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What is PoetryIs poetry writing out a sentence and
separating it into different lines with
some vague thoughts to
stanzas and some consideration to rhyme?
Is having some emotional advocative message what
we consider to be the key in
what determines if it's garbage
or whether it's true poetry?
Arabesque Cold earth, dripping grass, illuminates the breath. White against black...white against black and
is gone. The blackened sky, ravenous, engulfs everything. No wind to distract, no winged calls
made and answered, no feelings to penetrate the skin. Stillness in peace that only the stars violate
with feverish dances. Amidst it all, they sit, fingers entangled, lips frozen to the words that stir within.
The warmth of romance
PavaneFog tiptoes across the water's face
Trees bow solemn, holding their breath
While the lake shivers, lonely
Waking, I see her form
Waltzing, twirling down
The banks where she
Once and still
The End-December 20, 2012-
Death travels lightly through the spaces between galaxies. He stops off briefly at a few stars and leaves bursts of misty lingering light in his wake. Normally he would stay a bit and watch the halo of the supernova expand before moving on, but tonight he has somewhere to be.
Tonight, Death dodges the planets and the meteors and weaves in and out of the space debris until he comes to a small blue planet. He takes it in his hand and cradles the little thing, letting the white wisps swirl around the sphere, gathering and thickening.
Such a young thing; younger by eons and eons than so many others. As always, Death feels sorry for the young ones who will never come to know understand what they could have been. He stands still feeling the planet pulse in his hands. He feels the hum of the earth, the undulations of the waters and most of all, he hears the ceaseless buzz of the inhabitants. Within the din of chirps, bleats, honks, roars and snorts, he can pick out
I would make you immortalI would make you immortal, my dear
I’d lace your morning tea
With crystallized droplets of
My life’s breath, and make it sweet
I would have you drink the cup,
Our only wedding vow
For us to be forever,
Nothing left to part us now
I would, for you, my dear
Break the oldest most sacred command
I would have you for myself,
Never to fear jealousy by Death’s hand
I would, my love, I would
But you would lose so much, I fear
Much more than I have to gain
And I’d never take away your smile, my dear
Even if it means I must one day share it with Death
Numbers7 was no ordinary number. He was born with a purpose. He, and not any one else had been chosen. As he lay on the clean white floor just moments after his birth, he knew that he would one day amount to something great.
7 looked around and saw that he was alone. "I wish there was someone else to share this great wide whiteness with.." As if on cue, another number appeared before him, fresh and new. "Who are you?" 7 asked.
The new number looked up at him and answered with a giggle, "Silly 7, can't you see? I'm 9!"
"Oh! 9! Right " said 7, feeling a warm and fuzzy, "We're awfully close, aren't we?"
9 giggled some more. "Yes, we are," she snuggled up closer to him. "We're meant to be, don't you think? You and me? 7 and 9 together?"
"Yeah!" said 7, "You and me. We'd be 79!"
"No, silly!" 9 laughed, "I don't mean together like that! I mean...you and me, I was thinking we could .multiply "
7 smiled giddily, "That would be nice "
"Well, you can count me in!" said another voice
Situations"Then tell me, hon. What is normal?" She said softly, letting her fingertips slide gently along the curve of his thumb.
He swallow hard, enough to feel a catch in his throat. His right hand was frozen stiff under hers and his eyes were caught by the lustrous coral red of the lipstick on her lips. He thought he knew the answer but for the life of him, he could not remember what it was.
He caught her hand as she was about to run and pulled her back to him.
She turned around to face him and looked at him inquisitively.
"I believe in you." he told her firmly, sincerity in his expression.
She gave him a quick smile, her trademark mocking leer. "Your belief ain't enough to get us out of this mess." she answered before turning again and rushing into the gunfire.
"Big puppy!" the toddler babbled in his mother's arms as they strolled by the fenced in pastures.
"No, honey. Those are sheep." the mother told him.
"Big puppy! Look!" the boy insisted gesturing in the
Do you even knowLuke yanked the blow dryer away from the girl. She had been holding it muzzle pointed straight at her face, both hands on the handle, looking quite dangerous.
"Do you even know how to use this thing?" he scowled and said partly with mild irritation, part tauntingly.
