Poetry, stories, tears
For those who care, two poems I typed up quick. One written this week, one written several months ago.
On the cusp of my destruction
teetering so unsteadily
as if, myself, I
have become unraveled
desperately grabbing up the strings
poor old rag doll
string and scraps
held together by sheer will
bits and piece dropping off
lost and tumbling over the edge
to the Abyss, lost forever
On the cusp of my destruction
pondering the question
is the fight worth the pain
or would an end be better?
so hard to hold
so easy to fall
words slide like oil, tarnish
paths they take sear like acid
etched forever in a heart now stone
bloodshot eyes like marbles roll
gathering dust and rubble
wondering aimlessly across the desert
stars weep for the pain, dripping in smears
slowly down the deep cold black of space
space does not weep, frozen and emotionless
a muse, forever silent, guardian from afar
blood oozes like disease, red nearly black
sanguine tear drops float gracefully down
mixing with coarse grainy sand
desert floor so greedily suck each speck
parasites of pain skitter chitter along
crawling, infesting dreams that lay dying
cavorting in carnal greed of death and despair
drying hulk, bathed in star-tears
watch by the silent guardian, muse
drain to dust, torn apart
just another pile of sand in the desert
carried away on moaning winds
Now, the beginings to several stories. They are all about the same length. You tell me which begining you like the most, that interests you the most, and I will post the completed version some time later this week.
and when her eyes opened, glaring red and yellow lights flashed in the blur that was the ship's control room. Almost automatically, she slapped her arm, wrist out, against the side of the coffin-like chamber she was laying in, to receive the stimulant pumped into her veins by the microneedles. Fighting off the grogginess and nausea of the suspension drugs, she grabbed the rungs on the wall to the right, and, in one fluid, well-practiced move, floated from the chamber to the back of the control panel in the null gravity.
but the same could be said about most things of that nature. It started as a revolutionary tool for research, which developed into a treatment for infections, then to cancer. With a few modifications, it revolutionized the agricultural of all the colony planets. By then, mumblings in the wings already spoke of the supposed necessity of the military applications of such a tool. Now, after two, long, bloody years of this war, I have just been told that the design for a warship that carries a version of the weapon created especially for the planetary scale has just been approved for manufacture.
He was one of the hew left that had actually witnessed the final breath of Tera, good old Mother Earth, from the viewing bay of the last retreating space station. At the time, he was a boy of 7, whom everyone called Cam. No one had called him that in several millennia, nor had he spoke it himself. Some memories were best left in the past, buried in the cold, remorseless expanses of space. But, just because no one else remembered didn't mean that he could ever forget. No matter how hard he tried, or how far he ran, every time he closed his eyes, there it was.
Rays of sun, red as blood, spilled over the rim of the valley, creeping silently down to the sleepy city below. Long, angular shadows spread from the buildings as if they were trying to uproot themselves and flee from the Martian-like light. From his vantage point on the over look, he could see the entire city, along with several outlying towns, stretched out before him, reminiscent of a cheap, cheesy, folk-art painting. Absently, he fingered the small vial in his pocket.
where the orange-red setting sun mingled with the flames of fields and villages below. Far off to his left, he watched a small group of fleeing villagers being cut down, one by one, by the lasers of his troops. The bitter wind brought the sweet sounds of their dying screams to his ears.
Its supposed to be pure, blank, anti-septic. Not at all! They have all kinds of action on them, especially if you look right. Just the other day, I watched a little kitten chase a butterfly around in the corner by the bed for the whole afternoon. At least, I assume it was an afternoon. Its hard to keep track of time in here. It would be impossible, if it weren't for my medication. Last time I was able to sneak a look at my charts during my check up, it was every six hours. That was a few appointments ago, so its very possible its changed since then. Sometimes I wish I could ask what time it was, though that would be pointless. What would be useful to know is what date it is. I decided before I panned on ending up here that four or five years was probably long enough. Let the uproar die down, then I can get out, and slip away. Its so hard not to laugh, everything is so wonderful!
I used to live and breathe by that very philosophy, the idea of Absolute Truth. But now, I am not so sure. Maybe that's why I'm crouched here, hidden in the brush, waiting for that girl to move, so I can get a clean shot off with my laser. I'd had to have to sacrifice that darling blonde angel to get the priest. But, I might have to.
So... Let me know what you think. Honestly. And yes, I do promise they all get even more twisted, and depressing, the farther along you go. But hey, everyone always says that you can only write about what you know.
