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TeaEarlGreyHot
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09 Apr 2012, 4:09 pm

Paranoia

I smile through the sadness
Never talk of the pain
Get knocked down
Pick myself up again

I push
Shove
Claw my way
Through the crowd
An endless sea of vultures
Just waiting for their chance
A crack in the armor
A way in
To corrupt
Cause decay from within

I keep my sanity
Under lock and key
As I scratch away
Suppressing the urge to scream


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Joker
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10 Apr 2012, 1:54 am

TeaEarlGreyHot wrote:
Paranoia

I smile through the sadness
Never talk of the pain
Get knocked down
Pick myself up again

I push
Shove
Claw my way
Through the crowd
An endless sea of vultures
Just waiting for their chance
A crack in the armor
A way in
To corrupt
Cause decay from within

I keep my sanity
Under lock and key
As I scratch away
Suppressing the urge to scream


Wondabar I loved this poem.



TeaEarlGreyHot
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11 Apr 2012, 5:02 am

Thank you, Joker.


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Grebels
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15 Apr 2012, 12:34 pm

TeaEarlGreyHot wrote:
Paranoia

I smile through the sadness
Never talk of the pain
Get knocked down
Pick myself up again

I push
Shove
Claw my way
Through the crowd
An endless sea of vultures
Just waiting for their chance
A crack in the armor
A way in
To corrupt
Cause decay from within

I keep my sanity
Under lock and key
As I scratch away
Suppressing the urge to scream


This is how I have felt for so much of my life. Thanks for sharing.



TeaEarlGreyHot
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16 Apr 2012, 2:28 am

You're welcome.


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scubasteve
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17 Apr 2012, 8:28 pm

I've never posted anything I wrote because it's all very personal. But there are a lot of very gifted writers on this thread and I would like to ask your honest opinion. If it sucks, please tell me it sucks... you are probably the only people I can trust to do so. Thank you.

Glare

I've only seen the sun today
For a moment as she slipped away

In lights like these I only see
The darkest of my memories
Birds and bees and falling leaves
Vultures circling willow trees

The taunting warmth of moments past
In masochistic photographs
Masking actions that will last
And wait inside for birds to crash

In darkened rooms, on lighted screens
A glare of life and unlived dreams
Rends my shield of spectral beams
Replaying our deleted scenes

A rock of feather in my bed
Awakens angels in my head
Recalling all my shadow said
Until white noise replaces red

If I could hold the sun someday
My frozen memories would melt away



DominictheStampede
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18 Apr 2012, 6:36 am

That was brilliant scubasteve! I loved "the taunting warmth". I think that's a really nice phrase. I also liked "Awakens angels in my head" and I really liked the last two lines, they were my favourites.



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18 Apr 2012, 6:43 am

This is really good Steve. I know opening up to share is risky, but I think it can be good for us as well.



BrandonSP
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18 Apr 2012, 2:59 pm

Opening scene from my latest fantasy story, The Elephant's Scimitar:

Quote:
Looming from a cliff's face was the columned facade of a prehistoric tomb. Or was it a temple, a palace, or even a treasury? All the legends could agree on was that it had been carved from the rock uncounted centuries ago, back when grassland covered the whole of Shem. That much was obvious, as no civilization could thrive in the now lifeless canyon where Hazaiah and Sekhmetka had found this place.

An icy evening wind howled through the ravine and brushed against Sekhmetka’s ebony skin. Maybe this place was haunted after all. She pulled out her spear from under her leopard-skin sash.

Hazaiah gently patted her back with a smile across his olive-brown face. “I told you, don’t be so superstitious,” he said. “Nothing bigger than a lizard has lived out here for Eloh knows how many years!”

“And exactly how do you know that?” Sekhmetka said.

Hazaiah glared at her. “And I also keep telling you that in my culture, women don’t talk back to their husbands. Now stay calm and we shouldn’t have any trouble.”

Sekhmetka nodded. It continued to appall her Cushite sensibilities how little Shemitish men regarded women’s opinions, but she’d had that argument with him countless times before. Besides, at least Hazaiah would always bring her along with him on his adventures, which would have been unthinkable to most of his race.

