dragonqueen

Half empty or half full It makes no difference to the fool Thirsty for some water Or to the wiseman Parched for a drink. "How can we judge our outlook on life By the measure of liquid in a cup? 'Tis pure foolery." So says the wiseman. "I do not see how this cup of water Can tell me my philosphy. I think 'tis you the fool, not I!" So says the fool. Half empty or half full. It makes no difference To the wiseman or the fool.

This poem was actually born out of a desire to use the word 'ne'er' in a poem. I came up with the first line, and carried it around for a while, trying to find a poem to go with it. I kinda like the direction it took. The last stanza's a little off, though. I ne'er thought I'd see The passing of the day When my painted mask Would be torn away. I've worn it for so long, I've forgotten how to feel The wind upon my face The rain upon my cheek. It has become a part of me. Is it truly just a mask Of painted feelings And airbrushed smiles? I have become The mask I wear. Or have I always Been the mask?

I just saw Lost and Found, a Christian rock band, at my church. It was pretty cool. The guys in the band are really funny. The songs have a lot of meaning, and everything was a bit more personal, since there was a smaller crowd. They were taking requests and stuff, and all in all it was a pretty good concert.

You put into words a feeling I've felt many times. Lovely words and expressions. I especially liked the lines

If that was bothering anyone else, I've filled it in now. I prefer a pretty high level of feedback, so I know what to improve on, or what people liked about my work.

These first three are, as the title says, spawned from brief obsessions of mine, which each lasted until I got it down on paper. The first one was with mermaids, the second with faeries. ************ 'Come, come,' she calls. 'Enter my watery halls. Forget everything above And leave behind those you love. Come to the dark and deep, And enter death's mysterious keep. Come, mortal, unto your doom, And snip your thread from Fate's eternal loom. Come, come, come,' she calls. ************* Eeerily enthralling, Softly calling, Darkly sweet, Deadly deceit. ************* I should like to tarry with the good folk, And pay no heed to time. To forget for just a while. Is that such a crime? I'll dance all through the night, And drink away the day. But days to weeks and weeks to months, Soon a year has sped away. But what if I were not to mind The passing of my life? To spend forever with the faeries Would that be such strife? ************* Don't know where to go Where to turn. What to love And what to spurn. Which road to take, Which song to sin. Which choice to make, Which hat to bring. Don't know how to cope, How to deal. Is there hope? Is it real? Someone help me, Help me please. I don't know how to be. Am I you or am I me? ************* Witching hour, witching hour. Spells are brewing in every tower. Lock your doors and windows tight, Until the ending of the night. Witches cackle and cauldrons bubble. Tonight they'll brew heaps of trouble. Hexes, curses, spells and jinxes, What a bunch of devilish minxes. When witching hour's come around, You'll not want to be found. Ungodly power's at it's height. In the twelth hour of the night.

Depression is a part of life. Sometimes there's a reason, and one has feelings like grief, anger, loneliness, etc. that come under the heading of 'depression'. Other times, one is simply enormously depressed. There's no other description for it than depression. Angsty feelings can be a wonderful inspiration for writing. Being simply depressed in general is an indulgence. It's being lazy and instead of doing something to get onesself out of it, sitting around saying "Oh, poor me, I'm so depressed, I have no friends, nobody likes me, oh poor me." It's almost more self pity. When I get that way, I find doing something I enjoy, even just reading a good book, cheers me up. Anyway, didn't mean to offend anyone. If you don't like what I said, just ignore me. Simply my view on depression, I think. To sum it up, depression is a part of life, and I believe one should always take action against it.

When we look back on times, we always perceive them as being happy times, yet we never saw them that way when we were in them. Seems happiness is always in the past or the future, never the present...we're either chasing it, or remembering it, but we never have it... anyway, that's what I thought when I read your poem. I liked it. Made me feel quite nostalgic.

Dragonqueen slips in quietly, and reads the notice out of bored curiousity. She shudders at the title, remebering her own torturous girlscout days. Her eyes go big when she spots her name. Reading it several times over, she can hardly believe it. Wow...thanks bunches! I never really thought I would get promoted... Dragonqueen leaves as quietly as she came in, but this time with a big smile on her face.

