[x]

I Am a WriterI am a writer.
Yes, it’s easy for me to fall into a dream.
But there is nothing wrong with being tighter
With a story’s theme.

I am a writer.
That is all I will ever want to be
In the end, my story will be lighter,
And my characters will finally be free.

I am a writer.
There is nothing easier to say than that.
I will never let a story wither
Nor let a story fall flat

I am a soon to be author.
With several books ready to be read,
I want them to have great honor
And wish there will be tears shed.

To HooverHoover state: waking up to sleep
because that’s all I’m good for;
out of work, out of time again
and my brother won’t spare a dime.

Blanket sweat reminds me of this
Hoover state: waking up to sleep
in depressions of this planet;
the moon weeps for me in daytime.

I yank my pockets out, like it's
my country's flag; punch-line of the
Hoover state: waking up to sleep
in my sagging skin on decline.

I've no penny to my name,
jumping out the window (one
last time) makes me worth more in this
Hoover state: waking up to sleep.

Through an Angel's Eye

Some see the world through their rose-colored glasses,
some see it only as bad.
Some see man split into one of three classes,
some see it only as sad.

They say the eye to the soul is a window,
some find such introspect lame.
Still others prefer to focus on shadow,
some look for fortune and fame.

To see the world softly through colors sublime,
requires a heart that is pure.
Yes, to see the world as an angelic rhyme,
the eye must be steady and sure.

Through the eyes of an angel she captures our world,
the wonder of God in her lens.
By virtue of her work beauty is unfurled,
earning her many a friend.

Twinkle StarTwinkle twinkle little star
Noone cares just who you are
When you fall the fall is far
Twinkle twinkle superstar.

The Soldier's Letter To HomeI write this from my death bed
My eyes fading in the light
Drowned in crimson red,
Drowned in shaking fright.
The enemy has won
The war now has ended
And though killed by my son
May his sins be ammended.
For this is Civil War
I cannot change the tide
So from you I implore
Do what is right.

Bury me somewhere nice
Near, and fair to look at
And forgive my son his sins;
For in war, no one wins.

A Poem for LokiRhyming is hard
Just so you know
But for a friend
I'm giving it a go

His name is Loki
From Scotland, of course
Today is his birthday
I heard from a source

Plays Pokemon for fun
and Nuzlockes them too
Though one in particular
Might need a redo

His adventure in Hoenn
Was not quite grand
Many comrades died
Of course, not planned

But in the end he won
With a badass team
Including a Mightyena
Who reigned supreme

Not forgetting Mad6
Who replaced 5 before him
His chances of survival
Were really quite slim

And then there was Boom
Who exploded with glee
Against a troll Milotic
We won't forget thee

Tittypank is next
In the list of honours
Though

ContrariwiseSilly little Alice,
Forget all you thought you knew,
For deep inside your head,
Everything is all askew.

If they tell you that one plus one,
Equals twelve and half, my dear,
Don't worry yourself about it,
For two is so last year.

Don't even try to be different,
Or it'll be "Off with her head!",
And you'll find it's better to live a lie,
Than it is to end up dead.

So heed this socially accepted advice,
Ditch any scraps of your insanity,
To cavort with the Hare in March,
Join the Hatter for a cup of tea.

Fritter your days away,
Dancing under a Cheshire moon,
Don't mind the surrounding chaos,
Ignore impending doom.

But even as you join in

Continuous VoicesIt all began when I was ten
I found what lingered in my head disturbing
And it wasn’t until I grabbed a pen
And saw what truly lingered when I began writing.

There were continuous voices within my head
I was not one to favor them dead
Although, they had violet images attached
The way I wrote them matched.

Since then, the voices have changed
Octaves have risen and lowered
Their words have exchanged
And eventually became uncensored.

These continuous voices have brought war
Ones with an uprising roar
And at moments I want to kill the sound
For they are so profound.

Yet, they continue to crescendo
And welcome me to a hidden story
And so

Aur si plumbUn gând de aur, dar se simte
mai greu ca un pumnal de plumb
ce intră-n coaste, se învârte,
și caută să iasă prin minte...
Stilou de aur, scrie versuri,
dar lasă urme ca de plumb,
pe foi mânjite de cerneală,
și de cafea, și alte resturi...

