Loki Wyrd

This one comes from an inkblot of sorts--it was on the cover of my notebook I was writing in at the time. This is what I saw... The extra eye gives the pumpkin a smile. And though he's rotting, he sprouted an arm Made of stick; with a sleeve much too long, To cover his misgivings: He's growing in all the wrong places; And he's starting to miss pieces That have launched into space. His smile's met the ground, Shifting with his face To something malevolent.

Peredhil: It all depends on the way you look at it. Tasslehoff & sweetnightmare: Thanks for your comments. It always makes me feel all warm and tingly inside to hear from those outside of my head.

That's enough time for even a procrastinator such as myself to manage. I guess you can go ahead and sign me up.

When is V-Day? I hardly ever participate in anything, but I was thinking...maybe this time.

Very dark, I can't even see it.

There's no such thing as stupid questions, just stupid people that ask questions. ;p Unless of course you're hitting the bong too hard... Out of the blue is the best way, it helps to tap into subconscious thought. Which can be a good thing from time to time. Just don't go and get Tangled Up In Blue. ------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- ^^Respectfully going against your request.

On tiptoes, I lean forward. Balanced on the edge of the chair, Reaching to the top shelf. Palm down, gliding through the dust: I know it's up there; Though sight is relegated to my fingertips. Fingers like the limbs of an insect, I now find scuttering with a purpose. But all I pull back is a hand, Covered in dust like the jacket of a long forgotten book. My head fills with a sneeze, My mouth with a bitter taste; So I leave my perch, in favor of despair.

A gross and grisly beard Is worn across your face, Shows your crooked smile, And rustles with warm laughter You seldom show the world; Though I can see it in your eyes That you would hide behind curtains. May you see it, too: When the chill of your empty home Lights upon your countenance, And the small hours of the night Seem cruel in their length. See it well; And know you're not alone.

I'm a bit of a hypochondriac, but I don't care enough about my health to act on it. My attitude is that if something's really wrong with me, I shouldn't have too long to wait around and worry about it. Does that make me an optimist? I hope not. Once I had an imaginary friend who came down with such an affliction. He was under the delusion that whenever he crossed the road, he would be able to make it safely to the other side without so much as even a cursory glance to the left and the right. And I was always expected to follow right along after him. Well, needless to say, it didn't last. One sunny afternoon he was feeling particularly chipper and he practically floated out into the street. And then...BLAMMO! It's a good thing he wasn't floating, or else when the car hit him, it likely would have launched him into orbit--instead it just ran him down. He was never a big fan of the space program, so I think he would have preferred it that way. I managed to drag him out of the street, and then I buried him in the sandbox. Years later I went to dig him up, but he must have fully decomposed in that time. I think it was the television that did away with him. It leaves so little to the imagination. I'm of the opinion that the imagination is like a muscle, it needs to be worked or it gets soft. I can always imagine that people are talking about me; or they would be, if I ever went out. Instead, I stay in and hear voices yelling my name. So were someone to ask me why I watch television, the answer would inevitably be: "To drown out the voices." Then I'd turn up the volume.

You're very good.

The life you take is your own. You can feel your lip quiver When you taste blood: Only too late Do you decide to live. Survival is paramount To escape the fear That you only thought you'd felt All your life, Until now. When it matters most You can't feel the eyes upon you-- It's always been you, Just imagining What it would be like. It's never as you'd imagine.

Congrats>>>>>>>>

Nice. To me the second stanza sounds almost perfect as I read it. Or maybe even perfect, it's just they always speak of nothing being perfect (or is it no one?).

Yeah, it's mapquest.com. Those maps are typically pretty plain, but if you zoom in enough, it will give you some detail. This is the first thing that came up in my google search: http://www.experiencela.com Maybe that will help some.

Get well soon.

Thank you. But I'm afraid I enjoy feasting on elephant flesh. It's an acquired taste. =)

You now get royalties for every exclamation point used?