A string of writing in an unintelligible cursive script glowed above the façade’s entrance. A voice growled in a language that sounded vaguely like Shemitish, yet no one other than Hazaiah and Sekhmetka was around. Sekhmetka’s heart drummed.

“Whose voice was that?” she asked.

“What voice?” Hazaiah said. His face had paled slightly.

Sekhmetka shook her head and groaned. “Please don’t play ignorant with me. You heard it too.”

“Even if I had, we’ve never been deterred by such warnings before. Now, for the second and final time, stay calm!”

They passed through the entrance. Their makeshift torches revealed a corridor going deep into the rock. The corridor was unadorned for most of its length, but it ended with a second doorway guarded by two life-sized tiger statues. The yellow gemstones that filled the stone cats’ eye sockets still glinted, as did ivory fangs that had kept their sharpness over the ages.

Another growl, this one clearly inhuman, echoed off the corridor’s walls. Sekhmetka gasped and jerked back.

“For Eloh’s sake, they’re only statues,” Hazaiah said. His torch nonetheless quaked like Sekhmetka’s.

The doorway led to a chamber filled with glittering mountains of gold and gemstones. The gold had been shaped into all forms: coins, cups, necklaces, and idols to extinct gods were only a few examples. Sekhmetka gasped. Even her father, the Pharaoh of Cush, would envy such wealth.

The statue of an elephant-headed god with six arms and one broken tusk towered as high as a real elephant against the chamber’s opposite wall. One of its pairs of hands cupped together to support a glowing scimitar. Cursive letters written in the same script as those on the treasury’s façade were inscribed into the blade.

“The Elephant’s Scimitar,” Hazaiah said. “The stories were true! I would have never thought to find it in here of all places though.” He reached for the weapon, but Sekhmetka yanked him away.

“You don’t know what in the world that thing could do,” she said. “Leave it here! You already carry a sword around anyway.”

“As a matter of fact, I do know what it’s supposed to do. They say that it can cut through any substance known to humankind as if it were air, or something like that. Not that I believe them, but I could always use a better sword.”

Hazaiah pulled himself away from Sekhmetka and touched the scimitar’s hilt.

A feline roar shattered the silence. Stone cracked and crashed against the ground.

Two tigers ran into the chamber. These were not statues anymore but real, living animals.

Hazaiah pulled out his own scimitar and Sekhmetka her spear. One tiger sprang for her. She bolted aside and thrust her weapon at the cat. It swatted the spear out of her hands with its paw. Sekhmetka dove for the spear but the tiger pounced onto her and pinned her down. The beast roared and stepped off her after Hazaiah slashed its neck.

Sekhmetka bounced back up. She lunged for the second tiger. The feline rammed into her, knocking her onto her back. She pressed her spear’s shaft upward against the tiger until she pushed it off. She thrust again at the tiger, but it slashed above her breasts. After recoiling with a yelp, Sekhmetka swiped her spear sideways. Its head scraped across the cat’s muzzle. The tiger roared again and covered its injured snout. Sekhmetka jabbed her spear a third time. This time she was able to puncture the animal’s braincase, killing it.

Hazaiah screamed. The first tiger had him pinned against a pile of gold. Sekhmetka hurled the spear at the cat, but the weapon only grazed its flank. The tiger growled, twirled around, and sprinted for her. Sekhmetka grabbed the scimitar off the elephant-headed idol and swung it for the beast’s neck.

It felt like it was cutting through naked air, yet the scimitar’s blade ended up blood-soaked and the tiger headless. Steam, or perhaps smoke, danced upward from the cat’s stumped neck.

“It seems the claims about this sword were true after all,” Sekhmetka said. She returned the scimitar to the idol’s hands. “It really can cut through anything as if it were air.”

“Then why are you returning it?” Hazaiah asked. “We could certainly use such a blessed weapon.”

Sekhmetka shook her head. “We need to leave it here. Who knows what sort of people might wish to take it from us?”

“No one will take it from us as long as I live, trust me.” Hazaiah removed the scimitar and slid it into his scabbard.

