Alaeha

I've always wished that you could capture a moment and freeze it, and go back to that moment when you wished... There are so many moments that I would choose if I could... Like just a couple minutes ago, writing an email to a loved one... Or when I see her tomorrow. Or that moment when I held her, after sneaking up on her... Or sunset or sunrise. The two most memorable times of the day. Perhaps I should work a little on confining my thoughts, and not thinking about love while responding to people's work. But then, that's where my mind went, having read this, so what can I say? A fine piece of work. I'm glad to have read it. Keep writing, please.

I'm either I am, of course, none other than blank verse. I don't know where I'm going, yes, quite right; And when I get there (if I ever do) I might not recognise it. So? Your point? Why should I have a destination set? I'm relatively happy as I am, And wouldn't want to be forever aimed Towards some future path or special goal. It's not to do with laziness, as such. It's just that on the whole I'd rather not Be bothered - so I drift contentedly; An underrated way of life, I find. What Poetry Form Are You? or I'm terza rima, and I talk and smile. Where others lock their rhymes and thoughts away I let mine out, and chatter all the while. I'm rarely on my own - a wasted day Is any day that's spent without a friend, With nothing much to do or hear or say. I like to be with people, and depend On company for being entertained; Which seems a good solution, in the end. What Poetry Form Are You? It seems to fit. But it depends on the friends, I suppose. The bit about being unplanned is certainly right. Oh well. I'll know where I'm going when I get there.

I've noticed the phenomenon Peredhil pointed out as well... I've only gotten one comment on the story I posted a few days ago, and that after I mentioned in a conversation that no one had commented... Ahh well. Not sure if you intended to leave the y out of everyone, but you might consider putting it in... A good poem. Life feels like that a lot... the dumb people seem to be winning because there are fifteen of them for every intelligent person.

Myself, I rather enjoy the occasional debate. But all things have their place, and this is not the place for debates. It's not as if it would be that hard, really, to arrange a debate if you really cared to. Just go into someone's profile and email them, or some such. But not on the main boards. We come here to write, or to talk. Not to argue. Particularly when they become theological or philosophical in nature, debates and arguments are a wonderful way of making enemies left and right, and you can't get good feedback if everyone either hates you or loves you. Apart from that, that isn't the purpose, from what I've seen, of this site anyway. Just my thoughts. My vote is nonexistant. Treat it as a null if you must treat it as something.

Steals the thread for a moment longer Woohoo! Another person who's read the Belgariad! That brings the count of people I know who've read it up to... Four! Five, if you count me... But then if you count me, you have to count all the different "me"s, and I have no idea how high that'd bring it. Anyway, I agree... It's got a lot of potential, but it does need some help with the flow... Not all the lines have to have the same "meter" or syllable count... You certainly don't need to bludgeon it into trochaic octameter or any such, /cringe but if you could do something with it, it would probably flow a little better. Just my thoughts. But then I make no secret of the fact that I'm a very lyrical sort of person... I had to write an "add-in" scene to a shakespearean play and I wrote it in Iambic Pentameter. Hands the thread along to Nightshade

So you want to play tough, just because you started out? Well I'll put you in your place, 'cause you're not what it's about. And you want to throw your crap around, insult-fests so tightly wound that you can't step anywhere this ground's slippery, beware. When you started out this battle, I could hear your ghost-chains rattle. You're a ghost from the past. It's over, you're through. Now go and take your seat, or you'll find you wear my shoe. Get out of here, go back, you're done, there's no way you can fizzle anyone, so it's time for me to say: It was silly, and funny, and absolutely mad to start this and hope to win it, so I hope that you aren't sad 'cause it just would not be sporting and it wouldn't be too nice to suck blood from hands that feed you, but it will have to suffice to express my best wishes when you say your farewell, now I'm done with this rhyming, and I've still another shell. Several, actually... But that's beside the point. When you get sick of my neorap, let me know. (I can't stand rap, so I shan't call this such)

