Tell me finally you'll fall from my ears drift into oblivion so peaceful and silent like hiding beneath the waves farther down than your heart can travel and resting there, relaxed, quiet.
You whisper in my ears all day digging in with your claws so sharp I know you're here to stay, crawling deeper inside each time I try to inch you out and you're resting there, relaxed, screaming
your show tunes through my teeth until finally I try to change the channel since I cannot turn it off. You have to move you have to change. You're driving me insane and resting there, reserved, quiet
is not an option! I'll pull a gun on you before I let you ruin this reprieve. Get out of my head, get away from me! but you're just sleeping there, content like there's nowhere else to be but singing these tunes in my head
And poetry is a formula What is the subject, what does the total equal What are the parts, the x, the y, the z, Focus on your fractons, your syllables, your words, your lines your stanzas. Learn to lay it laterally vertically solves it too fast. You're not there yet.
If I had to call capitalization a part of math, I'd say it's the communitive property. Punctuation, the distributive, sending each part, to it's place. And Multiplication would have to be rhyming, as everything gets so much bigger everything's affected when you rhyme.
Division is a hard one, because it touches so much which is the opposite of multiplication's verbose boisterous nonsense. Perhaps we can quotent like we allusion. Both are easy to miss hard to remember, and require a lot of work on both sides.
Exponents are Refrains. They have to be. How could the repetition of a variable not be the repetition of a line? Of a phrase? Of a quote? Of a ... well, you see Of a t.
I used to think ... this was all nonsense that poetry was just a formula you mash together in order to get a great result that anyone could do it well.
I used to think ... there was an invisible velocoraptor hiding under the end tables in the living room and if I went out at night they'd eat me mountains were always adorned with clouds distance was what made air possible that the earth was a flat sphere, the mountains don't portrude into space because how could they?
I used to think ... I was smart for a while that I was stupid because I couldn't read, or didn't want to. short stories were a nightmare it took everyone an hour to read ten pages
Growing up, I learned these things were lies or misconceptions, or even that some of them were real The earth is a ball if you look at the ozone, and a hilly craggily thing if you look at mountains and at some point in everyone's life, it would have taken an hour to read ten pages. I was just there when I was older.
And short stories are still nightmares because composing them is like a gunshot The only moment that matters is where the barrel was aiming when the hammer dropped The rest is repercussions of physics.
I saw this cherub dancing around the school like a soft feather floating on the wind, drifting aimlessly through the halls
until a loud obnoxious puppy came and decided he needed to see what it tasted like Crunch crunch crunch, oops, can't eat that spit spit spit. She was distraught, to say the least.
I hiccup like an elephant is trying to ram it's way out of my throat bashing into the one way door and falling down with a yelp each time again and again and again until it dies a painful death from internal bleeding and head trauma.
You are the drifting dreams on dreary summer days down to below freezing as the sun dances away hides behind the hideous clouds and hoards it's warmth.
You are my one light in the dark a little flame flickering when the electricity goes out a safety blanket from the ankle grabber below my bed. Hide my head protect my ankles as I race to you.
You are my dream light, my only thought bright, you make me chilly when days are hot, You'll never know, Love how much I adore you, please don't hide it all away.
You startle me awake like cold fish drifting sightlessly at the bottom of the tank a gentle hit to the ground, and you're tail of nose without a twitch to correct this vertigo-inducing sight.
I feel the dread crawling up my bones like frost crawls across the grass, and up the driveway in the shadow's inching. It comes over me too soon, snuck up as a spider does on prey despite the slow monotonous pace and obvious incroching.
The thing is, you're the reciprocal of my waking world as you rest beneath the surface of my thoughts and yet you creep around, crawl closer with each moment eyeing me like a dog who knows I drop my crumbs and all too soon you are upon me wrenching me from pleasant wakefulness
a cool reminder I am mortal as my eyes drift and my head lulls down to restful sleep.
This one goes out to @ShadowVyper for hitting the nail on the head with the creative process for writing articles.
Spoiler! :
Did you know that 12 out of every ... Have you ever heard ... When I was young ... The subject I'll be discussing with you today is ...
and still I'm not off the ground, not a word written, not a subject uttered not a balloon tied off, but this one blade of grass, one idea, simple and concise, has turned into a mountainside of friends
They mill like conspirators ready to overthrow the government of me and my time with boy. Their weapons most supreme are laziness, a sense of dread, and a simple question:
"Wait, did I just write s*** or is that good?" more spill forth like a cut vein and suddenly I'm writing twelve, fifteen articles for one subject, one idea and the third one is never written.
In all these years I never once saw the ticking clock as a bomb to the end as the last moments before I lived
Can you imagine if we saw our death-tally if fate was predetermined like the weather seems to be? All pre planned and controlled by this magical force every nation, every creation, has deemed relevant to life and made a god?
She sits stunned to silence from rampant overconfidence struck down like the Titanic. Murphy is never kind.
The paper's in her hand a column on the ostentatious failure, fractures deep within, the crumbling of the buckling wall, every rivet ripping. Murphy is never kind.
Last year she announced her maiden voyage offered tickets to the show, guarentees she could never keep, not that she knew that, but it's true. There were so many microfractures. Murphy is never kind.
Those decimals rounded up, rounded down, purifications faltered like how much salt, and soon her Titanic is ready to sail. Murphy is never kind
to those who taunt perfection and as she listened to the cranking of the metal wrending free, she remembered Murphy is never kind.
Gender:
Points: 1883
Reviews: 806