Well, winter break is over, and we're back at school, which I absolutely loathe, not so much as the learning, but the people in it. Back to the freak fest. Another mindless day In the wyvern's nest. Goths, preps and punks, Paraded before my eyes, Sunk in a routine funk. Nothing's ever new, Nothing's ever different. Everything's taken on a grayish hue. I've grown to hate them, Day by boring day. Is it this from which my loneliness stems? I believe I might go insane If I must stay here. Is this to be my bane?

Nicely done. Very descriptive. I particularly liked I hear the hush of people staring.

That really struck home. My sister hates me because I seem perfect to her. It's kind of ironic. Nice job expressing everything. I think it's okay the sentences are twisted around a bit. I do that sometimes. I think maybe if this was changed to but if I wasn't, I'd be guilty in every other way. But that's just me.

Denial. Hey, That's A river In Egypt Isn't it? What? No? It isn't? What Do You mean What's My Problem? I Don't Have Any Problems. I Much prefer To live In Denial Of Everything. What? No, Dude, Its not A river In Egypt.

Your writing immediatly struck me as being different. Not in a bad way, just different. More layers, I think, and for me, at the edge of my understanding. Hidden meanings. Nice start.

Expression of depression, Rhyming in sweet sorrow. Writing in crimson ink, Tainting words with tears. I'm fairly pleased with this. The first line just came. The last two were a little harder. I'm still not quite satsified with the last one. I think that tears and depression kind of improve our literature. Thus maybe a better word than tainting should be used, but I can't think of one.

The rythym of the first two stanzas is perfect, but in the third I think it gets a bit off in Other than that, though, this is very good. It does sound a bit like Shel Silverstein.

With quick, nimble fingers she plaited her thick red hair. Wrapping the heavy braid around her head, she secured it with a golden brooch. Snatching up her helmet, she shoved it onto her head, buckling the leather strap as she strode out of the room. He scanned the soldiers filling the hall for a head of bright auburn hair, but, to his relief, found none. It seemed for once she had shown some sense, and fled with the rest of the women and children. He let out a sigh of relief, but caught his breath as he saw a figure emerge from a room. No! Please, he begged silently, please don’t let it be she! To his monstrous dismay, he saw the face beneath the helmet was feminine. She saw, out of the corner of her eye, him, pushing through the ranks to reach her. His lips mouthed words, but she turned her head away. She would not be dissuaded. As she stood, resolute, the army began to stir. They marched through the halls, and as she moved, she heard his voice calling to her. “NO! NOOO! YOU WILL DIE! DO NOT DO THIS!” She ignored it, tears starting in her eyes. Death is not in my vocabulary, she thought grimly, and I must fight for my people. The army began to move, and he fought desperately to reach her, hold her back, anything to stop her from going to certain death. Damn her honor! Her head turned, and for a brief moment, their eyes locked, but she closed her eyes and turned away. He thought he glimpsed the glimmer of tears in her eyes. She marched with the army, and disappeared from his sight. He ceased his desperate struggle, collapsing in futile tears against a wall. She marched in step, watching for any sign of those they had come to fight. They entered the lower ranks of the city, and spotted the invaders. “There they are!” someone cried. The soldiers stopped their advance for a moment, and then, as one, charged forward, screaming battle cries. She ran with them, hefting her axe. “For my people! For glory! For hope!” she roared, her voice lost amongst the multitude of others. The wave met their foes with a great clashing. The battle had begun. All that remained to be seen was who would occupy the city when all was done and said. He heard clanking and clinking of chainmail and the last of the foot soldiers trotted past him. Stirring himself to gloomy action, he followed, hoping against all odds that she would survive. Emerging into the daylight, he saw her. She swung her battleaxe with deadly accuracy, a whirlwind of movement. Again and again, he saw her take heavy blows upon her gleaming shield, and felt his heart stop and start again with each one. But every time he tried to go to her assist, a body was there to thwart him. Heedless of his wounds, thinking only of her, he hacked and hewed a path through his obstructions. It was when he had almost reached her that he saw the coat of arms upon her shield. It was the purple and white of Yitre. Yitre his own house. Tears welled up in his eyes, spilling down his cheeks as he fought. On her last day, she had given her heart to him. For every enemy soldier they chopped down, two more filled its place. They were fighting a loosing battle, and she knew it. But she pushed this thought out of her mind, utterly determined to take some down with her. As she thought this, she let out a piercing yell and brought her axe down on the helmet charging at her. From behind, though, someone stabbed a sword deep into a chink in her armor. She fell forward, her face blank. He saw her fall, and screamed a cry of despair. “NOOOOOO!” Leaping over fallen foes, he fell to her side, and rolled the body over. She was dead. Not a flutter of life remained. He held her corpse tight and rocked back and forth. They were an island in the midst of the fight, of grief and pain. She took no notice of her mortal death, spirit fleeing her dieing body even as it fell. She fought on, a mere outline of herself. But she began to strengthen, and her armor paled to ivory. Wings sprouted from her back, and a shining circle settled on her brow. An angel of God, she fought on, invincible. Truly, the word death was not in her vocabulary. Something made him look up from his devastation. His jaw dropped in awe when he saw the shining white angel. Her hair was autumn red, and he knew it was she. Tears once again streamed down his face, but tears of joy, this time. Filled with renewed energy and hope, he fought valiantly beside her. Slowly, they turned the tide, and drove out the invaders. Dusk came, and finally, the last one was slain. A victory cheer went up, and comrades embraced each other, weeping with joy. She looked at him, and wrapped her ghostly arms about him. She held him tightly for a moment, crying silently, and then withdrew, ascending towards the heavens with powerful beats of her newfound wings. “I will always be here, beside you in battle,” she whispered tearfully. He embraced her closely, feathers of her wings soft and pure beneath his hands. Regretfully, he drew back, and watched her depart. God, she was beautiful. If anyone was meant to have wings, it was she, he thought. He heard her whisper as she left, and knew this was not an ending, but a beginning.