Same as last time... the 5* lines are meant to be centered. I wrote this today and it's in a second draft state. It probably needs some work, so let me know what you think, please. There was no siren, there was no alarm. There was no perceptible signal at all. The radio announcers didn’t announce it, and there were no phone calls made. There weren’t even any large groups moving toward the field at any one time. Yet if one could have seen the city from above, with eyes good enough to see the individuals, one would have noticed that gradually, the citizens of the city were congregating in the field. Some even turned around so suddenly that they crashed into those following them on the sidewalk. All walked with a sense of apprehension about them. It had come. The dreaded thought pervaded the city, until even those few with no psychic sense at all could feel it. Eryn was the last to come into sight of the throng, walking casually toward them, unaware of what “it” was. As she inhaled to ask, she was cut off by the sudden silence of the crowd. “She’s the one!” Someone shouted. She was the what? The panic emanating from the crowd overwhelmed her, driving her to her knees as visions of terror flooded over her. The world grew black as they began. * * * * * It was night. A figure garbed in shadow sat atop a dragon as it spat fire down on an army beneath it. An army of peasants. Their terror at the sight of a dragon only enhanced by the mystic spell of fear cast on them, the poorly trained army scattered and fled. They were incinerated in moments. * * * * * By dim candlelight, she saw the outline of a black-robed being raise it’s arms. As it shouted a few words, the barrier between the realms of the living and the dead was torn, and an army of the dead rose up from the ground around him. * * * * * Again and again the visions changed, and never could the mysterious figure behind the atrocities be seen. Finally, the figure stepped out of the shadows, into the light of the sun. His eyes glowed red beneath his short, jagged black hair. Loose, black silks covered most of his body, and on his face he wore a mask of deep purple. Slowly, he faded out, leaving only his mask behind. When he disappeared completely, the mask fell to the ground, covered in spirals of a metallic blue. * * * * * A bullet flew through the air, jerking her to the present. Forcing a shield between her mind and the minds of the mob, she fled from her kinsmen and those she had grown up with. If she could reach the forest, she could hide there, and they would never find her. It grew steadily closer, until she reached the edge. As she passed the first tree, the world exploded in pain as her back was torn open by a bullet. It struck just below the ribs, without hitting her spine. Crying out, she fell. Her shield shattered when she struck the ground, leaving her senses screaming until she managed to put it back up. Knowing that she couldn’t go back to town, she feigned death for a time, hoping they’d assume the shot had been lethal. The grass rustled beneath the feet of an approaching man. A heavy one at that, from the sound of it. He was probably a construction worker or some such. Forcing herself to remain relaxed, Eryn kept her eyes closed in hopes that he would just move on. The sound of steel sliding from a sheath, however, convinced her otherwise and her eyes snapped open. Finding him, she leaped up and buried her fist in his gut, knocking him to the ground and the sword from his hand. She caught it by the hilt, studying it for a moment. It was a rapier, it would do nicely. A laugh came behind her, and she spun around to find herself completely surrounded. Every man, woman, and child held a knife of some sort, and all held grim looks on their faces. “So, you’ll kill me then? Without even giving me a sporting chance?” She asked with a bitter laugh. “If only you truly understood what you’ve done, you’d know why we must do this.” The man she had struck said, as he stood up. “We give you an honorable death, by the sword, rather than hanging you or burning, because we know that you did this unintentionally. We cannot, however, allow the Mask-Bearer to survive, no matter who it is.” So saying, he took another man’s sword and thrust it at her heart as her vision blurred and the Mask leaped up into view in her mind. His blade whistled through the air, flying true. It struck her exactly as he had intended, with all the might of a construction worker behind it. It struck a black silk tunic that had not been there a moment before. It shattered. There was a momentary flash of light. For an instant Eryn stood illuminated, her brown hair pouring over her shoulders as the only obvious sign that it was her, as her face was covered by a mask of deep purple and blue. Then shadows engulfed her and all that could be seen was a pair of glowing red eyes looking out from the blackness. She reached out with her rapier, taking the man in the throat. With a savage twist of her wrist, she decapitated the man, and turned to see the semi-circle of townsfolk that had come to kill her. Her eyes flashed, and they turned, panic-stricken, and fled. A small part of her cried out against the avenging demon she had become, even as the greater portion of her being drank in their fear as if it were the sweetest drink ever brewed. Then she began the chase. * * * * * It was over quickly. It could not have been otherwise. The moon had not progressed perceptibly in its journey across the sky. Yet in those few minutes, it seemed that all the world had changed. Eryn stood in the center of a field, holding a blade that had slain thousands. Her arms were coated, slimy with the blood of those she had grown up with, laughed with, and (in many cases) loved in one way or another. The black silk she wore somehow kept the chill of the night air out, but it could not warm the cold feeling inside of her as she looked out at the bloody field. It had not been a fight. It had been a massacre. Looking down at the mask she now held in her left hand, she saw a small blank spot on one of the cheeks. One of the spirals was unraveling, and a cold voice sounded in her head. “Three hundred and sixty five days more, and I shall be free... free...” Turning numbly from the horrors of her surroundings, Eryn went home to pack, with words of the voice echoing in her head. and I shall be free...

