/lit/ - Literature

Moderate wind upon the Summers shores
relaxing bliss forevermore
no need no strife no want and greed
just endless sky for all I see
clouldless as if to say
we love and you should stay
the sun is pleasant upon my skin
as for a day off this is WIN

just a fun poem to get things started. I quit my job recently.

>>1975026
noted. now post som fucking OC

>>1975029

Sloshed out of my table
Broken out in hives
once I stole a dead dogs tail
now I stole your heart
Fret no more I am here
with a gun and some beer.

Lust makes monkeys sad
I think it also killed my dad.
I slept with a girl once and caught VD
I slept with a guy once and got also a BJ
Super sweet monkey fuck
Oh shit, I think I'm out of luck.

Naw nigga this shit aint for real,
it's stream of concious bullshit speell
I don;t know fuck about poetry
All I know is this shit is gay.

>>1975045
not exactly what I meant.

>>1975054
>>1975054

thats funny as fuck!

"Well, well. To what do I owe--"

"SAGE!!!"

"--the extreme pleasure--"

"SAGE GOES IN EVERY FIELD!!!"

"--of this surprising visit. Really, sir, there is no need to shout, we're quite in audible range of one another."

The palefaced man with the risus sardonicus and fierce eyes was at this point nose-to-nose with Anon. He was pinching an unlit match with one hand, and with the other he clutched a bundle of sage. Anon stood a full head shorter than the fearsome apparition, but his mien was that of a man most unimpressed with the situation in which he found himself. By the twitching of Anon's fingertips I could tell that this was a facade requiring a considerable exertion of his self-control. In truth, he was nothing short of delighted at the intrusion and itching for the conflict to become much worse (or, in his mind, much better). I remained wringing my bag of peas, helpless to intervene.

"So? What brings you here?" Anon drew a cigarette case out of his pocket as he spoke, affecting abstraction. "I'm afraid your reputation does not precede you." He popped a cigarette into his mouth, then snapped the case shut and tucked it away. "I really have no idea who or what you are."

"SHUT UP. FAG."

>>1975090

"Oh, how rude of me! Did you want one?" In a swift motion Anon plucked the match from the man's fingertips and struck it clear across his eerie motionless face. "I'm afraid this is my last," he said, taking a drag as he shook out the match, "but we could share. Here--" Anon made like he was going to wedge his cigarette between the man's lips.

The hulking figure recoiled from the outstretched hand as if it held a spitting cobra. Anon advanced and the man slapped his hand away, then threw the bundle of sage in his face. I watched in horror as Anon lunged at the man, a bid that was doomed to fail considering my friend's comparatively short stature and lithe build. The pair tumbled onto the rug together in a violent commotion. At last I felt my fraught nerves uncoil and my body take charge of itself; in an instant I was on top of them both, single-mindedly doing my best to pry them apart and save Anon from being killed.

Through a rain of frozen peas it became clear that I and the monster whom I was bludgeoning were not at cross-purposes. He offered no resistance as I attempted to divorce his and Anon's entangling arms. Anon, however, was relentless. The intruder was trying desperately to keep him at arm's length and was seeking every opportunity to eject himself from the fray.

Something sleeps in me
undesired and tainted and
festering day after day.
Chained and wary, tread softly
or it's jaws
will unhinge and find you
Beware

>>1975090
This section is too verbose. I understand that It is a part of your writing style, but at a point it becomes alienating.

>>1975114
Thanks!

>but at a point it becomes alienating

Would you be able to tell me what that point was for you?

Selfish reason, made more of earth than air;
You falsely claim the title of the soul.
Though you pretend all beauty to be fair,
Ideas much more base are your true goal.

Arete is your creed, yet vice your call
By false reason a beauty lays sullen,
No pain avoided for being too small.
Suffering by sane madness, love fallen.

Replaced by cruel reason’s calculation,
Our holiest values forever lost,
Each creed becomes a new inculcation.
Measuring beauty, the mind’s albatross.

While even beauty must meet some measure,
Measuring fails when minds meet their pleasure.

the walls of my father's house
are yellow with dirt
the floor is in pieces
and the carpeting is coming up
in seven different places

and he sits in his living room
on his broken furniture
and he sleeps in his bedroom
on his broken bed
and he eats in his kitchen
where the memories of my mother
are the strongest

i think of him sometimes
before i fall to sleep
i wonder if he is lonely

>>1975220
>Measuring beauty, the mind’s albatross.

i like this line especially

>>1975235
Thanks! I am not a fan of the couplet that follows, but I am working on it. I love writing sonnets, even though they are out of fashion now.

