Mira

I see your friend only tells it like it is. However, I am disappointed to see no mention of the spread of our gluttonous capitalist faith. Despite that lacking, good job.

The Hermit cares nothing for the world, and the world cares nothing for him. Suckling on the bosom of nature, He is sustained by the manna. Dwelling in the virgin woodlands, Amongst the feral creatures, He is unchained by societies frivolous burdens and bonds. His is a blithe life. And yet an aching brews inside him. An aching for something more. For that basic connection between two human-beings. For that smile, that touch, that kindly word. An aching that tears at his brain, That corrodes his soul. His course is decreased to a singular choice. To relinquish his freedom, and rejoin the ladder of society at its bottom most rung. Or to stifle the yearning for months, maybe years, until he is driven past the brink, And becomes little more than an creature of the wild himself.

Depression is rain clouds on a breezy summer day, or when no one at all wants to go out and play. But with good friends, nobody can be depressed for long. "When you're down and out. When you're on the street. When evening falls so hard, I will comfort you. I'll take your part. When darkness comes, And pain is all around. Like a bridge over troubled water, I will lay me down. Like a bridge over troubled water, I will lay me down. " ~Bridge Over Troubled Water~ Paul Simon

I'm going to pull a "Dubya" here and make up the word Talkability. [dubyavoice]Talkability is the ability to communicate your feelings and thoughts to another person and have them give you meaningful feedback. I think that Talkability is a must have in any solid relationship, be it with a romantic partner or a best friend. [/dubyavoice]

Welcome to The Mighty Pen WIXOR. I enjoyed your story/poem. The last two lines really gave me a dark foreboding kinda image. I hope to see you posting more stuff soon. ( for future reference, poems go in the Banquet Room while stories go here in the Assembly Room )

Clouds of dust and smoke I choke As I wander thru this dismal scene A world filled with ash and soot Where use to be Forests - serene Acid rains melt the flesh Of every living thing Nowhere are the plants Or birds that use to sing And ask you, “What caused this hell to be?” We.

I was trying to comment on the lack of communication between people. I apologize for any spelling or grammer errors as computer was on the verge of crashing as I typed this, and I was unable to succesfuly open any word processing programs. People talking in the park No one hears what they say People strumming a guitar No one hears what they play I try to shout out But it seems everone's deaf today Shadows reaching for eachother But there hands can't seem to meet People running from another But they haven't any feet And I try to touch them all But everyone's mirages in the heat I stand atop a hill and I gather them around To tell them that this silence Is tearing us all down But their only reaction is A smile and a nod then a frown

Mira's heart sank at Dove's last comment. Just my luck, all the interesting girls have powerful, evil-wizard boyfriends. “Well something smells fishy here, and the docks are on the other side of town,” said Mira, with at quick glare at the smaller man on the stage. “I think that our potential employer has some explaining to do. Immense pain and certain death aren’t my kind of odds, but if that’s what this game is about, I’ll just stick to dicing, thank you.”

"So your not deaf after all", chuckled Mira with a grin. "In that case is there any chance that ... " His intrusion into the two female's conversation was met with a pair of stares so sharp they could have cut thru two feet of stone. "Ya know what, never mind", he added. And as an after thought suddenly remembered that he had to be on the other side of the room for some important leaning against the wall and glaring.

Maybe it's the underlying message?

The Thief Holds all the cards And in their fear, the people love him They gobble up his lies He holds them in his hands The Thief He has the biggest guns He makes Shiva look a child He can strike you down From across the world But now I see his lies for what they are The hatred he'd had me feel for his enemies Is turned on him "But no" he says "It wasn't me, it was them" "They gave me these lies" His words burn my ears They fuel my fire A change will come.

Mira gets up and moves to the chair next to the exotic looking woman he had failed to notice earlier and who has just taken a seat. "Hi, my name is Mira, and your's is ... " The woman ignores his advance. Undiscouraged, he continues. "Not the talkative type I see." "Well do you have any idea what this is going to be about?" The woman continues to ignore him. "Well it was nice chatting with you." He returns to his previous seat, props his feet up, and closes his eyes.

I would probably spend the time talking with either Paul Simon or Bob Dylan. Both of them are fantastic song writers as well as excelent acoustic guitarists and I would just like to ask them how they do it. If I could choose anyone from history I would choose Judas Iscariot, just so I could get his side of the story.

Mira entered the auditorium, his hollow footsteps, amplified by the rooms acoustics, made the emptyness of the hall painfuly obvious. His fingers flexed on the exceptional steel quarterstaff that he held in his right hand as he approched the man who stood on the stage. "This your party?", Mira asked. The man stopped what he was doing, quickly examined Mira, and nodded. "Nice fliers", Mira said with a grin. "Mind if I take a seat?" "Be my guest" the man replied, and then resumed what he had been doing. Mira took a seat in the back row.

