Loki Wyrd

Focused on the foreground, You vaguely notice the background-- Swooning colors spitting out tension, While emitting chaos Upon your precious, tiny plane: Hung upon the wall and put up for display As an act of your persuasion. ------------------------------------------------ Ink sweating from my skin, An estuary, boiling. Printed on tattered parchment, Brittle as the wind Set ablaze with fall colors. Trenchant watercolor scheme Painted by the numbers.

I think I actually prefer the second stanza's rhyme to the first. The first stanza's rhyming works great to start with, and used for a short time, but it would have driven me mad if the whole thing had been that way.

When the voices in your head tend to echo off the walls, you can’t remember— There was a time when I used to listen to thirty different separations slowly dripping in the sink, as concepts meant to slake. Carrying a tune by a chorus lace-tongued with self-satisfaction, chirping little birds in a cage— what you were thinking, even if placed in your ear Is there any way to make italics inside the code box?

A very clever piece, I enjoyed reading it. May I ask why you chose to use italics for the whole thing? If I may, feel free to answer.

Waking dreams are my favorite kind. My only constructive advice is that possible you may want to try to reinvent your second line to become something more fresh and uniquely you. Thanks for sharing.

The sun refracts lustrous green upon her pages As she sits under the shade of a maple tree. Glancing up from her book, she coolly casts Her blue eyes to the bank of the river-- Strewn upon the grass, bodies laid out in the sun turn. Rising to their feet, the undead shriek In a guttural tongue and march Into the murky waters, Sweeping the corpses away.

The Substrate of Humanity Words, in all their complexities and subtleties certain to differentiate, and yet so meticulously interweave; sought by fibers, silently colonizing.

Needing isolation to grow, I find myself rooted to the roof. The sunlight washes over my eyes so that all I see is the blue sky above--portentous expanse holding me upright. I am unafraid to call to you; I only fear your answer.

Charcoal smeared faces stare out from the canvas. Expressionless. Paltry meals taste like their day’s labor, deepening their hunger. There’s no desire. No bounty. Nothing to take away with them.

Yes, please. I was wondering about that part in the middle. My only problem is I rather like the "swathes of shadow." I was thinking with it stuck in the middle I could pass it as being a bit of a break. *thanks*

Why wouldn't you want to post these? Keeping them all to yourself wouldn't be very nice. Just think of us poor, repressed souls without a poem to read.

Sitting in the tall grass, I almost forget where I am--the ponderous state of reverie has proceeded to beyond eye-level. The earth beneath me softer than a lullaby, orchestrated by skeletal fingers bending with the wind, caressing my abrasive thoughts. Open eyes welcome the night, though taken aback by the memories of the dead that persist: extrinsic malady of peripheral vision. Above, the clouds flow like rivers; the moon projects their grace, to be captured in a glass jar held to the sky. Then drinking deeply of it--full to near bursting. The night bends with my motion. And here I am still sitting in the tall grass, where I am prompted to wonder. Where am I?

Thanks to whomever made the request for you to post it, or else I would not have the pleasure of reading it. I really like the way this flows.

Time breathes from my window in increments of sighs: The long-awaited moment of release; partial exuberance; doubt. Nasty little beasties crawl out from my mouth, an exodus into the world; growing in enormity as they impose themselves. Lumbering about, they recall their past and they come for me.

Newspaper clippings litter the floor of his apartment, sticking to the bottom of his wet shoe as he comes in from the rain. Tangible memories soak into the hulking mass of black rubber--left prostrate in the kitchen. Sitting down with the newspaper, he takes care in cutting out a segment.

Congratulations to all promotees. All I've got to offer is English, hope it's enough.

Congratulations. Try not to abuse your power.

Silly is good. Do you wash your colors and whites together? http://www.themightypen.net/public/style_emoticons/default/ohmy.gif No meaningful critiques to add. It's always a good idea to write when you have some time to burn, you never know what will inspire you.

Welcome back.