A heart of gold,
sought by all and won by few.
It will drive a lover to obsession and possession:
Corrupt one’s very soul.
It is true what they say,
all that glitters is not gold.
The only way to be certain of its purity,
is to bite into it.

>>1975235
>the floor is in pieces
>and the carpeting is coming up
>in seven different places

i like that

>i think of him sometimes
>before i fall to sleep
>i wonder if he is lonely

last line made me lol, but it was also sweet

>>1975265
I didn't have much to say about it, but I felt compelled to comment since it's not often a sonnet comes up. the effort that goes into adhering to the form is cool to me

>>1975272

thanks for saying. i'm not usually one to write poetry.

>>1975279
To me that effort is the only reason I can produce a decent product. I use to have a lot of discussion with a professor in college about the benefits of restricting yourself to a form. I forces you to imagine creative new ways of saying things as opposed to just saying the first thing that comes to mind. I have a really hard time writing prose for this reason. I need the restriction of a form.

This is a story I wrote a few months ago.
________________________________________

We rose somberly as they announced his arrival into the Atticka Bay. His body carrier, a brute of an airplane, held steady on its down-running descent just behind the tin-can bay hangers stationed on a brisk walk of a reach from the grave-site. Far enough to see the angels gliding down with your boys, but not to hear them; they are always gone before you got to hear those holy engines roar. My son, all black 'side his "most favourite" yellow bow-tie, trotted quickly to keep a foot rhythm alongside his daily new interest, our solemn pastor. A trembling clarity, my son spoke in no fortified hesitation on the subject of his uncle, a person whom he never really had the chance to see face to face - the idea itself of his great joy towards meeting his uncle, even without that irritatingly collected voice of his to greet my boy at the coffin, proved a seriously volatile twirl in the memory of my brother.

"Momma, are you alright?"

Our mother generally despised a good amount of people, despite being the emotionally charged woman she was raising us. The funeral director eyed her suspiciously on the first time I had arranged a meeting between the two, taking her for a mischievous woman even in the face of death. Even though nobody ever really mentioned her attitude anymore, I felt a need to still defend it in my head.

"Nurem, when we get there, introduce your brother politely to my grandson. And please, don't look him down; he has a new home now."

>>1975311
>>1975311

Momma was damn proud of her son, being that he was up in the air, a freedom fighting angel reminiscent so of our late again father, the favour in our family line tended to strip away certain looks towards me. Halfway to his resting body, a cold grip on my mother's stuttering movement, I couldn't help and ponder what Marco would say, to my son, to Momma, if I was waiting in that army of coffins.

We had rarely gotten chances to sit down and speak about our lives. As youth, it made no sense for two men, especially a military born duo as ourselves, to consider the constantly nagging troughs in growing up. Far as he knows, as kids, I had no problems. While I did, of course, I can't lie and say that it's what I really wanted, seeing as Marco never put on a face that attempted to say the same. Far as I know, as kids, Marco has no problems, but I want to believe so much that he did - a connection of the nerves between brothers that soaks in family blood. It wasn't until the day of my own graduation at high school that I was able to speak to Marco again, whom had just made relieve from training out months on "this floating island of metal, laced down to the feet with space technology," always moving and resting for an air soldier's last true time "seeing the ocean". The military stories, humour, the lifestyle - it was a heartbreaking image to ever imagine; me, before family, mentioning my neutrality with it all, coaxing Marco to mention his time spent with his wife, the baby he always wanted, and all the little hobbies the military opened for him.

"There isn't any time for those things, Nurem. Besides, no worth in having those without a sky to call our own. Without air to call your own, and all the little people below, alive and well."

>>1975313
>>1975313

His hands never moved, locked away in white emblazoned coat pockets, and with that damn voice to never tremble, there wasn't any conversation after his explanation. Somehow, on that day that is, I felt a strange need to cry - a counterbalance almost to my brother, truthfully more honest, brave, and stupid then I tried to be for him. Admirably stupid in the sense that my kind, a herald of lame voices, remained commandeered under the booming chest of his actions; each story he could tell slammed down righteous warheads resounding from his post-humus controls of the sky, always pulling his chariot with God cross the sky to victory. It was really awkward to complain or gawk marvelously at such feats when my time strapped down to services was, with no doubt, completely shameful. His speeches couldn't reach me as a civilian, I had lived with the eyes of a soldier for so long as war spun its wheel, and neither as a soldier with such vulgarity on the subject of patriotism; was I entombed to navigate occasions where our titles dictated us.

