I like writing poetry...
tell me what you think : )

yea... I don't title my poems. I just give them numbers.
You can think of the line after the number as the title if you want. i.e. for 1., the titel could be said to be "dust"


1. dust
is falling slowly
tumbling in the air
meets a stranger
in an instant
leaves a friend
or enemy
floating up
or down
in the light

19. watching everything fall out of place
every piece is from a different picture
to build up a corner, a side
and watch it fall to pieces.
what it could have been.
should have been.
would have been.
what the hell.
screw the world.
this puzzle is too hard.

to find a corner,
a part of the picture,
to see the fire and the lights,
in the silence and the pauses,
makes it all worth
trying for
again.


23. wake up in the morning
thoughts racing racing racing
through the mind
as though it forgot to dream.
chainsaws and cellos and homework and bathtubs and knives
and paintings and books and talk of yesterday and computers
and lights and electricity and life and
music.
gets stuck right there.
beating beating beating away
in the back of the head
stop.
clear the mind
focus on the nothingness
and drift away...
and come back to the world.
and the concert's over,
the race cars stopped.
the stadium quiet.
and the mind begins to coil
the burdens of the day.

Oh and a random 1st Chapter of a story that I sorta got bored with..
PG-13 blood and killage. takes place in the future, where aliens known as the Silvithrim have come and essentially enslaved the humans. thoughtful idea: is it better to be worst off, but free in mind, or safe but enslaved?


Vert was bleeding and running. In the cold bright metal city, there were few places to hide. He paused, clutching at his injured side, wincing as he saw the blood flow through his fingers. He looked back. The two men were beginning to gain on him, roughly pushing aside the people in their way. Vert resumed his flight, his eyes darting back and forth looking for an alleyway, a recess in the solid smooth metal walls of the buildings, anywhere to hide and escape his pursuers. As he ran and looked, he wondered what he would do next.

Vert and his Assigned Guardian had been on their way back to the Barracks after school, when two masked men had suddenly appeared. They focused on the Guardian first: Vert was rooted to the spot out of fear as he watched one of the two masked men stab the Guardian with a small thin metal object, and had watched as the Guardian collapsed, almost instantly. The two men had then advanced on Vert. They stabbed at him, and Vert screamed as the metal cut his skin. He flailed his arms and legs in pain, and out of sheer luck, hit one of the men in the crotch. At that point, Vert got up and ran as fast he possibly could down the street, looking for a place to hide. He was confused, though. The Silvithrim were supposed to be omniscient! Only once every year or so would it be announced that the Silvithrim Guard had precaptured a criminal and had executed it. There had never been any doubt in Vert’s mind that the city was perfectly safe, until now.

The street had grown more crowded as people were heading back to the Barracks for their evening meals. Vert pushed his way through, and ran around the corner. Breathing his thanks to the Silvira, he dodged behind a large waste disposal automaton. He checked his watch. He had two hours before the robot would rise and dispose of its contaminated self and the trash inside.

When he was younger, he had enjoyed watching the machines striding through the streets, with their thin ropelike legs supporting the cavernous rectangular container of unwanted trash and waste. That was, until he, curious, slipped away from his Guardian and followed them. He watched in awe as the robots, following their programmed instructions, leapt one at a time into the fiery pit of magma located in the center of the city. From then on he felt slightly sorry whenever he saw them, knowing that they were marching toward their own destructions, their purpose fulfilled.

Vert gave little thought to the automaton he was hiding behind. He had glanced down and noticed that he had not been wounded only once, but multiple times; the big gash on his side was expected, but he saw that all over his body, with startling precision, every two inches, small circular wounds had appeared. Then, to his amazement, he watched as the blood flowing out was gradually replaced by a dull grey ooze. Transfixed by the sight, he failed to notice the two men on either side of him. The one on his right shoved a foul smelling rag in his face. Vert’s head fell forward. Then he blacked out.


~lordtomato, clockworkpenguin

heh. thanks!

I might seem depressed cause I only wirte poetry when I'm feeling down and emo.
It's a nice way to release everything.

Also, the story wasn't meant to be part of 23. The story is its own thing on the side.