Personally, I love color in general, but each one in certain contexts, like I detest plain blue, but it is wonderful when mixed with purple in green, or used as a contrast to red. Certain favorite color combinations: purple green and gold, they're mardi gras colors. purple, green, and blue, because they're the cooler colors. mysterious and icy. red, orange and yellow, because they're the warmer colors. passionate and lively and joyful. red and black, because they symbolize so much. This question, to my mind, is almost impossible to answer in one post. I could write an essay on my particular favorite qualities of each color. Still, over all, I love the cooler colors best, because they are mysterious and dark and passionate in their own way.

Your style is wonderful. It seems to fit right in with the great poets of history. I love the language-- it has a bit of an archaic tinge. Seems like you should have been born in the Middle Ages?

I've gone, I've gone, I've gone at last. Shattered like a pane of glass. I can take the hits no longer; There's nothing left to make me stronger. What were they thinking when they said Those words that cut and tore and bled? No one stands by my side. No one cares about all the tears I've cried. I just can't take it anymore. And so the angels I implore. Take me from this dark, hurting place And let the light now me embrace.

Nice rythym. One rarely sees poems portraying the night in a favorable light.

She walks in triumph. The day has been won, She has cut down the devil's spawn. But her victory is bittersweet. For but a few walk beside her And many friends do not stir. The field is soaked in crimson blood. Comrades' and foes' alike, Felled by a fatal strike. Angels from the heavens come. They place the crown upon her brow; With a place in heaven she is endowed. She raises her face to the heavens. Crowned is she in victory and in sadness, In triumph and in madness.

Very well-written. Nice how you made it clear Cara's view of Christina was colored by her own anger. You obviously know a lot about the orchestra. Do you play violin yourself?

Inspired by a jazz song of the same title. I actually made up a nifty little tune for this on the piano, but since I can't post that here, just make up your own. How high is the moon? Will we get there sometime soon? Who's waiting on the moon? Who's gonna kiss me 'til I swoon On the face of the moon? Oh, how high is the moon? Who's waiting on the moon? It's higher than you or I can say, And I'm gonna get there someday! 'Cause my love is waiting on the moon, And we'll dance together on the moon, And he'll kiss me 'til I swoon On the face of the moon. My love and I will dance forever together On the face of the moon.

I tend to get sick of all the people and noise in the world and wish I was all alone in a marble palace...anyway, this is a poem reflecting that. I’m closing the door on the world Turning my face away. I don’t need them anymore. I don’t want to hear what they have to say. They didn’t help me before. They won’t help me now. They don’t understand. I’m taking my final bow. I just want them to go away. I just want to be left alone. Please just let me be In my own lonely home Shutting the door on the world.