She stared up at him with huge unearthly eyes just as when he had found her in the middle of the light beam surrounded by headlight orbs in the sky.
He no longer found her threatening and felt like a good Samaritan for caring for her like a lost kitten. She didn't speak his tongue and he hoped to teach her how.
"Here, I'll help you," he said as he searched for the on switch. He flicked on the knobbed black switch and a jet of piercing blue-white light shot from the end of the muzzle. A hole that extended into the adjacent bedroom now graced the spot where his diploma had hung in his living room.
She took the machine gingerly from his shaking hands and switched it off. She looked at him with a look of pity and almost sadisti
A Fairytale AgainA Fairy Tale of a Gold Basin
Once upon a time, a long long time ago, there lived a witch locked in a tower. For the longest time, she waited. She waited until her long black hair became dusty until her clothes became moth-eaten. For a long long time, she waited.
You see, the witch did not always live in the tower. Once she lived in the town amongst the civilians. People paid her for her cures and charms and she was quite content.
The mayor of the town did not like her at all. He hated witches, he hated their magic and their potions, claiming that doctors and scientists could do far better. Most of all, he hated the fact that she was prettier than his own daughter and that his daughter's betrothed was completely taken by her.
The witch loved the young man and though they courted in secret, she came to trust him.
One day the mayor went to the young man and asked him with a heavy sigh, "Do you really prefer that witch to my lovely daughter?"
The young man was a bit vain by nature and he d
birthday kiss. oikawa tooru x reader
"Good morning, [Name]-chan~!"
Oikawa gave the girl a wave, but the girl merely looked away, trying her best to ignore him at all costs. Knowing that she was avoiding his presence, Oikawa entered the classroom and grabbed a chair and scooted next to her. Really close to her. Too close for her own comfort. But did Oikawa care? No, of course not. He never cares about anything but himself.
Which is why [Name] hated him.
"Do you know what day it is~?" he asked, paying no attention at how the girl was extremely uncomfortable by the space between them. Oikawa, however, saw the tint of blush appearing on her cheeks, and that only made him want to get closer to her even more.
"Friday." [Name] simply replied, or at least, tried to.
"Nope!" he exclaimed, that sadistic smile of his still plastered on his dreadful face. The students stared at the two
lovebirdsstudents, blinking at the scene. Though, this wasn't the first time Oikawa barged into their c
SplitI didn’t know what to do for her. Or to her. Or with her. She cried, a lot. She thought I didn’t know, didn’t notice, or maybe just didn’t care.
I saw her dancing in the rain one Saturday afternoon, nude. Not a stitch on her, and dancing by the creek, red welts rising on her skin from the biting mosquitoes. She never danced. I watched, and marveled that she could dance and still look sad.
When the rain let up, she stopped and stared at the creek flowing and bubbling over big flat mossy rocks. I called her name without using my voice, and she turned, but then looked away again. I wondered where she was in her head, that she could stand there and ignore the itchy bites and not worry that she was naked.
I envied her lack of self-consciousness. I pulled my heavy cardigan around my shoulders, even though it was hot and muggy out. I hid in its folds like a turtle hides inside its mobile home.
Sometimes I could feel her tugging at me, begging. I was stubbor
runaway irony (FFM 22)Twenty minutes after finishing the documentary on New Zealand, Nicole had a plan worked out. She wrote it all down in gel pen, an itemised list of all the things she needed; then she got to work.
It wasn’t easy to convince the man in Bunnings to sell her nails, but she put on her best innocent face, and told him it was for her father’s garden shed. It wasn’t easy to convince the neighbour to let her have the old fence palings, either; nor the logs that had been earmarked for a bonfire, but a few hearty fibs and her best “I just want to help my daddy” smile went a long way to convincing them.
Two weeks later, she had bruised hands, a lot of knowledge about how not to use a hammer, and what she hoped would pass for a half-decent raft. She packed herself a bag with some clothes and spare underwear, then packed another bag, this one larger and wheeled, with as much canned food as she could carry. Before she left, she remembered to grab the can op
FFM 18: Friday NightAnother friday night. Burnt coffee, stale cigarette smoke, and a bunch of assholes that Vlad didn’t like any better than himself. If there was a silver lining here, it was that this would be his last meeting. That almost brought a smile to his tired, pallid face. Almost. Instead, he peeled off one last sticky tag, wrote his name, and sat in the circle with the rest of the guys.