Chater 2. Awakening.
Vert woke to a voice. It was shouting.
“LET ME AT HIM! LET ME RIP HIS –ING THROAT OUT! HE’S ONE OF THEM! I KNOW IT!”
The voice was female. Vert opened his eyes and saw a girl, about his age, being held back by to the two men that had been chasing him. He was bound to a chair. The girl held a sword in one hand and was struggling fiercely.
“I’M GOING TO STAB HIM IN THE HEART!”
“Now look, we already checked-“
“I DON’T –ING CARE! THEY KILLED MY FATHER! I’M GONNA KILL ‘EM ALL!”
“He isn’t one of them! We already drained him!”
Vert looked around. The walls were made of a strange material, soft, and dull, unlike the bright metal of the city. His seat was also quite comfortable, apart from the rough bands which were binding his legs and arms. The door was open. If he could somehow free himself...
“HOW CAN YOU BE SO SURE? I, I, I...”
The two men looked at each other. The taller of the two brought his arm swiftly down on the girl’s shoulder, and she stopped struggling, senseless, but with the sword still grasped tightly in her fist.
“Here, I can deal with this kid by myself. You take her back to the Chief.”
“Are you sure? I mean, she was right wasn’t she? We can’t be too careful...”
“He’s tied up and everything. Probably still a bit dazed too. I can handle him if things go funny.”
“Ok. Be careful.”
“Huh, if you ask me it’s you who should be careful. Hope she doesn’t wake up before you get her back.”
The shorter man picked up the girl in his arms, careful to avoid the still grasped sword, and left the room through the open door. The taller man turned to Vert.
“Sorry about that. You can call me Michael.”
Vert said nothing. Michael was tall, and strongly built. He wore some sort of armor made of a dull brown material. Vert struggled feebly in his bonds.
“They’re right, you know, we can’t be too sure. Do you mind if I- Ah, but you have no choice.”
In one quick movement he had drawn a dagger and made a cut across Vert’s arm. Vert’s eyes opened in horror as his blood sprayed out. Michael took a finger and pressed it to the wound. He lifted the finger and tasted the blood.
“Well, I guess we got you in time. I apologize for all the trouble.”
He used the same dagger and released Vert from the chair. Vert collapsed on the floor. It was surprisingly quite soft.
“Where...Where am I?” he croaked.
“You are inn the headquarters of the Knights of The Order.”
“ When can I go home? Why am I here? Who-“
“Calm down. You’re sa- free now. This is your home. You are here as a result of a raid on the city, to free young men like yourself and turn them to our cause.”
“What? You mean I’ve been...”
Vert paused. The lack of crime in the Silvith city had led to no word for kidnapping.
“The term we use is ‘liberated’. Look. You are confused. We know. Everyone is confused at first. But before I can let you ask too many more questions, you need to know the truth. Why we do this, and who the Silvithrim-“ he spat out the word in hatred”-really are and what they have done.”
Vert nodded. He didn’t quite understand what Michael was talking about, and his head was still spinning from the shock of this new environment.
“The story begins like this...”