You say that a pyramid'll be your tomb, but you're spinnin' a tail that's unfit for the loom of the lowliest of weavers or the poorest of the bards, so I'll shatter your delusions, and I'll be untouched by shards. For there's just no substance to your unwarranted brag, your words betray you, neo-dragon, with the way they snag on the tongue as you read them, and the rhyming doesn't work, so the chrome dome isn't functioning, the gleam's it's only perk. Give up, give in, there's no way that you can keep the challenge going on when you crawl and I can leap o'er the heads of the challengers who think that they can fight with their words, well I'll set you straight, you know that I am right. And you know it's nothing personal, this is my chance to talk, but it's not e'en half empty 'cause you know I walk the walk if you find me offensive, then you'll just have to live, cause I will not apologize and mercy I won't give.

Impressive. I've never been able to write during writer's block. I've always had to wait until I found something I could write about, and that just banished it altogether. Also very amusing. You sound a lot like me when I'm trying to get something started there, except for the bit at the end.

Wow. Very very nice. Not quite sure whether you're talking about someone with a genetic defect, or someone who just feels ignored or uninteresting, but either way, quite good.

*Sets aside real poetry for a time* You say you're the best at the making of rhyme, I tell you at once that you can't e'en keep time and you couldn't keep meter to save your own life so give it up now, save yourself from the strife of trying to beat one who's mistress of verse. So give up, give in, 'cause it only gets worse when you're trying to fight one who cannot be fought, one who's found in her poems what elsewhere she's sought. I'm sayin' it now and I'll say it again, You were silly to say such a thing at the Pen. You're dealing with poets far better than I, and writers of prose that can make you ask why all the world is filled with this trouble and strife, or why we continue to cling to this life. So save yourself trouble, and don't get entombed in a contest in which it is known that you're doomed. I've said it before, now I say it again: It was silly to post such a thing at the Pen. But in a slightly less belligerent and challenging (not to mention insulting) style: Glad to see such a thing come up, It was fun coming up with the rhymes on the fly like that. Just had to adopt that tone to get it to flow right, it was nothing personal.

*laughs* Oh dear... Am I to critique the poem, or spout off random unmetered couplets?

A lot of the time, I write on paper. I really, truly do prefer the keyboard if I'm doing anything long, but there's one small problem that I've found: I can't cram my computer in my backpack and take it to school with me, and I write most of my poetry either in my creative writing class or when I get bored in history. But particularly when I'm writing prose, I very much prefer my word processor. It's so much nicer for that sort of thing. Perhaps I'm just odd... but I've found that all my conscious mind does when I'm writing poetry and such by hand is to remember the line I'm writing or perhaps alter it slightly to improve the rhythm, and that without really trying. It never really censors stuff.

Myself, I rather liked the basic idea... but I ditto the others. It's a good poem, but it could be better if you tried rhyming it or some such. Of course, I may just feel that way because I'm a lyrical sort of person, but that's my view on it. And the last line does seem a little bit... well... blunt. Perhaps overly blunt. If that's what you're trying for, go ahead. It just seems to me that it damages the flow of it. Just my thoughts on the matter, you may take them or leave them as you will, knowing that it is a good poem either way.

Mine is working dandily.

