Report Tradeskilling. in Banquet Room Archives Posted January 17, 2003 Broken bottles, about me fall. covering the floor. I am the master brewer. Aching muscles, Blackened face. My hammer drops, to smash a pot. For I am a smith. I tie sheep gut Around wooden shaft, And poke my eye. I am the master fletcher. The meal is hot and spicy, Yet none do I eat, For I hate fish. but yet I cook. A lump of clay, I push into fire. The jar melts. I am the potter. How small the needle That pierces my thimble And into my thumb. I am the tailor. How perfect the gem, Set into this ring. I cleave it. I am the jeweler. My fingers are calloused, My eyelids weigh down. Yet I carry on. I am the insane. You have gotten better at line-by-line writing! (1) ***ooc chatter*** Appreciate any feedback. I don't actually know what form of writing is this, I doubt it qualifies as a Haiku. And it's certainly not a poem.
Tradeskilling.
in Banquet Room Archives
Posted
Broken bottles,
about me fall.
covering the floor.
I am the master brewer.
Aching muscles, Blackened face.
My hammer drops,
to smash a pot.
For I am a smith.
I tie sheep gut
Around wooden shaft,
And poke my eye.
I am the master fletcher.
The meal is hot and spicy,
Yet none do I eat,
For I hate fish.
but yet I cook.
A lump of clay,
I push into fire.
The jar melts.
I am the potter.
How small the needle
That pierces my thimble
And into my thumb.
I am the tailor.
How perfect the gem,
Set into this ring.
I cleave it.
I am the jeweler.
My fingers are calloused,
My eyelids weigh down.
Yet I carry on.
I am the insane.
You have gotten better at line-by-line writing! (1)
***ooc chatter***
Appreciate any feedback.
I don't actually know what form of writing is this, I doubt it qualifies as a Haiku. And it's certainly not a poem.