Oh peanut butter, oh peanut butter
Why must you cause my words to stutter?
When lacking jelly or toast with butter
I long to abandon you for another
And without milk, your flavor stutters
BlockThe words aren't coming
The flow has stopped
The spindle runs thin
The flowers cropped
The letters dropped
Hand on her chest
Wishing she wasn't
Entwined in this mess
The honored guest
To maritial ties
All too late
To bid her goodbyes
StructureI'm not a fan of structured poems, at least
When they're imposed on me, like subtle frames
Of written code which keep each line the same
The trapped voice a bird that yearns for release
Allow the flame to grow, please free the beast
Don't snuff the candle's fickle, frozen flame
Set meter and rhyming, you are to blame
Rendering my creativity deceased
But for you, I'll accept the forms you wish
Consume, swallow words with a grain of salt
My heart, wrapped in paper, I'll give to you
In a stanza, a line, or a swish
Of reason, confining words to a fault
Just don't think you're the only one who knew
Lucid - WIPI'm lying here on a table. Nothing but the sweet hum of machinery, both around and within me. They'd mentioned something beforehand about my hearing. Something about sensitivity that wouldn't hurt in higher decibel ranges.
My hand twitches to touch my new ear, but it remains limp by my side, paralyzed. I think they'd mentioned something about the risk of muscle atrophy in low-gravity environments. Something like that.
I'm hearing my heartbeat now. It's strange to hear such an organic sound in this sterile environment. If I cut myself, would I still bleed red? Or had they replaced my blood with a substitute? Was it still red, or another, foreign color?
With a slight click, a bright light switches itself on from overhead, illuminating the capillaries in my eyelids. Still red...
Squinting, I try to turn my head, but my neck won't obey me. As if reading my though
Ghost of the PastEver been haunted by a ghost of the past? You know, those recurring memories of a time long gone, the ones that float uninvited into your head? Maybe it's triggered by a memento, or a visit to a sacred place, or the mere mention of a name. The moment relives itself in your head, then disappears, leaving you with only a scrap of cloth or a pressed flower to remember.
But what if these ghosts aren't really ghosts at all? What if they're still living, breathing creatures? Maybe you never see them anymore. Maybe you live too far apart. Maybe you see each other on a daily basis, but you both pretend the other no longer exists. Maybe you're enemies, or even friends. Either way, you've both made an unspoken pact to never speak of the moment again. In a vain attempt to smother the memory alive, you flood it with fresh oxygen, fresh consciousness upon which it can feed.
Is it better this way?
PerfectionistsA writer in a group of artists
Is hardly a place to fit in
In a glance, one can admire a picture
But writing takes much longer to sink in
We've all learned our native language
But not all have picked up a pen
Yet sketching is somehow extraordinary
Simply because not everyone can
We can both stare at a vase for hours
Yet come up with an empty slate
And our details of realization
Rarely come sooner, but late
For despite our apparent differences
Our goal is the same: to learn
And only by way of practice
Can this mastery of skill be earned
LifewishA mourning dove hobbled across the road
And I wondered, "Why didn't it fly?"
Does the pleasure of crossing the pavement by foot
Outweigh the risks if it should die?
Maybe the bird remains ignorant
That a passing car could lead to his demise
Unsure of the dangers in the world of man
With no sense of fear in his eyes
Or perhaps he is simply cocky
As he struts across the road in pride
Knowing all vehicles will stop their procession
In order to let him pass by
But I, for one, think he enjoys it
In the way a human walks instead of drives
So the next time you see a bird walking
Maybe you should be the one he walks beside
ScrapVersion 2.0 is ready
The beta is complete
Its release date is tomorrow
And I've heard it will be l33t
This one's fully moddable
No need to deal with flaws
And it's piracy-protected
So you can't break the law
The calendar is built-in
You'll remember all your dates
And the autopilot feature
Will ensure you won't be late
It's compatible with everything
The computer, the tv, the phone
And it'll download all your contacts
So you'll never feel alone
But if you choose not to upgrade
You'll be alienated, at best
Your communication will be archaic
And your accuracy, second-guessed
This isn't really an option
Conform now, or be scrapped
Humanity is overrated
Believe me, the entire brain's been mapped
We've discovered all your problems
And fixed them, one by one
Even those pesky emotions
We've sparked the revolution
NephelaeToday is a sad day.
Why is the sun shining?
I thought the sky was supposed to reflect emotion
Like a heaven-mirror
Answering the prayers of the living
In the form of precipitation
Are the clouds our gods now?
They are notably absent
In this clear sky
An expanse filled with light
Asylum I wander through the rattle
The endless screams
Of roaring drums
As they creep and feed my
I spiral down the aisle
Cold and mad
Through the asylum
Voices melt into the night
As I struggle to keep my mind
So I can't see
Crawling toward me
I long to feel my lover's face
My mother's soft embrace
I fall to my knees
On the floor
They dance around me
Until I am no more
And their grip tightens
On my skin
As I drown in this sin
I made for myself
When I had nothing left
The Cute... and GrabbyThe Cute and Grabby
They look so very cute and meek.
They'll clean you out within a week!
The lock's pried off your liquor store!
Your jewels scattered on the floor!
When they wake up--they'll do yet more!
So darling when they stare at you...
And you can't guess what they will do...
They take your treasures from their cases
Go bowling with your heirloom vases!
They lack all the social graces!
They wake up quite late at night...
Wake YOU with a sudden bite!
When you walk, you push and shove them
It is quite hard not to love them.
NOTHING IS SAFE UP ABOVE THEM!
D R A G O N E T S!!
Just a coldI have a really nasty cold,
My throat is sore and gungey,
Face is puffy, nose is stuffy,
And brain’s gone kinda spongey!
I’m shivery – then I am boiling,
And feeling very old,
My joints are stiff – need oiling,
But it’s only ‘just a cold’
I stagger into work quite brave
No thanks do I get,
“It’s just a cold” said ‘Dissing Dave’
I’m feeling quite upset.
Papers piling in my in-tray,
Seen through eyes of red,
I think I may chuck some away,
Before I’m almost dead.
Figures swim in front of me,
But they can only do the ‘crawl’
Then they hide under the desk from me,
And won’t budge from there at all.
Invoices, statements, notes on post-its,
Are all looking quite the same,
I sip a cold cure, gather my wits,
This blasted cold’s to blame.
I surrender – wave a flag of white,
And curse in a manner, bold,
Colleagues just ignore my plight,
“It’s only just a cold.”
The Three Gables: Steve DixieA/N: “I won’t ask you to sit down, for I don’t like the smell of you, but aren’t you Steve Dixie, the bruiser?” Well, if you’re going to be childish, Holmes…
Holmes picks thee
As a smelly fella.
Though traditionally, Mr. Holmes, whoever dealt it is the smeller.
The Mazarin Stone: Billy the Page-BoyA/N: Billy, the young but very wise and tactful page… That’s a very flattering description from the unknown writer…
Assisted Holmes willy-nilly.
But did he try to supplement his wage?
Who wrote MAZA? Let’s look at the page…