“Before the Silvith were here- yes, there was such a time- Earth was covered in cities. Not cities like the Silvithrim pure metal obscenities that scar the face of this planet, but works of art, with high spires and multicolored reflections. Glass and brick and clay and gleaming metal, reflecting the sun! Ah, they say the sights were breathtaking, monumental feats of architecture and design! The height of man’s power over nature, splendor everywhere, they say.”
“And then the Silvithrim came. Accounts have been passed through the generations. Some say they came out of the Earth itself, oozing forth as a defense of the gods. Others say they fell from the sky, again, divine retribution for the overuse of the planet. Yet our most ancient texts tell us that any idea of divine powers is completely fanciful. The Silvithrim were invaders. Jealous of our wealth and glory, they watched us, spied on us, and when they could bear it no longer, conquered us. Here. Let me read to you one of these accounts. Wait for a moment, please.”
Michael left the room in a few steps, closing the door behind him.
Vert shook his head. His mind seemed to be clearing from the drugs. He glanced around the room again. On closer examination, it appeared that the walls were made of thin brittle material. He tested it with his fingers. It was completely solid. He knelt down to his knees and felt the floor. It appeared to be made of a thick woven material. Vert imagined that he was somehow one a giant head, and examining the short hairs.
The door closed again.
“Ah, examining the carpet, I see. You, of course have never seen it before. Very few people have, these days. Extraordinarily rare. Of all the skills that we still maintain some knowledge of, weaving is not one. The scriptures say that in the olden times, such materials could be produced in the miles, in only a few short hours. Now, we have only a few tattered instructions, and broken machinery, rusted through by time. Anyway, I found the volume containing Arthur J. Levinry’s account of the invasion. It reads as follows:
‘The metal spheres came from the sky, undetected. Not even our most advanced satellites detected any blips or irregularities. The television networks all broadcast live footage, with headlines of “Communication from Outer Space?” or “Aliens real! World Governments Work Hard to Communicate with Possibly Friendly Visitors.” Yet within the day, all of those news vans, all of those people crowding around, the intelligence operators, the UFO fanatics, the merely curious rabble, were eliminated. Those of us who had expected the worst, an invasion, rather than a tourist stop, reacted instantly. It was all so...vivid. I remember, I was perched on my sofa, watching the developments, when suddenly, there was a whirring noise from the grey sphere behind the reporter. The camera zoomed in. Panels were sliding, instruments extending, scanning the landscape, it seemed. And then it burst in a flash of white. I still remember the view of the camera as it fell. Only the clothes and spattered blood of the people remained. These innocent people who had done no wrong, only trying to learn more about the universe, to understand it, were obliterated into thin air. At that point, uproar was obviously imminent. Rather than wait out the traffic of cars heading for the mountains and rural areas of the world, I prayed to God, and called my few select friends. My wife, my son, and some friends from work and high school. Sometimes when I would call, I would learn that I was too late; he or she had already been killed, or as I would learn later, taken. My right hand man, Matt, was my friend through high school, through college, and so, we planned. His basement was larger than ours. Some of our friends had digging tools, heavy machinery even. We sent out a mass call for help along what lines of influence we had. We received resources from fleeing families, some joined us, while others were too scared, content to continue running. And still, more gray spheres fell, seemingly randomly, clearing out the human race. We burrowed into the ground, retreating into the Earth itself, rather than risk exposure at the top. And then again, we were lucky. We had found a water pipeline, leading from an aquifer from which we could gain fresh water. A few last foraging parties were sent up. They returned with seeds, machines, tools, anything that may be conceivably important to human survival. And they also returned with stories. Of whole towns abandoned, with only the wild encroaching, taking back the land. We heard of the Enslaved, unresponsive to other humans, speaking their own language. One man recognized his son, and ran out to grab him, to bring him back. But he was captured in his fury. They say that his own son held him with superhuman strength as he approached for embrace. He panicked and struggled, and then more of the Enslaved came, and it became too unsafe to watch. After that incident, we put an end to the foraging parties. We took our strongest materials and most brilliant craftsmen, and we created a steel door, nearly impenetrable, which we do not intend to open ever again. And thus we live in the dark, under the Earth. –Arthur Levings, 26 p.i.’
That means post invasion,” explained Michael.
Vert was shocked. The Silvithrim were for the good of the human race, surely. He had learned all of this in school! Yet...”Only the clothes and spattered blood remained,” Michael had read. And then another thought occurred to him.
“How come... then how, how was I li..ber..ate.d?” he asked, drawing out the unfamiliar word.
“If these men sealed themselves under the ground, how did they come back to the surface to attack and commit so many crimes? Everyone knows that it’s the Unstable who...”
He stopped.
“Yes,” Michael said. “The Unstable. What a nice way to name those who are too strong to allow the Silvith to corrupt their minds? And thus break? And us? We, who live free? We have not been tested by the will of the Silvithrim, we are not worthy to be clumped together with those martyrs! We are the common criminals of your precious little cities. We take the resources we need. The Enslaved do not notice us unless we attack them. And when we raid we always leave a mark. We free a few of them.”
“Do you mean you liberate them, like you did me?” Vert asked.
“No. There is no cure for the Silvith. No cure. We have no choice but to take their lives, send them to a better place, where they can be free from the hold of the Silvithrim. And we tell them thus as they die. And we see hope shining from their eyes as the gray mist flows away, and the red mist takes them. And we know we are doing the work of good. We are the Knights.”
“But how do the Knights manage to reach the surface? I thought the only path was blocked-“
“No. The original path Arthur made was blocked. As time passed on, as generations flourished, it became necessary to access new resources. However, as a safety, we use each tunnel only once, and then block it, as Arthur did. But now, you must be tired and hungry. Let me show you to your new home. Welcome to the city FreeMind. You may ask questions as we walk.” Michael got up and opened the door.
“After you.”


Heh. more to come. in a while.

2 more poems in the meantime

24. Shut Up.
don't want to hear it anymore
don't want your lies, your tales
your falsified apologies
Just Say What You Mean.
get it out
i don't care
nor do you
I Could Care Less.
i wish.

25. break
from the world into sleep
into dreams
where you are invulnerable
a heroic knight
a legendary spy
in trouble
a dragon’s snack
where you are digested
into nightmares
awaken
coming back into
darkness

Tell me what you think about the story
I dunno. I think i have to much action, to fast. like a movie.
But of course, i can't really critique my own writing.
Sorry about how short it is. I've not been feeling like writing for a while.
Enjoy Chapter 4.