Wrote this around January 24th... Not quite sure of the date. I'd need to go through old email to be sure. To understand why I wrote it, you'd need to know this: I wrote this the day after I told someone who means more than the world to me how I felt about her, and I wasn't yet sure how she would respond. And I was absolutely terrified that I had driven her away. Redemption Loss bites me deeply, these twisted, cruel blades that rip out my heart with a jerk. Tears fill my vision, the real world fades, and I see hordes of demons who lurk. just out of my vision, these horrors abound, I know that they're there, where no light can be found. And Light is in hiding, among all these dead, for no one can see in this land in my head. Surrounded by demons that strike from within while showing themselves here, without. I flail around madly, I'm praying to win e'en a clue to what this is about. Then a bright, shining pillar appears in my sight, it cuts through the darkness and banishes night. The dead leave my vision, the world I can view, three words find my tongue, and I say "I love you." These three words, I think, are worth more than my art, To say that "I love you" or give you my heart. A great risk to say, for it may take toll. If you leave me, you take with you part of my soul.

The character with whom I've found I feel the most empathy is Camden DeKathrine. (The protagonist of The Golden Sword, by Fiona Patton) I don't know quite why, but the sadness he felt for most of his life seemed to mirror my own, though it's different... He actually did lose the one he loved... I just worry about it. I guess it's pretentious of me to compare myself to someone who actually knew pain, but... that's just the way I am. I'll stop rambling now...

I read this and it was like... "What are you doing reading my mind?" The person being addressed is so much like me... it's not even funny. Always expecting perfection of myself... hoping for recognition or praise... Very nice. Glad to know I'm not the only one. Also glad to know I'm not the only one here to play Everquest.

Oh dear... A good poem, though sad...

Happy Birthday, may this year be filled with love and peace. May you never need to fear. may all your troubles cease. But if this wish is made in vain, for such a prayer may be insane, I hope that you will find a way to live in peace 'till next birthday. (I hope that words I did not mix... I wrote this rhyme about at six)

Ok, you get two poems today. I wrote both today, and this has got to be the lousiest piece of work of I've done in quite some time. My apologies in advance. Futility Pushing and pulling and giving your all, working yourself to the bone. Trying to rise when you can’t help but fall, doomed to meet failure alone. Weaving your way through the jubilant throng, losing your friends on the way. Finding, alone, that your foe is too strong, and there, mortally wounded, you lay. Slain by the foe that you struggled to find, left on the path by your friend. Hoping to find light, if only one ray, but you find all is dark in the end.

The first poem that I post here the day I write it! Woohoo! Of course I wrote it in the afternoon, but that's beside the point. It was a creative writing assignment to write out the morning of a character we had created, so I did it as a poem. Mourning Morning Waking up, reaching out, turning off the clock, crawling slowly out of bed, unwinding from the shock. Brushing teeth and braiding hair, donning clothes, the memories flare. Striking deep, then hurrying on, try to make me weep ere dawn. Eating cereal, drinking milk, playing with the cat. Waking up before the sun, what is wrong with that? Cooking eggs and frying ham, feeling that it’s all a sham. Sing a lovely, mournful song, life is good, yet deeply wrong. Thinking of his loving gaze, wishing for his touch, knowing that he’s gone, and so he’ll stay. Praying for a miracle, though they may not do such as bringing back the loved ones passed away.

Well, this is a nice, cheery poem. A nice "celebration" for acceptance... Many thanks to those who wished me a happy birthday, and such. Lost in the Mind Darkness swirls overhead Lost alone in lands long dead I wander with eyes that have long since gone blind in the twisted dark ruins, the halls of my mind. In mem’ries I thought I had lost long ago, I find I’m engulfed once again. The images strike me, and drag me although I may fight with the strength of three men. Horrors gather all around, Springing up from underground. Terrors strike, stabbing me deep in my heart, Until, losing sanity, I fall apart. And now that the torment has taken it’s toll, I continue to wander, a lost, tortured soul.

Heh... I can sort of sympathize. I don't often get left out like that, for some reason, but it's really frustrating to have just sit back and watch from the sidelines as friends ruin their lives... And all I can do, really, is be the shoulder to cry on and the listening ear... I'm done now. A good poem/rant.

*laughs* I'm flattered to have been included. Amazing how you made it all flow together. It seemed like it was all one poem, save for the slight differences in style. I think we've found the Dr. Frankenstein of Poetry.