When they exited the ancient treasury, another disembodied voice cackled evilly and reverberated around the canyon.


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scubasteve
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18 Apr 2012, 5:06 pm

^ Interesting story, Brandon. Sounds like you've put a lot of work into it. I'm sure it will be a good read.

Thank you guys for your comments. I haven't written anything in years, but I'm thinking I'd like to change that... Here's one more I had saved:

Swimmer

The summer sky hides brighter nights
Beneath a sea of perfect sand
Who would stand beneath their feet?
Who could refuse beckoning hands?

We held on and were bound to stay
Where orange slowly fades to grey
An isle of faces, bright and old
On cardboard oceans, dark and cold

Behold! A refugee yet swims
Through indignation, on her whims

Splitting seas with mental might
A guiding light that only shines
Within her mind where none can see
The flame that burns with injury

The jealous desert infects her wounds
Dust storms pull her space through time
But she's lost in a cloud of tunes
Where storms just lend a gritty shine

Their thunder strikes ungrounded knees
To bring to earth a portrait daughter
She left her stigma with the bees
When sand tide rose, she swam for water



puddingmouse
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28 Apr 2012, 3:02 am

turning off a blaze
to see starlight in the heart
to see dim nothings
between jolts of light
that is what gives me hope

hope is the cool air
on a tired limb
the taste of tears
so comforting
the sound of your own breath
filling the world
and how hard it is
to describe a kiss

the idea that life is a thing
even a nothing
is hope

ideas burn
in their ash
is hope

dim and substantial
there it is


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Albirea
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28 Apr 2012, 12:32 pm

(Some of you may have read this poem of mine before on my blog, but here it is again.)

Ice, Misunderstood

How do I love?
The emotions stuck within me!
How do I speak?
You make me at a loss for words, for everything
I can imagine, but my tongue is a curse.
How do I apologize?
You accuse me, with those narrow icy eyes
You stare, but I shy away, inexplicable!
Those three words, they're overused -
How else do I love you?
I plead, but you turn your back, cold;
Silent as a mirror.


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superboyian
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01 May 2012, 10:23 am

Dreams

I had a dream one day which is far more than what I can see,
I want this to come to reality which will satisfy me,
But how is this going be possible when it feels like it’s impossible,
Fighting and fighting and fighting to try to make it possible,
How I’m I going to jump when I see a massive gap,
Then this guy in white gives a big massive clap,
He was just so bright that he gave me a huge fright,
But the words that came out his mouth just sounded so right,
He told me that I should come to make this dream come true,
But I was so afraid that I was hiding from his view,

But I ran because I was just so afraid,

So I ended up trying the things that would end up destroying me,
The people around me didn’t want to be with me,
I was crying for help but there was nobody that will rescue me,
But the things of the past just kept on eating me,
The ones who you thought you love were always there for you,
But it seems that they there to take a huge advantage of you,
The things from this world make it so hard for me to see,
The things from this world make it hard for me to speak,
Then I remember the guy in white that was there just for me,
But why did I ran if he was there to help me,

But I ran because I was just so afraid,

I came back to this place where I saw the man in white,
But he was nowhere to be seen because I couldn’t see the light,
So I cried and cried and cried and I screamed out his name,
Jesus, Jesus, Jesus and he appeared when he heard his name,
I surrendered when I realised I could not do this on my own,
He still welcomed me and he told me that I’m not on my own,
At times he felt he was far and I couldn’t understand why,
He told me he was inside of me so why should I be shy,
Because I was afraid that I couldn’t reach my great biggest dream,
But really I could do it and reach the end of the biggest stream,

I walked, walked and walked,
I stumbled, stumbled and stumbled,
I fell, fell and fell,
He lifted me back on high,

I feared, feared and feared,
I cried, cried and cried,
I doubted, doubted and doubted,
He took these feelings away from me,

There I am, my dream has come true,
I never thought that this day would come true,
I thank Jesus Christ for making this dream come true,
All I can say to you that he can make your dreams come true.