Cyril Darkcloud: Thank you for such an in-depth response! I've been meaning forever (assuming forever started with me first seeing your reply) to reply here, if only just to thank you. Don't ask why I put these things off, and end up forgetting; I wouldn't give a satisfactory response. I'll have to mull over some of the things you said, and if/when (hopefully) I get around to rewriting this, I'll definitely take what you've said into consideration. Thanks again, it's great to have people reading who are much more insightful than I.

I really like how these two read. I'd been meaning to reply the first time I saw them, but I have a knack for putting things off. Thanks for sharing~~>

An alarm goes off With no one to wake They're already gone But the noise goes on anyway Someone might hear No silence is wasted Though none has come here There is nobody home today No sound at all So it would seem Eviscerated continuance Lasting, when once but a dream

The woman's voice cracked As she served my drink: "Will there be anything else for you?"-- Worn out from a long day, Or a hard life that always makes it feel that way. I hardly even notice what she says (Though I clearly do) As I wave her away, A simple gesture of my hand Letting me go on.

This was written the day before I had an allergic reaction and was having problems breathing. Luckily it didn't come to this... Deep slumber's harbinger Fills your lungs with a yawn, Fighting for all the air you can get Before your breath is gone. Drowning inside: You reach up for a scream That's strangled back down in your throat. In the end, silence is the only answer That holds any real meaning.

Thank you both for the comments.

A chill touch Lies upon my back, To my bewilderment, And the delight of my imagination. Though when I turn and look, All I see is fake-- Not of this reality at all, Just adding to the thrill Of arranging my perceptions. Always moving, always dancing To a song of my own design. Not a design of my perspective Until it returns to the upright position. In the meantime, I breathe heavy To inflate my disposition That always keeps me thinking Why things go on With the state of entropy Still going strong. My understanding was When you expect the worse, Nothing goes wrong. So let's hurry up already, And just get it on.