Rat King was up first. Blah blah, all the usual bullshit about ruling the sewers. Honestly, who cared? That guy wasn’t a true monster. As far as Vlad was concerned, they should’ve sent him packing ages ago, but this was a place of support, so he’d never said as much. Twitching and fidgety, he waited for his turn to stand at the podium.
“Hello,” he began. “My name is Vlad. Of the Family Macnair.”
“Hi, Vlad,” the assorted murderers and thieves replied.
“As most of you know, I
homeI pray to go home.
on bended knee,
I lift my heart
to a nameless god,
I bless his heart,
or maybe hers,
and ask for deliverance
to a land
I feel a map,
carved into my shoulders.
three mirrors are arranged
directing my attention
to my back, a range of mountains,
but my eyes don't see.
is water through a sieve.
puddles flow beneath me,
no barrier to hold me
a cheshire smile
and reversible signs
lie to me
and no amount of tears,
salty oceans on my cheeks,
will bring me home.
I dream of a room,
soft and fuzzy to the sight,
where I feel at rest;
I know that I am still
Ageing Superhero (FFM 24)Nathan always imagined he’d go out in a gunfight, cape fluttering; a hero’s death in the pursuit of peace. Turns out, he was only right about the “gun” part.
* * *
Mr Cuddles weaves around Nathan’s ankles. He’s purring loudly, and shedding fur all over Nathan’s slightly-too-tight bodysuit, but Nathan’s attention is fixed on the tinny voice coming from his mobile.
“Look, your international days are over. You’re getting older, and I know you’ve gained a few pounds. No, don’t try to lie to me. You wear spandex, Nathan. It’s pretty unforgiving, and you no longer have a six-pack. The world events, the foreign villains, you can leave them to the newbies.”
Paying no attention to the plaintive-sounding agent, Mr Cuddles hunts, unnoticed as he follows Nathan towards the safe on the landing.
Nathan’s carrying his guns one-handed; he’s only half-listening to his age
The Bird Lady FFM20I’ve lived in NYC for over two years, and for so many people living there, it’s an awfully lonely place to be. Everyone is very focused on themselves, no one makes eye contact in the streets, and even the cabs ignore you. My job is the only thing that keeps me here. I make so much money, it would be stupid to move back home and work at my dad’s store for only a fraction of what I earn. That, and I have an old lady to take care of.
She’s one of those bird ladies in the park. She’s a sweet old thing, and it would kill me to leave her alone. It would probably kill her too.
We became friends because I was sitting alone in the park one afternoon, watching the clouds and daydreaming. She jumped out of nowhere and said, “Feed the birds?” I nearly fell off my park bench, I was so surprised.
“Sure, sure,” I said, pressing a quarter into her wrinkled hand. Gums showing, she smiled. She handed me a paper bag of breadcrumbs and sat next to me.
StrayIt had been raining for weeks. The arroyos were swept clean of litter and plant life and the bottoms of them ran with swollen creeks. I pulled my horse up and studied the trail leading sharply downward; it looked treacherous at best. The water sheeted off the brim of my hat, and the gelding stood with his nose at his knees, shielding his eyes from the downpour. It was a cold rain. Winter was coming, no doubt about that.
We picked our way down, looking for a stray whose trail I’d lost at some point yesterday. But she was ready to calve, and they never chose a good, safe spot to do so. It would be surprising if both had not been washed up and drowned in the last torrent.
I’d lost the trail of the cat, too. Judging from the prints I saw earlier it was fair sized, and likely following the cow knowing both she and the newborn would be an easy meal.
It happened so fast. I heard the rush and roar behind me only slightly later than Buck; he tucked his tail up under him and sc
Jolly Old Saint NIckAfter he had slashed open the millionth letter from some present grubbing child demanding a certain media fuelled toy, he snapped. The gears inside him must have given way because he seemed no different. He hoisted himself into the sled, and waded down every chimney just as always.
But then he saw the child gazing up at him, and he asked "Have you been good?"
"Lies," he drew out the huge inexhaustible bag of coals and let it drop on the child's head.
Suddenly he felt lighter. Nearly free. A smile stretched across his face.
Ho ho ho.
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