Un glonţ de aur, dar se simte
mai tandru ca o zi de plumb,
îl pun aici, închid capacul,
și ca un gând, îl scot prin minte.

Stand StrongI stand in awe at the strong winds blowing
Hurricanes rising and tornadoes growing
Housing blown away and long hair flowing
Killing the crops of this year's sowing.
Stay strong, dear brothers; Strong in disaster
Stout in the winds that blow ever faster
Stay strong for your children, strong for your wives,
To get to the morning you must first traverse the night.

EndlingHere am I, the captive thylacine
Treading my tiger-striped, ungainly way
Around the metal-mesh confinement of my cage
Here am I, exhibited, exhumed
Brought from the brink to pace another day
A living testament, a final thumbmarked page
Here am I, the only specimen
Bereft of mate, of pups, of kin, of kind
Watching the claws of history extending
Here am I, the final thylacine
The only one, the last, the lost, the endling.

Who Was HeHe stood at the average height for men.
His built was quite average.
His eyes were that of cyan.
Nonetheless, he was average.

His hair was that of blonde,
Nearly, white.
His walk and personality had a great bond.
He was a confident sight.

His skin was a delicate peach.
His muscles were quite firm.
So irresistible, a teasing reach.
His appearance had its own term.

One that the dictionary cannot confirm.

Who was he?
That man with his own sea?
He was one without a name.
His appearance was a taunting game.
He was one without a number for an age.
Forget it, he’s fake on this page.

An Aching NeedAn Aching Need

This Kingdom of magic and wonder suits me very well, for I am without want.

I rule absolutely over my ugly subjects, like a puppet-master maneuvering strings.

The sting of want may not exist, but I have an aching desire for the one I hunt.

They are fairly simple , yet very beautiful to me; I NEED them above all other things.

My wiles and trials to win them over have led to a devious act, for which I regret not.

Whisked away through my mystical Labyrinth, her beloved brother sits upon my capable lap.

Though through her luck, and some help, she has made it to me, and ruin she has wrought.

And even though I thought myself

A man such as meHow do you think it would be,
to be like a man such as me?

Copper mane unkempt, unruly, distort,
from showers too long and sleep too short.
Eyes darting erratically, vibrant and blue,
sunken in purple pits, looking blackened and bruised.
A nose, big and red, once hit with a bat,
a maw full of teeth, yellowed, crooked and that.
A beard full and lush, fit for a king,
(one I should trim one evening...)

Betwixt my shoulders lies a beating heart
one which stirs for music, words and art,
one which constantly yearns for intimate love,
but is under command by the grey matter above.
A pair of lungs, tightly restricted by my bulk,
only shallow breath

SandmanSleepwalking in tainted dreams
Falling through its open seams
Caving into unsure grounds
In a dream where fear abounds

Tightrope nerves are torn right through
All the facts become untrue
Screams are muted and lost midway
Still terror exists to my dismay

Faces change the closer I peer
The way I feel becomes unclear
And in the end I know it's fake
The pivotal moment when I awake

But still disturbed and afraid to dream
I wonder if they are at all what they seem
So I close my eyes and there you are
Staring at me looking bizarre

You told me you were there for me
To fight off the frauds valiantly
Trusting you I did what you said
I unmasked the

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Still Night Waiting

Still Night Waiting on Sleep

IStill Night Waiting on Sleep

It is difficult to sleep
when my breathing keeps breaking the ice
that has formed over the still surface of the room

(The wheeze of the rhythm's limping engine
fixed fan flowing through my throat)

It is impossible to rest
when each of my motions
is amplified by the shuffling of sheets
a disruption of your carefully balanced quiet

(The sound of you settling into bed is the roar of ocean
muffled by the distance of cliffs)

I know it's beneath your skin
like a fever passed through a splinter
the unavoidable sharpness of words
spoken without the bitterness of blades
cuts

Wheel Country

Wheel Country

I imagine. I imagine I am hovering just below heaven, looking down on the earth lying quietly in the darkness of its own shadow. Looking down, hidden from the sun, to witness man discontent with the darkness, and his inventing of light. His fires, created or stolen from nature, the consequence of lightning and dryness, the divine manifestation of that singular holiness in the sky, broken off and fallen to earth as power and control, kept and reverently stoked, smoldering slowly in a sacred lacquered box, full of more problems than Pandora's.