Orlan, In my original draft I had; "I have traveled to the ends of the Earth" But I changed it because I liked it better without the "to". And yes, that is just you. Alaeha, You probably ment quatrains not couplets because quatrains are four lines and couplets are two. Also, they're not quatrains because the rhyme scheme is off Quatrains are: A B A B While I just rhymed the 2nd and 4th lines (Sorry a thousand times for being so picky on your compliment I'm just educating the people.) I do, however, thank all of you for your compliments and critiques.

I ment Titles, not Topics. ( although that can be hard too ) I've gotten a little romantic in my thoughts and writing as of late, and I can’t put my foot on why. It bugs me though, because there are so many more important issues than the chemical imbalance commonly know as love. I have traveled the ends of the Earth, And thru many distant lands. Across vast and deep oceans, to touch their golden sands. Descended damp, dark caverns, And trekked thru ancient woods. Browsed bazaars in wondrous cities, Inspecting merchant’s magnificent goods. A wanderlust has held me, All these long, and lengthy years. For it was easier to keep moving, Than to face my many fears. But now I have returned, To the place where I did start. Drawn here by the strings, That you tied upon my heart. I have traveled the ends of the Earth, and seen many beautiful things, it’s true. but nothing in my many travels, was as beautiful as you. (Awww....)

If I were to have a song about me I think I would like to write, compose, and preform it myself. It would feel weird if anyone else did.

By "garbage" I meant that it is worthless. I wrote this with the express purpose of pointing out how poetry can so easily lose it's real meaning, as theme and tone is replaced with massive amounts of "filler" imagery. Sorry, I'm a big fan of Walt Whitman and E. A. Robinson. Less rhyme, less flow, more substance. If somebody can come up with a meaning in my poem they're wrong, because there wasn't one.

Sorry to waste your time. This "poem" is only garbage disguised as flowery words. A wind A breeze Came blowing thru the trees And carried with it Rain and Tears Pain and Fears Hope and Joy and Me Yep, 100% Grade A garbage. But that was the point.

I Love you. Though I've never seen your face, Nor gazed into your eyes and been lost in outer space. I Love you. Although I've never heard your voice, Or touched your lips to mine in a soft and gentle kiss. And I Love you. But I've never held you tight, Or just sat and talked with you, long into the night. I Love you. And somehow or someway, Our paths will come together And I'll have nothing left to say.

Your poem reminds me alot of a Simon and Garfunkle song called "Overs" off of their Bookends album. Its a great song and what you have here is a great poem

You are right Blink 182 isn't "Punk", but they consider themselves punk and that was the sound I was going for. I said punk becuse some people who don't know any better consider that crap punk.

So it was suppose to be a song, with a punk rock beat, but I never got that far. I slit my wrist today Cuz I couldn't think of why I'd want to stay on this earth with all it's pain and hurt. And as the ambulance rushed me away, I thought of what everyone would say, when they heard that I had died, "He'd always been a mediocre guy" And then I thought of you, and how we spent that day. Thinkin' bout our lives, talking 'bout the plans we made. And then I thought of you, how you'd been there all the time thru the thick and thru the thin..... And then I died.

I like the poem, but what I realy like is how you show all of your editing in the W.W. I think it's neat to see your thoughts while changing a few ideas into a work such as this. I usualy do all my editing on paper, but I really apriciate you posting all of yours.

I started writing this several days ago and didn't finish it till today. It's the first thing I've posted in the Assembly Room Aazaadd-al-rahman stood in the cold desert night. He didn't want to be there, but he knew he must. How else could he afford for his four sons to go to school? Out here, the only way a man like him could afford such luxuries for his children was to fight. He couldn't even remember what for, all he knew was that he was given food and shelter, and a little money to send home to his wife, four sons, and three daughters. As he stood there on guard duty his mind began to wander. Last night a young man in his bunk-house, Hummound was his name, had been talking about the things his cousin, who had gone for work in America, wrote back about. There, he said, every child went to school for free! Even the young girls! And he also said that almost everyone had cars, and color televisions! Aazaadd knew that these tales had to be mostly lies, but if even half the things he herd were true, in America, life had to be better then here. But why, then were the Americans fighting over here in this God-forsaken land? There couldn't be anything here they would possibly need, except maybe oil, but they could just buy that. He just couldn't understand. His thoughts wandered back to his family. It had been months since he had seen them, and they were probably missing him as much as he was missing them. Bahiya, his youngest, would have celebrated her third birthday last week, she was getting so big. And the others were getting big as well. He couldn't wait until he could return home to see them all. Aazaadd was so cought-up in his thoughts that he never would have noticed the man lying out in the desert night, with his gun aimed at Aazaadd's heart. He never herd the shot, never felt the pain, and never would see his family again .