"Daddy, look! The big door is opening, daddy look at that door! Wow, it's so big in there, I think."

A tiny ripe hand ripping away at my dreary war born coat took liberty to rip away the reminiscent days, we'd come a long way to visit Marco, my son had the right thinking. And as the door knocked, flimsy in the sun's reborn breeze, there was only one coffin – it sat, ebony lacquered with Old Glory to keep the cold out atop, and haunted the hangar with its lonely existence. My early glance – nobody else seemed moved by its significance – my only response was to stop myself a good distance from where it lie, the offset left of the hanger, from which I could still peer at my brother without seeing Momma's face swell.

>>1975314
>>1975314

As marooned lumber, I got at their emotions from how they paced along to his coffin at a distance; the pastor had already stopped, as God could only come so close to shelter a man who's already reached Heaven and shortly on his stop Momma took the liberty to finish her stride with a turn away – I don't know what Momma would see in his face, but that perfect image, surrounded by angelic horns and mistletoe, demanded to remain. When she's lying there, just waiting for those famed flashes of life, she won't need to look at her boy out of a freezer, she'll dance with him in the meadow, and kiss him goodbye below the wing of an airplane. My little boy graciously swung to his grandmother, who pushed him on gently, sailing cross like a baby boat to home. He'd finally set himself to rest above his uncle, hoisting himself up slightly to angle a peek, to which his charm washed away. Still perched at my distant view, my boy shrugged his shoulders with a loud sob and, with a calm desperation, vexed his hands forward to caress at Marco's cheeks, peach with fluid.

With the hanger still gushing in the ocean wind, I turned away from the eulogy my son had for Marco; my eyes wanted to see something, but there was only clouds – Marco must've decided to walk the rest of the way.

The Bread Makers Wife


In a small town, high upon a mountaintop lived a little old man and a little old woman. The man was very happy with his life and all around him. He had the trees for shade when he was hot and his wood stove for when he was cold. He had the birds in the sky to watch and the fish in the stream to admire. He was very content with his life. Most of all he loved his bakery. Every day before dawn the little old man would go into his bakery and put on a fresh set of rolls for himself, his wife, and whosever else wanted to try one. The bread maker as he came to be known in the town was a very kind man.

However his wife was bitter and sore. In her younger days she had been a very beautiful woman with many chances to see far away lands and meet royal princes and such flights of fancy as to make your head spin. Year after year she turned down proposals of marriage in hopes of a even better man coming to sweep her off her feet. That all changed when she started getting older. Suddenly the proposals were not coming anymore and she was stuck in the sleepy town, on top of a mountain in the middle of nowhere. As a result when the bread maker asked for her hand she had no choice but to accept. She was a very bitter lady constantly talking about the days when she was sought after by princes of far distant lands. She failed to take in the wonder of the world around her.

One day the break maker fed up with his wife’s constant complaining came up with a idea to change how she saw the world. The bread maker was not a very rich man and had worked hard his entire life to save up a few dollars.

He came to his wife one day and said “ Wife why do you complain all day while there is so much world around you”

To this the old woman replied “how is there so much world around me when I had chances to see the entire world till this curse of age robbed me.”

The bread maker again asked her a question “ but if you could see beyond our village, what would you do for that.”

To which she replied “I would do anything to leave this sleepy village behind for good. To see distant land once before I die”

The break maker smiled and left her alone for the rest of the day to ponder why he had asked such questions.

The next day he again came to his wife and said “ Wife if I were to give you a chance to see the sands of a desert or the rolling grass of a plain what would you do”.

The little old woman quickly replied to the bread maker “ I would do anything within my power to leave this town behind. Im tired of this mountain and of these same old people”.

The bread maker in response said “ I offer you a challenge then dear wife”

The old woman’s eyes lit up like stars.

The old man continued “ I say that you cannot bake enough bread to feed all the people of our sleepy village by tomorrows sunset, but if you do, we shall go anywhere you wish”

The woman quickly answered his challenge “ I will get started immediately.”

She sprang from the house and ran to the bakery. As the bread maker watched her go he could be seen laughing at how fast she moved now.

Thinking to herself how easy this was going to be the bread makers wife rushed to the bakery. On the way she told everyone she passed how she would soon be gone from this little old town.