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Bloodheart
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01 May 2012, 11:53 am

Introducing Mr. Austin.

It always seemed to be raining.
That's what I remember more about the place, it sounds like the biggest cliché ever used, but it's true. A lot of my memories of the time seem far off like they never happened to me, except maybe in dreams, but the rain stays with me. Tangible and definite, I remember the rain. It was raising that night in early October, as I stepped off the train onto the crowded platform, fighting my way past the sodden horde of people, all of whom seemed to have discarded the simple notion of politeness, if they had ever known it, in the rush to access the warm dry confines of the carriage. I clawed my way past two overweight women in tracksuits, each with horrendously large pushchair and matching screaming infant, and they reciprocated by trying to kneecap me on their way past. I didn't need this. All I wanted was to go home,

I waited until the train pulled out of the station, then sat down on one of the uncomfortable semi-melted yellow plastic seats that lined the station, pulling my bag off my left shoulder and setting it down on the seat beside me. After wrestling with the zip for the best part of a minute I managed to coax it open. A further minutes fumbling in the confined of my black rucksack revealed what I was looking for; my last box of cigarettes, slightly worse for wear after being bounced about amongst the various pens, items of cutlery and god knows what else that seemed to have accumulated in there over the past month. the hardback copy of Watchmen wouldn't have helped either, I suppose.

Of course, I couldn't find my lighter. Chances are I left it at the bar. s**t. I hated having to bum lights off of people, but I didn't think I'd be able to wait the walk home, short as it was. s**t. I stood up and looked around. There were two choices; the old guy in the massive coat and sta-prest trousers sitting down the bottom end of the station, or the gang or boys up over the bridge by the ticket machines. I wouldn't say they looked rough or anything more than mildly unpleasant, but experience has taught me to be cautious of anyone who was content to spend their evenings standing in a gang at the nearest bus stop or train station. As I strode towards the old guy I cracked open the cellophane and pulled out a cancer stick, secreting the rest of the pack in on inside pocket.
"Excuse me, have you got a light?" I asked in my best polite non-threatening voice. When you look like I did back then I found it was best to be really nice to people or they tend to run away, or call the cops. The old guy turned to me and shook his head slowly like he was waiting for something bad to happen, for me to pull out a knife.
"Okay, sorry to bother you" I turned and put the cigarette in my mouth away. I imagined him still watching as I walked away, as if whatever imagined threat was still there for him.

I walked the length of the platform cursing the weight of my bad, the weather and people who had the nerve not to smoke in a city with such a high level of air pollution anyway. Instead of turning left and heading for the house I crossed the bridge towards the congregation of under-age winos above the other platform. Their loud voices faded out as I approached them. Again I used politeness, but this time my reason for doing so was because there were six of them and I wanted to leave with all my limbs.
"Excuse me lads, got a light?" I adjusted the request slightly, so as not to provoke a class-related response from the mob. Call me paranoid, but I had made that mistake once before and ended up in casualty getting my forehead sewn back together. Never say 'please' in Wallsend near a pub at chucking out time.
"Here Mr" said the tallest. I'd have said he had a good few inches of height over me, but was thin. He stuffed a dirty hand into his jacket pocket, and came out with a five-for-a-pound lighter. He sparked up, and I took my cigarette to my mouth and lent in to light it. I thanked the boy and took a long draw, savouring the experience as the smoke tickled the inside of my mouth. Again I turned and walked away, but this time satisfied I stopped briefly to pull my coat tightly around me, and stepped off the station into the now torrential downpour.

It went out. The rain got so heavy that it put the damn cigarette out. In the absence of lighter, matches, tinderbox, two sticks or a thunderbolt from god I was planning to chain. I swore under my breath, and stopped under an overhanging tree outside the churchyard. It was dark already, and the place looked scary in the same way that Hammer Horror scared me as a kid, only this was with better visual quality, like the difference between BBC1 and CubanTV. I stayed put for a minute or two just staring at the Neo-Gothic church and it's attendant collection of tombstones, ranging from small to large, from black marble obelisks to twee little white stone teddy-bears with massive manically happy eyes. What's wrong with this picture? A society based upon veneration and respect for the dead, except for the young who get patronised even in death. Do the under-fives get to travel the River Styx for free, or even half fare?