At the time of posting, it didn't really have a title. As a rule of thumb for me, nonsense in the title signifies that there is no title. Thank you both for the comments. I revised it this afternoon, please let me know if this is better/worse. Any suggestions for how I could make it better are, as always, very much appreciated. I'm still not really sold on it. whispers and fingerprints Reticent whispers and fingerprints Are left upon this wall-- With an eyeball resting in my palm, I seldom grasp at what I stare-- Hearing the words that aren't spoken That try to touch what isn't there. Patient questions asking why Assume another voice-- If swathes of shadow paint a face abhorrent, Can the slightest turn of the head be profound?-- Eliciting the words to describe How to cry without a sound. Contrition weighing on your chest Breathes deeply in the smog-- Your smile withers behind a lie, With the child beyond left for refuse-- Minds expanding in pools of vomit That your body would sooner lose.

Tell me, is it any good when I partake of the kind? Reticent whispers and fingerprints Are left upon this wall-- With an eyeball in my palm I seldom grasp at what I stare-- Hearing the words that aren't spoken That try to touch what isn't there. Patient questions asking why Soon take another tone-- The dark left alone to kill you With its gentle urgings on-- Bring about the words explaining How to cry without a sound. Contrition weighing on your chest Breathes deeply in the fumes-- The sun alludes to false contentions That the moon would soon remove-- Minds expanding in pools of vomit That your body would sooner lose.

You should apologize....how dare you get sick.

Just a number to me In a long, complicated problem That stretches on and on, From the pages of history To the television screen. A dull stare's all I can afford, With the loose change in my pocket Already committed to buying a Pepsi.

A cloud of smoke suddenly appears in the middle of the room, and out from it steps a grinning Loki Wyrd with parchment in hand. Dress not being all that important to him, when the other look his way, they can't seem to make out a whole lot of detail save for a black flowing cape. There is an inchoate quality about him that takes some getting used to. He surveys the ball, then having found what he was looking for, begins his approach. First walking casually, he soon drops the pretense and breaks into a sprint. He dives and lands on Slip 'n Slide (people think, "Was that just there?"); his momentum carries him forward for the length of it and then he splashes into a giant punch bowl. Collecting himself, he climbs out of the punch bowl and shakes like a wet dog. Somehow this seems to completely dry him off. He still holds his parchment in hand, and he scratches his head trying to think of what he was supposed to do with it. First he wrings it out, then places it in his pocket for safekeeping. Digging through his pockets a bit, he proceeds to extract two Big Gulp cups from them. He then fills them up with punch. Loki decides to chug his down, and wipes mouth with the back of his hand. Placing the cup back in his pocket, he puts on his serious, "all business" face. Crossing the room, Loki walks intently towards...(a certainly present, though I must have drawn her out of time)...purple_shadows. When she realizes what this means, she tries to act as if she doesn't see him, but to no avail--he continues on. With a flourish of his cape, he bows deeply, nearly losing balance. After straightening himself, he hands her the remaining Big Gulp and starts digging in his pocket. "This is for you, oh Secretest of Valentines," Loki says nervously as he pulls out the parchment and hands it to her. Without a moment's hesitation, he begins to run away. "He must be painfully shy," purple_shadows thinks to herself as she looks down at the parchment. Scrawled at the top, it reads: I had written a poem I had intended to present earlier, but I somehow managed to misplace it (too many pockets?). If I ever find it, you'll be the first to know...other than me, I would imagine. May this keep you until that time... Adorned in stained glass As fragile as emotion Illumined creation Drawn out of time And set into motion With a baroque fascination That defies the mind To see all your contrasts-- Keeping one guessing Your next line of rhyme This message will self-destruct in 10...9...8...7... (OOC: I don't typically roleplay, I hope I didn't make a mess of it.)

Two 'K's with needless and 'E'-less ire inside Form a church of no rock With walls of words to hide behind Not warding from the wind or trying to resolve The issues subscribed to by the numbers on the clock That's been wound much too tightly; thinking of Raindrops falling on the carpet, mildewed Just about through now And vines crawl and creep along Looking for a drink of sunlight In a room without a window