Arriving at the bread makers bakery she quickly gathered a large bowl and a stirring spoon. Looking for flour the woman found instead a small note where the bread maker kept his flour. On it said. Dear wife I see you have tried to use my ingredients for your bread, this would be to easy, so to obtain flour you must first go visit the farmer.

Fuming the woman threw down the note and stormed from the bakery. Angry at the bread maker she walked down the path to the farmers house. A small butterfly came and landed on her shoulder but she was to angry to notice. A puppy followed her but she was to busy thinking of distant places she would soon visit to even pay attention. Only when she arrived at the farmers house did she really begin to see her surroundings.

The farmer lived in a small cottage on the outskirts of town. He had a large field that he and his children attended to every day to provide enough food for the village. The way the grain swayed in the field to a slight breeze made them look almost alive. Like they were dancing and laughing. A deer could be seen very far out in the field eating some fallen grain.

This was the first time the woman had really stopped to look at the farmers land. She was startled by how well he kept it.

“Oy there” a voice shouted out to her. “I was wondering how long it’d take you to get here” said the farmer walking up to her.

“You were?” asked the old woman.

“Yes I was”. “That fine husband of yours gave me a question for you to answer for you to git some flour” the farmer stated in a curious voice.

“Well what is it” she spat at him.

“Why are you here”? was the simple question the farmer had for her.

“Because I need flour you silly man” the bread makers wife said.

“Not here in my field, but here on this mountain” he retorted.

“Because I got old and lost my chance to leave. I got robbed of all my hopes and dreams” she said in her sad voice.

“But yet you say you had chances to leave” said the farmer.

The woman was quite taken aback with his comment and really didn’t know what to say. Never before did it occur to her that she really did used to have the chance. This made her angry almost like the farmer was telling her it was her fault.

“I answered you question now can you just give me my flour” she said quietly.

“My sons left to deliver it when you first arrived” the farmer told her. “They should have already dropped it off.”

“Well thank you” the old lady said. And with a quick turn she left the farmer standing in his fields. She walked through the village now back to the bakery in silence. She did not boast to those around her of her journey. She was to deep in thought about the farmers question to notice much around her.

Was she really to blame for being so picky? Why was she still stuck here? These thoughts raced through her head as she entered the bakery. As soon as she saw the flour though they quickly were replaced with the thought of, it doesn’t matter much why I never left her, because soon I’ll be gone anyways.

Pouring the flour in a bowl she looked for the water pail so she could go and fetch herself water for her bread. She found it with a small note attached to it. It read. Loving wife, I see you’ve gotten the flour, as you make this bread I ask you to think of what each ingredient means. Puzzled the bread makers wife quickly took the pail and left.

On her way to the well to fetch some water she had a new thought running through her head. What was the note trying to say when it said “ what each ingredient means” It made her think so hard she barley noticed when she had arrived at the well.

She stopped to look at it. It was a very old well with many different rocks of various colours all around it. The wooden drawing crank was new compared to the rest. It was a lovely contrast of old and new. She attached her pail to the cord and lowered it down into the well.

However when she tried to bring it back up again she found that her arms could not move it an inch! She tried again and again but each time she just became even more tired.

She was beginning to give up when a voice behind her said “ that looks tough”

Startled the bread makers wife turned to find a young boy standing there beside her.

“I can help you with that if you’d like” he said.

The break makers wife was amazed at how kind he was being. She just nodded and the boy took the crank and started to wind it.

When it was all up he turned to her and said “ do you need someone to carry this for you?”

She replied “you don’t have to do that you know”

The boy simply said “ I know I don’t have to. I do it because I’d like to.”

“Why?” was all she could manage.

“Because you look like the kind of person who needs a little help” he told her. And with that he heaved up the pail and started walking.

As they walked down the lane to the bakery the old woman suddenly felt ashamed. Here was a boy that was no more than twelve years old helping her. Yet whenever anyone asked her to do anything she always asked for something back.

As they walked together the boy whistled a merry tune. Yet the break makers wife could see he was struggling under the load. She suddenly just grabbed the part of the handle that the boy was not holding. The boy didn’t have the breath to thank her.

When they reached the bakery the break makers wife shook the boys hand and asked him “ what’s your name, and where do you live?”

He laughed and said “Why im Damien, and I live right next to you.” And without saying another word he ran down the street away from the bakery.

