr. Cook's phone in his office. It was dead. We remembered Bethany had a cell phone. We asked her if we could use it. She said yes.

We tried turning it on. It was dead, too. No batteries. Everyone concluded that we were doomed. I would have nothing of it. I decided to fight the creature myself. I asked for volunteers. Chris immediately raised his hand. Good ole' Chris. Dependable when you needed him. Some of the other guys took his hint. Alex Jordan raised his hand, then Justin, then Ryan. We needed some more people if we were going to have any hope of surviving. Mike Keefe volunteered. Kriste begged him not to go, but he said he needed to. Six should be okay. We looked around for some weapons. There were the flags with pointed tips on the ends. We still needed more weapons. Justin said he didn't. I believed him. He was well adept at martial arts. I knew that the music stands would be sharp if taken apart. We took them apart and sharpened them, too. This was the best we were going to get. We knew that. We still needed some sort of protection. The best thing we could find were the band uniforms. We layered those on. We were as ready as we would ever be.

We slowly opened the door and crept out. The creature saw us and rushed towards us. We had our make-shift spears lowered. I waited until the creature was almost upon us, and I yelled "now"! We lifted up the spears and the creature landed on them. Death was instantaneous. We had won. We waited 'til morning before walking home.[/quote]

Are you cringing?

Compare that crap to something I've written recently, "Burnt-Out Angel."

[quote]Azrael was getting bored. He was getting restless. He was tired of his dead-end job. Sure, he was working for the biggest boss this side of Eternity, but that didn?t change the fact that the work was monotonous and dull. It?s not that Azrael wasn?t good at what he did, certainly not. He was the best Angel Of Death the company had ever seen or had the pleasure of employing. But the pleasure was all theirs, and Azrael was now bored with his work.

He had slain countless droves of mortals, sent so many to their graves, and that was getting really old. He had lost track of how many mortals he had sent to another plane of existence. He estimated somewhere around a couple of million, but figured he stopped counting around the first hundred-thousand. The victims?sorry, the slain ones, weren?t individuals anymore. They weren?t people with families, and dogs, and cars, and houses, and friends, and trucks. No, they were just a graph on the chart; just tick marks on the blackboard, dollars on a paycheck. Azrael didn?t see their faces anymore.

Frankly, he no longer cared. He worked for the pay now, earning his wage like every other angel. Payday was every other Friday, and the angels were required to be in-house to get their paychecks. That meant Azrael had to sit in his cubicle for 8 hours straight. He couldn?t get out to soar the ethereal realm, and his worksheet was suspended, so he had no reason to go down to Earth. That was really annoying. It was boring enough to slay mortals, but sitting in his tiny cubicle was even worse. His chair was lumpy, he barely had enough room to stretch his wings, and his terminal was a Mac.

Azrael was lucky, though, he could have been stuck with Ted in Accounting, or had to share a cubicle with Milton over in Shipping.

Accounting angels were really aggravating; Azrael hated dealing with them. They never looked up from their spreadsheets, always answering a question without even glancing up. Those financial spreadsheets were their life; they idolized them. Azrael knew that if the big man upstairs found out, their winged asses were gone.[/quote]

Here's another recent piece, from this semester, "Triple Styled"

[quote]Mainstream:
She stood in a normal way on the normal cliff, looking out in a very normal fashion at the normal ships coming in. The normal sun was setting over the normal ocean, with the normal streaks of red, orange, and pink. The air felt mild to the touch, that is to say, it felt normal. Though she wore a light jacket, she was not cold, and yet was not overly warm. She was toasty. The feeling of the sunset was peaceful and comfortable, and her boyfriend of 3 years stood there next to her, sharing this nice moment. His name was Steve and even though they were only 23, Stacey felt that he was the One. Her life was so picture perfect. Her life was so normal. Any woman would have killed to be in her shoes. She glanced down. Her shoes were indeed lovely, hugging her feet, the leather possessing a golden hue from the fading sunlight. Such a perfect end to a perfect day.