I watch as man's fires flicker and expand into the darkness of the unknown, within

Molly Jane Gallagher

Molly Jane Gallagher
or
Frisky San Fransisky: The Hooker with the Heart of Gold

In an old prospectors voice oddly similar to Gram'pa Simpson's...

Ireland and California, have had a looooong and glorious history together. In 1845 gold was discovered at Sutter's Mill. Thus began the California gold rush. Gold let of course to prostitutes, and California has never been the same since.

California's most famous prostitute was a woman named Molly Jane Gallagher. She was a small, curvy Irish lass from County Cork. She spoke in a lilting manner, and sucked more cock before the age of fourteen than most women do in their entire lives. Abandoned b

Never Let it be Said

Never Let it Be Said

"For all those whose cares have been our concern, the work goes on, the cause endures, the hope still lives, and the dream shall never die."
-Ted Kennedy

Americans are, first and foremost, a people without timing. We arrive too early, dragging everyone along behind us, or nearly too late, coming only in time for the rescue. But one thing you can be sure of is that we are never anywhere when the rest of the world wants us to be.

But we have never been what the rest of the world wanted us to be; we have only ever been ourselves. From a second-rate colony of ne'erdowells and orphans who did not know how to behave the

Devil's Ash

Devil's Ash

She sat sipping cider
its steam carving complicated S's
against the cool canvas
of an unadorned autumn morning

She sat appreciating
the sensation of paper
between her thumb
and her forefinger
as she turned the pages,
slowly,
absorbing the story
of a man living in his city
and the devil he discovers

It was in Russian,
originally,
and occasionally she wondered,
between the space of pages,
what got dropped
when they'd carried the story
like a litter of anxious kittens
from language to the other

She imagined the three characters
as three colors:
black, grey, and red
each one inhabiting
each color in turn

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Peggy Guggenheim

by ~epimetheus, May 4, 2003, 3:27:33 AM
Literature / Poetry / General Poetry / Traditional Fixed Forms

The Peggy Guggenheim of Our Generation

There are times when
I think you are the
Peggy Guggenheim
of our generation

Passionate
in your pursuit
of creation and the
of creators
of the beautiful
and symbolic languages
of their generation

Your need for the
center of subscription
to lie down with
your ear close to the mouth
of the oracle
listening to
it speak
and breathe
in it\'s silent moments

Peggy Guggenheimby ~epimetheus

Literature / Poetry / General Poetry / Traditional Fixed Forms

For Panika, because she is alive with listening.

~amyfae May 6, 2003 Writer

Last stanza's the best. At least, it's my favourite *shrug*. *wonders why she just spelt "favourite" the British way* Is the word "the" supposed to be hanging out at the end of second stanza line 3? Anyway...I think the third stanza says what you really seem to be saying...and doesn't necessarily need the other two before it.

~amyFae~*~

~spinning-plates May 4, 2003 Writer

I don't like how the first two stanzas end in generation. I don't have a particular reason for it, but it doesn't sit too well with me for some reason. The rest is good, though.

~mariamaria May 4, 2003 Writer

Never heard of her or Peggy Guggenheim. That bad? Also, "oracle" = unfun word, at least here it is. I'd shit it out of my system, were I you.

Sin 13 was a good time, by the way. I got paid.

~gyroscope May 4, 2003

yarr.

~wanderingjizo May 4, 2003

I think its really nice of you to write this for panika. Not your best work on a purely..er...structural? level, but the sentiment behind it makes up for it tenfold.

~fauxgravity May 4, 2003

i don't like this very much, and i don't like that panika never replies to my comments. she's wonderful though. i think i'm in love with her. i hate her. i don't like this very much.

`niteangel May 4, 2003

I think I have met 'her'....your words just express what I am thinking!

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Peggy Guggenheimby ~epimetheus

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