This still needs some work. Ok, a lot of work. Help? It wasn't too long ago the white, powdery snow was crunching underneath my boots. I had dressed up warm: long underwear, heavy socks, gloves, boots, my bulky winter coat (with the hood up), blue Detroit Lion's stocking cap, and a bottle of 100 proof Southern Comfort in the inside pocket of my coat. I also brought along a couple mechanical pencils and a pad of paper, with the intention of trying to write. I lived across the road from Lake Huron. With snow on the ground I couldn't tell where the beach ended and the ice began, though it was my intention of finding out. After crossing the road, I waded through a few snowdrifts down a gently sloping hill to the beach. I continued along past the sands and soon onto the harder surface of the ice. Sweeping the snow away with my foot I could see that here, in the shallow water, it was frozen solid to the bottom. It had been a cold winter; the ice would be plenty safe to walk on. Reaching into my coat, I pulled out the bottle of whiskey. I gave it one hard look. I had no love for it now or then, but I'd drink of it regardless. I had a little more than half the bottle left, and I had brought it along just for the sake of finishing it--one of the primary reasons I came out into the cold in the first place--to feel the warmth that it would bring me. I threw back my head, and with a swallow came a rush of liquid, burning my throat as expected. It wasn't that bad so long as I didn't have to smell it, because if I did, then I'd really get a taste of it. Feeling warmer for my troubles, I walked further out onto the lake. The snow became progressively shallower, until it wasn't deep at all. It hugged tightly to the ice; with no protection, the wind blew mercilessly upon anything that would stand up to it. I, unfortunately, was walking directly into it, as opposed to blowing back to shore like a good snowflake. With not as much snow, and therefore less traction, I resorted to dragging my feet. It allowed me more balance, and it was more fun than walking. I wasn't that far removed from my youth that I couldn't remember all the enjoyment I had as a kid sliding around on the ice. A couple hundred yards from shore the structure of the ice began to change. It was where the water and ice met. The ice had mounded up, but was still terribly smooth and slippery--more so than before even. Both the wind and waves had seen to it. I could see where the previous ices' edges had been as well, as there were multiple ridges inward from where the ice now ran. All the ice here had taken on the color of the sand below, from the silty waves washing upon it and freezing. The sandy, hilly appearance of all this outward ice structure couldn't help but recall to me the sand dunes of Lake Michigan. As a kid I used to go sledding on them when they were covered in snow. These were much smaller, of course, but an effective memory jogger nevertheless. After walking along the water's edge for a short while, I decided to sit down on one of the secondary "ice dunes." First I had a drink, and then I got out my pencil and paper. Sometimes writing would come easy to me--thoughts and ideas streaming into me, as would a river into a lake. All I would have to do is channel them onto paper. Other times, as was the case in this instance, I had to stop and think for a short while. But then it came to me, in the form of the obvious. I sloppily scrawled onto my little pad of paper a simple abcb rhyme, lacking even in punctuation: I'm walking on water I can't see the ground My feet are below me Still, I look down The wind is wild Shaping the terrain Relentless as the water Which it tries to tame It was a start. Nothing I was going to get excited about, though. By now my butt was beginning to feel a little cold, so I decided to get up. After putting my pad inside my coat and having a drink, I was ready to be on my way. It felt good to be walking, keeping the blood circulating. I dragged my feet, moving further down shore among the ridges of ice. Once in a while I would spot air pockets within the ice, and I would make a point of going out of the way to step on them: the brittle white outer layer shattering into pieces under my feet. Constantly peering over the edge of the ice, I couldn't help but wonder. Imagining the ice I stood on breaking off from the rest. Floating out into the void of the lake. Visualizing myself all alone on a piece of ice no larger than a Cadillac. Having a bottle to warm me, though I knew that would do me no good; inevitably the chill would catch up with me. I could already feel it. It was no good. I could drift away in my mind, but my body knew better. I would just keep on walking, occasionally stopping to take the chill off. At about a quarter bottle left, I noticed that off in the distance a car on the road had stopped. I'd obviously been spotted and was drawing the driver's attention. He had by now gotten out of his vehicle. "Don't walk out on the ice! It's not safe," he shouted out to me, while waving his hands over his head to make sure I was aware of his presence. "Ok. Will do," I half-heartedly shouted (I was never much of a shouter) in reply. Then I gave him a thumbs-up for emphasis. He seemed satisfied. He got back into his car and drove off. I had been walking long enough anyhow, I figured, taking into consideration my return trip. So I began walking to the beach. The snow's depth, which had been negligible, was once more growing as I neared shore. At first it wasn't even an inch; soon it became two, then four...until it was about as deep as my boots, nigh on ten inches. By then I was back to walking--not dragging my feet any longer--on the sand. Up towards the road, which consequently paralleled the beach, snowdrifts waist-high weren't uncommon. But I was walking along by the ice, at a reasonable depth. The snow would compress under my boot, the sands, however, would shift to adjust to my presence. Walking along the beach I had another drink or two, then I came upon a worn lawn chair that had been left out from summer. Sitting down, I took out my pad of paper once again. This time I knew what I was going to write, I would have no problem finishing what I started. I took my gloves off, in an attempt to write legibly... Everything seems to wash away With the pounding of the waves The voices of those I've left And the choices that I've made They are all left ashore Where the real people play The focus of my attention Before I drifted away Just gazing out into the lake is very serene. If it wasn't for the occasional car I could hear drive by on the road, over the hill, I could almost imagine having the entire beach to myself. No footprints in the snow but those I had left. Following them back in my mind: allowing me a moment of grace. Which was so eloquently snapped by the sound of a semi-truck barreling down the road. It was time to make tracks anyhow--new ones, leading onwards. I had almost reached the part of the beach I had come out on. Leading from the road were my earlier tracks and a path through the high snow. I proceeded to pull the bottle out of my coat, looking at the remaining whiskey--which wasn't such a good idea. There was just about two shots worth, but it seemed a daunting task. It's psychological more than anything. I didn’t think I could do it. Then, as I found myself downing the rest, I knew I couldn't. It seems necessary to know that you can do something, no matter how arbitrary, or there's no point in even trying, because you've already failed. Such was the case here. Wiping my chin, I looked down at the snow. There must have been almost a quarter of the bottle there, unceremoniously strewn about my feet. Coming up it burns more than ever. But, I move on. Stashing the empty bottle in my coat, I head out the way I came in. It's much easier going than coming. It's always been that way for me.