Blue eyes.
He turns to Him with a dry gaze,
betrayed by his cross on which
his life was sworn.
For History that day did submit to Truth.
As it had done in ages long past.
“It appears I have lost,”
a profound and futile sigh,
“Though all my battles won with zeal,
they could not compare to the final push.”
A gripping plague of rime,
having stolen his armored one,
fourteen short.
Steel City rise up and claim your prize.
She is yours now.
My sweet Sovereignty.
My sweet Abandon…
(, Fri 24 Feb 2006, 5:11, archived)
so it's a shame that I've been given a gift to make up award-winning (seven times) crap on the spot.
(, Fri 24 Feb 2006, 5:16, archived)
That's why my favorite poet is Keats, out of pity. Hard not to feel bad for someone who slowly drowned in their own secretions.
[Edit]As poetry goes, however, I rather like this. :)
(, Fri 24 Feb 2006, 5:19, archived)
(, Fri 24 Feb 2006, 5:22, archived)
a ww2 history lesson.
You're blowing my mind
(, Fri 24 Feb 2006, 5:23, archived)
Reticence, a faithless gesture turned to stone, as man and flower become as one among the fields of constant dew.
"Do not turn around," spoke the voice of visceral intrigue, and gave light to a path unwandered, "For within the times which speak of blurry eyes do we seek that penultimate treasure of death."
Thy mnemnosyne, a gesture of truth uttered under a stale breath, written as poetry to quell the tides of breathing, angry hordes.
At once we see it, and in it a glorious light. Therein we find what these fields whisper of so softly. Therein we find our humanity, and a childhood of innocent dreams.
Edit: Sorry if it's not that good, I'm a bit tired. =/
(, Fri 24 Feb 2006, 5:28, archived)
Lovely lady in the tub.
Give that soap a thorough rub.
Rolling over with a swoop.
Shitting streams of lentil soup.
(, Fri 24 Feb 2006, 5:40, archived)
If they had them it'd be neat.
Instead of fish fingers,
I could have fish toes.
To eat.
/made up on the spot and it shows blog
(, Fri 24 Feb 2006, 5:12, archived)