On the cusp of my destruction
teetering so unsteadily
as if, myself, I
have become unraveled
desperately grabbing up the strings
poor old rag doll
string and scraps
held together by sheer will
bits and piece dropping off
lost and tumbling over the edge
to the Abyss, lost forever
On the cusp of my destruction
pondering the question
is the fight worth the pain
or would an end be better?
so hard to hold
so easy to fall
words slide like oil, tarnish
paths they take sear like acid
etched forever in a heart now stone
bloodshot eyes like marbles roll
gathering dust and rubble
wondering aimlessly across the desert
stars weep for the pain, dripping in smears
slowly down the deep cold black of space
space does not weep, frozen and emotionless
a muse, forever silent, guardian from afar
blood oozes like disease, red nearly black
sanguine tear drops float gracefully down
mixing with coarse grainy sand
desert floor so greedily suck each speck
parasites of pain skitter chitter along
crawling, infesting dreams that lay dying
cavorting in carnal greed of death and despair
drying hulk, bathed in star-tears
watch by the silent guardian, muse
drain to dust, torn apart
just another pile of sand in the desert
carried away on moaning winds
Now, the beginings to several stories. They are all about the same length. You tell me which begining you like the most, that interests you the most, and I will post the completed version some time later this week.
and when her eyes opened, glaring red and yellow lights flashed in the blur that was the ship's control room. Almost automatically, she slapped her arm, wrist out, against the side of the coffin-like chamber she was laying in, to receive the stimulant pumped into her veins by the microneedles. Fighting off the grogginess and nausea of the suspension drugs, she grabbed the rungs on the wall to the right, and, in one fluid, well-practiced move, floated from the chamber to the back of the control panel in the null gravity.
but the same could be said about most things of that nature. It started as a revolutionary tool for research, which developed into a treatment for infections, then to cancer. With a few modifications, it revolutionized the agricultural of all the colony planets. By then, mumblings in the wings already spoke of the supposed necessity of the military applications of such a tool. Now, after two, long, bloody years of this war, I have just been told that the design for a warship that carries a version of the weapon created especially for the planetary scale has just been approved for manufacture.
He was one of the hew left that had actually witnessed the final breath of Tera, good old Mother Earth, from the viewing bay of the last retreating space station. At the time, he was a boy of 7, whom everyone called Cam. No one had called him that in several millennia, nor had he spoke it himself. Some memories were best left in the past, buried in the cold, remorseless expanses of space. But, just because no one else remembered didn't mean that he could ever forget. No matter how hard he tried, or how far he ran, every time he closed his eyes, there it was.
Rays of sun, red as blood, spilled over the rim of the valley, creeping silently down to the sleepy city below. Long, angular shadows spread from the buildings as if they were trying to uproot themselves and flee from the Martian-like light. From his vantage point on the over look, he could see the entire city, along with several outlying towns, stretched out before him, reminiscent of a cheap, cheesy, folk-art painting. Absently, he fingered the small vial in his pocket.
where the orange-red setting sun mingled with the flames of fields and villages below. Far off to his left, he watched a small group of fleeing villagers being cut down, one by one, by the lasers of his troops. The bitter wind brought the sweet sounds of their dying screams to his ears.
Its supposed to be pure, blank, anti-septic. Not at all! They have all kinds of action on them, especially if you look right. Just the other day, I watched a little kitten chase a butterfly around in the corner by the bed for the whole afternoon. At least, I assume it was an afternoon. Its hard to keep track of time in here. It would be impossible, if it weren't for my medication. Last time I was able to sneak a look at my charts during my check up, it was every six hours. That was a few appointments ago, so its very possible its changed since then. Sometimes I wish I could ask what time it was, though that would be pointless. What would be useful to know is what date it is. I decided before I panned on ending up here that four or five years was probably long enough. Let the uproar die down, then I can get out, and slip away. Its so hard not to laugh, everything is so wonderful!
I used to live and breathe by that very philosophy, the idea of Absolute Truth. But now, I am not so sure. Maybe that's why I'm crouched here, hidden in the brush, waiting for that girl to move, so I can get a clean shot off with my laser. I'd had to have to sacrifice that darling blonde angel to get the priest. But, I might have to.
So... Let me know what you think. Honestly. And yes, I do promise they all get even more twisted, and depressing, the farther along you go. But hey, everyone always says that you can only write about what you know.