The old woman stood there even more ashamed of herself. She had failed to notice such a nice boy living right next to her. How could she have been so blind to other people. She picked up the water and brought it inside.

Putting it on the counter next to the table she checked off water from her ingredients. All she needed was eggs and sugar.

She thought to herself, its to late to get eggs from the hen house and the store house isn’t opened this late either. She sighed. Her bread would have to wait till tomorrow. She stowed away the flour and put the water in a container with a lid and left the bakery.

Walking home she felt all the hard work she had done that day catching up to her. She felt sore in her back and her feet were raw with all the walking. However she could never remember feeling so alive in a long time. She felt the wind in her hair and could hear frogs far off in the distance. The sun was just now starting to go down as well. It was a pleasant walk home. Passing his house she could see Damien playing in his yard. She smiled.

That night she slept soundly, dreaming of all the people that had once admired her. It started out good, with her being a lady among the men. Then she saw them turn and leave. She was all alone and was afraid. Suddenly the bread maker came from the shadows and called out to her. She grasped his hand. It was old and wrinkly with age and experience. Her hand however was dainty and looked as if it had never worked a day. He just looked into her youthful face and smiled.

She awoke with a start. She was now very confused. What could the dream have meant? She had so many new questions in the last couple of days. She looked at the bread maker. He was sleeping softly on the pillow with his back to her. Small snoring could be heard.

She left the bed and got dressed. After breakfast she left the house in a small trot. She still had her bread to bake after all. The bread makers wife’s first stop was the hen house.

The hen house was really just a small poultry farm on the west side of the village. It had a few shacks for chickens and a single shed for roosters. All in all it was rather unremarkable to the eye. Yet under the surface there was much to see. The way the hens pecked at the other hens and the way the roosters strutted among them. All the while little chicks could be seen running under foot pecking at seeds on the ground.

The hen house was run by a young woman. She and her husband could be seen throwing seed down into the field as the bread makers wife strolled up.

“Excuse me” called out the bread makers wife.

The woman and her husband turned. They walked up to the fence where the bread makers wife was standing.

“What can we do you for ma’am” the young woman and her husband said at the same time. They turned to each other and giggled a little bit. The way the love shone in they’re face as they turned to each other struck the old woman like a ray of sunshine.
It was so warm, so pure that the bread makers wife was quiet taken with it.

“Uh sorry to be a bother to you two, but I’m making some bread for the village and I was wondering if I might bother you for a few eggs” said the bread makers wife.

“Oh why certainly” said the younger woman.

“We’d be delighted to help you” said the man.

They turned on they’re heels in a moment and holding hand walked toward the hen house. As she watched them go the bread makers wife had misgivings about her own marriage. She really had had no love for the bread maker but when he asked for her hand she could not refuse. But now things were beginning to change. In her mind she saw not a feeble old man that made rolls and such, but a man of pride, passion, honour, compassion, and love. She began to really feel for him not as a woman who wants some status but as someone who loves another.

“Hey miss” the young mans voice shook her from her daydreams. “Is this enough”

In the basket lay about twenty eggs. The bread makers wife nodded and thanked them. As she was walking away she saw them steal a kiss and giggle again. Hand in hand they walked back toward the hens roosters and chicks in the yard.

After putting the eggs in the bakery the old woman walked about the town looking for sugar. She looked everywhere she could think of searching for many hours. She could find none. She tried the store but had neither credit or money to purchase it with. She felt quiet broken hearted. She had spent nearly two days on it and now her bread would fail. She looked into the distance and for the first time really saw the sun setting. She sat on the ground and began to cry.

“ Tears don’t look good on you”

The old woman looked up. There barely illuminated by the sunlight stood the bread maker. He reached out his hand. It was old and wrinkly with age and experience. But this time instead of a dainty hand his met with another old hand. One with pain and knowledge as well.

The bread maker helped her up and said “ why are you crying on the ground?”

“I failed in my challenge and I failed everyone here. I cannot bake the bread. I am really just a miserable old woman who is good for nothing”

The bread maker and his wife began to walk now.

“But wife, look at what you have done! You have opened your eyes to the world. Young Damien has found a friend in you.”

“Yes but now the sun is set and I am still missing sugar. I tried so hard”

“It’ll be fine” said the bread maker and as he did he turned his head and gave a nod. A small boy not even twelve could be seen running from door to door.

The bread maker led his wife to his bakery. As they went inside the bread makers wife was amazed when she saw many loaves of bread sitting on the counter all hot and fresh. The bread maker handed her a tray.