Genre:
She stood on the cliff, staring out over the mineral fields and the harvesters that crawled over the rocky crags, hauling the Durillium ore to the storage depot and processing plant. Steam and gas escaped from gashes in the uneven rock, rising up into the atmosphere to set the sky ablaze with greens and oranges and yellows, yet the sun was still unable to burn through the haze. Time was lost in the quarry. Night mixed into day and day blurred into night. Sometimes the clouds dropped toxic rain, sending the workers scrambling for cover. The rain was no longer deadly, but still posed serious health hazards. After the first year deaths and after pressure from the Industrial Workers Union, the Company changed their policies. Now workers were tested weekly for chemical contamination and sickness. She knew this wasn?t enough; she knew the workers were in more danger than the Company let on, but she wasn?t about to lose her job over it. Managerial positions were hard to come by these years, and Katherine kept her mouth shut. A few beeps came from the survey device by her feet. She reached down to check the monitor. 78% concentration. The IWU demanded a concentration of under 30% to allow the miners to continue. Katherine entered a few keystrokes. A few more beeps were heard, and then Katherine glanced back at the monitor. 28% concentration. She picked up the device and walked back to the shielded office.

Experimental:
She stood on the cliff, staring out into the white, vast unknown, as amorphous blobs ebbed ever closer. The blobs hadn?t been there before, and Betty wondered where they came from. She didn?t remember writing them in, and nobody?she looked around?nobody was in sight for miles. She held the script in her hand, skimming through it. No additions of amorphous blobs. She checked her notes on the back. No mention of any blobs. What the fuck? The horizon was supposed to be a white background, with no splotches of color. Just white. That?s what she wrote; ?There is a vast sea of white, as if someone had painted the sky a single panel.? Nothing about blobs and yet, there they were. Damn it. Betty was a writer, but apparently not a very good one if she couldn?t control her own story. She took her red pen and scribbled something in the margins; ?Betty?s story is what she has written, nothing more. There are no weird blobs; there is no outside force controlling this story. I, Betty, am writing this story, and I am in control of it.? The blobs disappeared. Betty liked this. She wrote again; ?I, Betty, the author of this story am writing the sky to be blue.? The sky was now blue. ?I, Betty, write storm clouds.? Dark thunderclouds brewed, sending torrential rains stinging Betty?s face. A burst of wind took the script out of her hand, carrying it high into the air, buffeting it from all sides, twisting it in an excruciating aerial ballet. The script began tearing itself apart, tatters of the cover sheet being whipped about in the maelstrom. A massive lightning bolt struck, turning the script to ashes. In the next second, all was calm. Betty stood there again, on the cliff, but this time holding a blank piece of paper. Oh, what the imagination can do.[/quote]


Now, part of that improvement came from distancing myself with the conversational tone that I possessed in high school, the tone that sounded like I was talking to the reader, and not letting them read something.

It's a maturation, as well. I grew out of the trivial high school ideals of writing and the boorish high school literary conventions and bases and began venturing into something serious.

I began adding serious meat to my writing, and became very careful to avoid the cliche high school style, that...depressive and angsty vibe...the kind that makes you want to puke.

I've found that to improve one's writing, one not only has to experience writing, but also make a conscious effort to improve. If one is steadfast on sticking with a style one uses in high school, their writing will never improve, never blossom new ideas, always rehash similar themes and motivations. It will never feel fresh, just...stale.

As you can see, I've worked very hard over the past...7 years or so to become a writer and literary person, and distance myself from that horrid high schooled technique.

So, yep. Gave you a neat window into PoisonTongue, eh? :)

EDIT: Also, if the high school modality is spotted in something I write now, it's there for a reason. Everything I write today has a purpose...a motive...a direction. I've focused, you might say.
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In the past few years, I've improved substantially as a writer - there's no doubt about that, heh.

I look back at some of the stuff that I wrote as recently as last year (my Junior year in high school) and some of the work (essays, short stories, etc.) that I've written this year and the difference in the quality of my writing amazes me.

Unfortunately, since I'm at school right now, I don't have access to the "dark ages" of my writing but I'll think about posting up some of the cringe-inducing work that I've put out before, heh. Actually, if you want cringe-inducing, check out some of the work I've put up at Fan Fiction.net. Blargh, is it ever terrible; though, it still makes me laugh, heh.

So, yes, the Shin of today is a vastly better writer than the Shin of yesteryear. What's cool is that I'm still improving both in style and mechanics. My problem with all this stuff before was that I was worrying about writing and planning too much in advance; I find that I write best when I improvise and just let the words flow from my mind to my hand to the paper without all the pretense. Sure, to write essays you have to know what you're talking about, but what I actually write down on paper is never planned. Same with my posts on OB, heh.

For example, this post was actually way longer than I intended it to be. lol
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[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]
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