---------------------------------------------

They walked slowly down a hall, shoes clanking on the steel floor, hands occasionally brushing the solid walls. Occasionally someone would walk by, dressed in the same sort of garb as Michael, dyed different colors, but seemingly solid. To these, Michael would step aside quickly, and receive a swift nod before continuing. At last they entered a large atrium. Bright light shone from above. Vert turned his head up, but could not see the source. His arm jerked, and he was pulled out of the silent crowd of armored men and through a pair of large glass doors.
The rush hit him immediately. Sound, laughing, screaming, chatting, machinery, water! Flowing water! Vert twisted toward the source of the sound, and caught a faint glimpse of a vast waterfall in the distance before Michael pulled him hurriedly down the street. Tall buildings loomed on either side, blocking the walls of the vast cavern. People bustled down the street, occasionally glancing at Vert, with his reflective silver suit, and torn sleeve. But then they would see Michael, and quickly return to their duties, smiling. Suddenly, from up ahead, a cry rang out over the crowd. Michael dropped Vert’s arm, and unsheathed his knife, holding it blade backwards, partially concealing it. People started pushing and shoving, trying to move down the street. More screams echoed down the street. Michael pushed through the crowd as it rushed by in blind panic. Vert followed closely, unsure of what else to do. They reached the top of the street. A man stood there, in the middle of a ring of onlookers, carrying a bladed staff. A body in a silver suit lay behind him, bleeding in the dust. Michael shoved his way into the circle with one hand, keeping his weapon hidden. Vert peeked around a large wobbly woman. He could smell a faint aroma coming from her clothes, and it disgusted him. He glanced quickly at the man in the middle. The man had on a bright crimson robe, intricately decorated with silver and yellow. Vert choked on the smell of the woman’s perfume and backed away. He heard Michael speaking, but over the murmurs of the crowd, nothing was comprehensible. Vert shoved his head through the crowd again, away from the smell. Michael had enlisted two of the crowd, who picked up the body carefully and bore it through the parting crowd. The man in the fiery robe focused on Vert. Michael, still conducting the crowd, had his back turned.
Come with me.... hissed a voice in Vert’s head. Come... I can free you from your bonds... you are not safe here... I can make you safe... yes... I can teach you how to be a pillar of the community.. I can show you how to go back to your old life....Vert found himself rooted to the spot. The man was approaching slowly, staring at Vert’s silver clothing, almost hungrily. The crowd had backed away. There was a flash of red as the man brought his staff forward in an arc- and then his eyes closed. The man smiled, and collapsed, knife protruding from his back.
Michael glided over, and retrieved his knife. It was then that Vert saw the blade. Or to be more accurate, what was where the blade should have been. A crackle of light was buzzing from the hilt. The crimson robe had no hole. Michael pulled out a small square of metal, and touched it with his finger twice. He stared at it for a minute, sighed, sheathed his knife, and grabbed Vert’s arm, roughly pulling him out of the unblinking crowd.

poem for a revoked yes to senior prom:

26.last night i dreamed
about you
we were sitting at a table
together laughing talking smiling
i dreamed it was the future.

today you shut the door on me
told me you were “sorry”
you had “personal reasons”
and you had changed your mind.

today i asked you to elaborate
to tell me why and you
told me you were “sorry”
to hell with that.

you are pathetic.
and so am i.

you will never read this.
you’ll never be this sad.
you still are laughing talking smiling
that is your future.

as for me
i hang on.

you are pathetic.
but so am i.

:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

I like this one.
::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::


27. nature cuts
the strings
holding up
commanding and
leading the
marionettes at the end
of the show.
the puppet looks up
and asks why
why now
why this way
and nature replies
kindly
for your future
to be free
to learn
to explore
and snips
the
last
string.
and you awaken.

you glance back at the hands of fate
sad to leave
and the hands reach down and pick you up
place you on your feet
give you a push
and you open your senses to the world.

you fall and
tumble haphazardly
like a drunk
you trip
what a fool
string less.

but then you wander off
the stage
accidently out of
the box, the cage
into the audience of puppets.
they open the paths from your eyes
to your mind
and you see the man in the shadows
the source of your being.

perhaps you see a forlorn abandoned puppet
discarded on the side
on the stage in the box
strings cut
dangling uselessly, eyes closed
wondering where everything went
wondering why, why now, why this way.
perhaps you go, pick it up
give it a push
and lead it off
the stage.
and the puppet show goes on.

