(no subject)
Finished reading New Moon(second in the Twilight series), as I read the first chapter of Eclipse(third) included in the back, I realize that I have started envisioning Edward as sir.
This is pretty pathetic, even by my standards. :{
Also, Audiosurf is awesome, google it and play if you haven't.
Writing To Stave Off Sleepiness
Category: Writing and Poetry
one of these days, I'll relearn basic English. Until then, more lyrics/poetry with crappy grammar and even less rhyming!
First to warm up a little, tweak some strings upon my fiddle, mental violin I play my words upon. Seems strange to be seeming, hardly wakeful, more like dreaming, streaming through a mind of melodies abound. Beeps and orks and fewer works that truly deserve a little work to make them glitter and shine with heavenly sound. I have to admit, with little wit, I took a pitfall when I writ, wrote a giant fit of popcorn verbatim. And what of sound, that lovely noun, would it not be better as a verb? And since every sound has a sounding noun, perhaps it would be better seen as adjective? Describing a thing, they quite in tandem, the sound and the noun it wound around. Sakes abound, this sounds a trifle prfound, yet lousy all the same.
Lifted to the heavens,
I dreamed skywards
of a life not unlike your own,
and when waking to find
my dull reality,
life dimmed to a lonely drone.
Normal?
Did I dream it too?
That I'd ever had such a thing as "normal"
I spent so long resenting "normal"
and yet as I see it
I'm so much more normal than you.
Where lies the breaking point?
Don't we all have one?
Why do I always miss it so?
And what will it take
to make me break
and how will my reaction go?
Falsity and falsehoodity
and diddly fiddly foo
deception is a human gift
and I can do it too
but I can not see
what is right in front of me
though if given the letters,
I'll make ties.
But at the time,
I carefully rhyme,
I can not see your lies.
All night, it took!
I rumbled and shook,
to see what you were doing there!
All night he pled,
his fingers bled,
trying to be indirectly sincere.
How stupid was I,
what a dullard I was,
to not see the scenario then.
And faced the fire
for my wretched desire
of a life with a who and a when.
I read the words quite greedily,
of a pain most severe.
Of an empty chest,
and trying your best,
to not shed even one single tear.
Of memories buried,
and hopes locked away,
afraid to be torn up once more.
And terrible nightmares of feelings you felt
so many nights before.
A fear for this life is what I lead now,
and hope though I may it will die,
I did feel a sensation
of new animation
and hope that did truth belie
And it is common of man's true nature
to question the nature of man,
yet all that we seek
in our meek intonation
is the question of
where we went wrong
So testosterone is villifying
validating in its all-encasing rage
and a lust for the kill
and other such swill
is judiciously justified in our age.
The desire to murder
to maim and dismember
I can't even truly describe
I once felt excitement
at the body's indictment
towards a life of no life at all.
But as I grew older,
a new feeling grew bolder,
and chased that bloodlust out
and now as I watch him
alight with wrath in him
It casts my naivete in doubt.
Enough with these limericks,
these gaps and crude gimmicks,
I'll write a bit more normally soon.
Social fear, is what I hear
when I hear those inner thoughts
at first I would stutter,
pause and dare to re-utter,
in a way no normal man ought
and then it gave way
to something more foul
a sort of mollifying Tourette's
a rude, bawdy manner
still a slight stammer
and far louder than a normal man gets.
What should I do
to fight this verbal plight?
What methods can I employ?
Each attempt that I make,
for my poor ego's sake,
just saps away more of the joy.
Oh god, I'm writing poetry
a younger self would beat the shit from me.
This is pretty pathetic, even by my standards. :{
Also, Audiosurf is awesome, google it and play if you haven't.
Writing To Stave Off Sleepiness
Category: Writing and Poetry
one of these days, I'll relearn basic English. Until then, more lyrics/poetry with crappy grammar and even less rhyming!
First to warm up a little, tweak some strings upon my fiddle, mental violin I play my words upon. Seems strange to be seeming, hardly wakeful, more like dreaming, streaming through a mind of melodies abound. Beeps and orks and fewer works that truly deserve a little work to make them glitter and shine with heavenly sound. I have to admit, with little wit, I took a pitfall when I writ, wrote a giant fit of popcorn verbatim. And what of sound, that lovely noun, would it not be better as a verb? And since every sound has a sounding noun, perhaps it would be better seen as adjective? Describing a thing, they quite in tandem, the sound and the noun it wound around. Sakes abound, this sounds a trifle prfound, yet lousy all the same.
Lifted to the heavens,
I dreamed skywards
of a life not unlike your own,
and when waking to find
my dull reality,
life dimmed to a lonely drone.
Normal?
Did I dream it too?
That I'd ever had such a thing as "normal"
I spent so long resenting "normal"
and yet as I see it
I'm so much more normal than you.
Where lies the breaking point?
Don't we all have one?
Why do I always miss it so?
And what will it take
to make me break
and how will my reaction go?
Falsity and falsehoodity
and diddly fiddly foo
deception is a human gift
and I can do it too
but I can not see
what is right in front of me
though if given the letters,
I'll make ties.
But at the time,
I carefully rhyme,
I can not see your lies.
All night, it took!
I rumbled and shook,
to see what you were doing there!
All night he pled,
his fingers bled,
trying to be indirectly sincere.
How stupid was I,
what a dullard I was,
to not see the scenario then.
And faced the fire
for my wretched desire
of a life with a who and a when.
I read the words quite greedily,
of a pain most severe.
Of an empty chest,
and trying your best,
to not shed even one single tear.
Of memories buried,
and hopes locked away,
afraid to be torn up once more.
And terrible nightmares of feelings you felt
so many nights before.
A fear for this life is what I lead now,
and hope though I may it will die,
I did feel a sensation
of new animation
and hope that did truth belie
And it is common of man's true nature
to question the nature of man,
yet all that we seek
in our meek intonation
is the question of
where we went wrong
So testosterone is villifying
validating in its all-encasing rage
and a lust for the kill
and other such swill
is judiciously justified in our age.
The desire to murder
to maim and dismember
I can't even truly describe
I once felt excitement
at the body's indictment
towards a life of no life at all.
But as I grew older,
a new feeling grew bolder,
and chased that bloodlust out
and now as I watch him
alight with wrath in him
It casts my naivete in doubt.
Enough with these limericks,
these gaps and crude gimmicks,
I'll write a bit more normally soon.
Social fear, is what I hear
when I hear those inner thoughts
at first I would stutter,
pause and dare to re-utter,
in a way no normal man ought
and then it gave way
to something more foul
a sort of mollifying Tourette's
a rude, bawdy manner
still a slight stammer
and far louder than a normal man gets.
What should I do
to fight this verbal plight?
What methods can I employ?
Each attempt that I make,
for my poor ego's sake,
just saps away more of the joy.
Oh god, I'm writing poetry
a younger self would beat the shit from me.