He said to her “the bread is always the last step you know.”

“What do you mean” she replied.

“Take the wheat for an example. It’s critical to the bread. Yet it can be many things. The wheat when ground is fine and a powder. Yet without it the bread cannot be made. So even the small things can be so important. The water is very different from the wheat. It can be raging or a quiet in no time at all. It is the changing flow of things. The eggs are the most brittle and weak of all ingredients. However if I take them away the bread cannot rise. The eggs are all that is weak yet powerful.”

“And the sugar” asked the bread makers wife.

He did not answer. He just smiled. They walked on a little more way holding they’re trays. As they turned into the square a big shout rang up. The entire village was there standing around a large fire. Many people began to laugh at the bread makers wife’s shock. But it was a laugh of friends.

“This my dear wife, is sugar” the bread maker said as he turned to her.

The party that night was wonderful. Everybody had some bread and many other people had brought home cooked meals. They sang and danced until it started to get light. Then they took all they’re leftovers home to eat later that day, after a long nap of course. And if you’re wondering about the bread makers wife ever leaving the village lets just say that, that’s another story all in itself.

and before you ask yes it is a childrens story

>>1975378
>>1975378

Wow!

That's one heck a child's tale!

>>1975383
its an old-school children's tale. thanks any other feed back? i wrote this almost two years ago.

>>1975378
>The eggs are the most brittle and weak of all ingredients. However if I take them away the bread cannot rise.
What the fuck kind of bread is this?

I've heard of a lot of crazy shit in my life, but never eggs making bread rise.

>>1975391
>>1975391

WELL, it's not exactly as in depth as a Grimm Tale or anything but I feel if it got some illustrations and cut some of the unnecessary fat, it'd be a to-the-point storybook perfection.

You write almost too clearly and there is some repetition, but in in children's stories this isn't bad exactly. It's good so everyone can understand what you're saying.

Ugh... and the moral is, "Be a good little peasant, stay in your place, and be happy with how little you have and how little you are."

>>1975399
>>1975399

Damn it, Anon, you know it's "appreciate your choices!"

Don't you lie!

>>1975395
Hey man I wrote this when I was sixteen. I had no idea how bread fucking worked I just wanted to write a story. Im going to edit based upon comments here so thanks.
>>1975397
Thanks I shall take that to heart.
>>1975399
Nope. The point is to open your eyes to the situation around you and stop complaining about your own choices. Nice try.

>>1975403
>>1975405
Now I think the moral is, "Despite all of the good stories in the world, somehow you got stuck reading this one. You only have yourself to blame, but if you lower your standards far enough, you will be content with this and all mediocrity, and make many mediocre friends, since almost nobody has standards and you don't want to be a snob they don't like, do you?"

http://www.thenakedscientists.com/HTML/content/latest-questions/question/982/

BOO YA I FUCKING KNEW THEY WERE IMPORTANT

>>1975417
>>1975417

Like I said earlier I welcome your point of view. If you think the writing is sub-par let me know why in an informative post.

>>1975421
Nice try, but bread rises just fine without eggs.

French bread, for instance, has no eggs in it. (although egg white is used for a glaze on the crust)

>>1975431
well that is interesting indeed... thank you good sir.

If all the world is a stage
And I am just a player
What is my part?
If we could quote the sky
And listen to its words
What would the clouds say as they dance overhead?
If I could find truth
In your smallest whisper
Would we ever need to shout?
If we could stand
And feel nothing but the breeze in our hair
Could we understand why it plays?
My play is my part
Support of others and starring in my own.
As for the clouds,
The give us advice on our lives everyday
They say we are free
And your whisper of truth.
I think I would still shout.
Because the world should know the truth.
But the breeze I cannot understand.
Because when I try to understand the breeze and why it plays,
It leaves me.
So I just play.

posting from my long dead last thread.

Faining ill fortune to forgo from it
so lest us not be reprimanded within the breeze
of the morning sun you
wondrous waning waking
woman, wilting and wising
to righteous irrevocable anger towards
nothing at all but a fond caricature of
the world in which to run in
nothing but circles

Oh! How
glorious, how
divine, how
evanescent the fair sex of soft features
while playing your pride that lasts
for decades on and on
into the ghost of a fingertip's push
carved into the arm of Mnemosyne
and into the eyes of Hera's scorn
for those posessing the faint
glow of humanity.

deep.rtf