28.

the storm as a symphony.

light strings, quick, short, staccato,
the horns arise now and fade away.
the violins crescendo, faster now, while
the rumble of the timpani booms,
leaping out.
the horns again, the violin bows fly,
and the cellos draw out the stress,
lower, under everything,
the timpani lashes out again,
the cellos violins frantic in their dance
lit up.

the tree can stand it no more.
as a general orders his troops, the thunder shouts its commands.
the wind like a ram batters from one side then the next,
the clouds’ machine guns giving no quarter with their bullets of water.
the defenders are blown away in a gust, beat down by the rain,
once green, to rot, unburied.
the tree creaks. a branch falls.

the timpani tumbles back into the din,
roaring over the viols, the woodwinds, the horns,
the chaos.
and as if frozen, the music stops.

a lone cello sings.

the tree falls.

I hope you won't take this the wrong way, but stick with poetry. It was really good! You've really got a knack for short verse! But the parts of the story you posted along with them...I can't make much sense of them, at all. They seemed chopped up and not like they were really going anywhere. Sorry to say that, but like I said, your strength is in poems and short verse.

reflection1.

The waves press on, over and over, will the sea end? Will the ocean run dry? Relentless in their crashing, unjudging, sweeping all away, the waves come in and out. What is there to do, but to wait until the wave goes out, to build a new sandcastle; for what can stop this force of nature? The tide might come in soon. But there is nowhere else to go, except into dreams, to let the water soak you, sleeping- and wait.


disgusted.

but the end will never come. forget yourself, forget everything, maybe then the sun will rise. til then disgust comes up like bile, rage boils, anguish festers, and the rest of the world shall pause. but even so, life goes on. life's a bitch.


reflection0.

the world is broken, flying on crippled wings, going to fall, crash, get up from the burning wreckage, look around, and wonder what happened. and no one seems to want to try to fix it, not even the doom sayers. so let us fall together and enjoy the drop down. it'll be fun.


reflectionminus1.

Push forward, slosh forward, through the muck and grime, push through the thorns, the ivy, the flowers. The path is endless, the light is ahead, dangling out of reach, but almost there... almost there... and the lantern and flames skip away. And in the new darkness, a new flower grows. And it is beautiful, amazing, multicolored, yet simple. But blind, you cannot see it. Push forward. You'll catch the light yet.

EDIT: Oops! forgot to respond to you, Golbania. First off, thanks! Yea, I know my prose is weaker than my poetry; but that simply encourages me to write more. My problem I believe is with proofreading: I don't do it. I probably should, and there is no excuse not to. Perhaps when I have time, I will rework the parts I have written already. However, and this may seem a tad narcissistic, I am completely in love with my story idea/scifi world, and would hate to give up on it. Are there any specific errors or details that stick out to you? Having written them myself, it is a bit difficult for me to critique it.

loneliness1.

Everything has its own path, its destiny. For some, their paths lead them to effortless happiness, yet for others, it leads them to tiresome grief.
Often, a path will suddenly twist and come out of the shadowed forest into the bright fresh air... or the other way around.
Stop on the path. Stop walking. Look around.
Behind you, the scenery is an arbitrarily focused mash, a tree branch sticking out of the blur here, a rock, its grey bright against the incoherent swirls. You remember when you passed that river, but can't recall the shape of the reeds, that bush- but what were its berries?
Now look ahead. The terrain here is shifting, changing. At your feet, the path seems to be materialized, yet when you look a little further, it seems to split, cycle, twirl and mix. Is that a tree to the side, or a bear, or now a mountain? When you walk you often step quickly, trusting the ground to be there. Will it always be?
Sometimes when you are walking, your path comes parallel with others. You all walk along at the same pace, some maybe a little faster, some maybe a little slower, but you can discuss the horizon, the places your paths have led you, the ground at your feet. And as your paths are parallel, you all wander through the same grassy plains, over the same mountains, and cross the same rivers. Sometimes the paths will grow apart. Yet no matter how long passes, when you turn around, they are still in focus, walking away, farther and farther away. It's best to experience the stroll with others.
But is it right to try to become the trailcutter, to rebuild paths that have strayed, to stop along the side of the road and twist your own path around? Or are these detours merely the blurs of the road ahead? At the fork, maybe the road you do not choose is false, a trick of the light. You never could have chosen it in the first place. Perhaps you cannot truly change the path, while the path changes you.
Yet even if it is just mirrors and illusion, let's pretend it's not.
Let's build a highway out from this dark forest and then meander through the fields.