I shivered as a gust of wind blew through me, simultaneously knocking a massive drop of icy rainwater off a leaf and right down the back of my neck. If I wasn't so cultured and polite I would have sworn. Ah what the hell.
"f**k!" I exclaimed to no-one in particular, but the elderly lady I hadn't seen walking on the opposite pavement contrived to look at me like I'd just shot her dog. I thought I'd better move on. I gathered my coat around me once more and trudged on into the dusk.

Five minutes later I was unlocking my front door and stepping into the house I'd been calling 'home' for the past two years...or sometimes 'fuckpig or 'house of ass' depending on my mood or how many times the central heating had packed-up that week. I stood there creating a small puddle on the doormat for a moment, and then took off my coat. I discarded it in a corner as I kicked off my shoes and slowly climbed the stairs, removing my drenched silk shirt and sodden jeans. Grabbing a towel from the bathroom I attempted to dry myself off as I headed off to what the landlord had somewhat optimistically called the 'master bedroom'. Unhooking my dressing gown from the back of the door I stalked across the room to the big 1970's TV I had inherited from my grandmother, turned on the news, and flopped back into the dirty beige recliner I had rescued from a bonfire in 1998 and never cleaned. I didn't bother with the light these days. I generally found my way around the room okay in the dark, caused problems when house guests came over though.

After ten minutes of Arab-Israeli conflict, US presidential elections and Nationalist tendencies dressed up as sport, I remembered myself. Hauling my unwilling frame from out the chair I crossed to the liquor cabinet and poured myself a glass of sherry. Next I pulled the lid off the tub of fish food sprinkling a few flakes into the bowl housing my pets; two bog-standard nothing-special goldfish called Houseplant and Richie Mills. I say nothing special, but sometimes you need to talk to someone who won't give you stupid advice, and these guys fitted the bill perfectly.

I knocked back the glass of sherry, slammed the empty glass down on the cabinet and took the bottle back to my chair, taking a detour to change the channel on the TV. I settled for some unnamed action film, the kind where the script would fit on the back of a postcard and be just as flimsy, but it's made up for the sheer stupidity and cheesiness of the whole thing. I leaned back heavily on the chair, swigging from the heavy green bottle, and soon I drifted into a heavy sleep, numbed by the sound of big explosions and all the time cursing the name of Marco Kumiai.

Literary cliché number two; I was woken god knows how much later by the sound of the phone ringing downstairs. Blearily I righted myself, climbed out of the chair and stumbled out of the door heading for the stairs, in fact almost going head first down those stairs. I picked up the receiver and said "Ackk?" I took the handset away from my mouth while I came up with a truly Olympic hacking fit, desperately trying to dislodge whatever it was in my throat. When it came out it was an interesting luminous shade of green. I tried again
"Hello?" said an anxious voice on the other end of the line. I tried to answer
"Yes?" I inquired in a voice that wouldn't have sounded out of place coming from one of Sergio Leone's better characters. Right then I could have had my own voice removed and badly dubbed back in a foreign language and I wouldn't have noticed. It would however have scared whoever it was on the other end of the line.
"Mr. Autstin?" said Nervous Voice Man. The voice set off warning bells, I realised who it was; the landlord.
"Hi there!" I replied with as much false cheese as I could, which isn't a lot when you've just woken up.
"How can I help you Mr. Crow?"
"Have you forgotten, Mr. Austin? Rent is due" said the phone. I noticed how assured, positively smug, the bastard had suddenly become now that he had the upper-hand, the control over the situation.
It was hardly surprising. I'd been consistently late with the rent for about a year and six months now. We both knew it. Ever since my parents had pulled the plug on my last little adventure and stopped funding me, it had become difficult to keep up to date with the rent, but I always came good with the rent in the end. So I mumbled some lame excuse down the wire, which seemed to temporarily sate his desire for my non-existent money. I clumsily put the phone down and tried to summon up the energy to get back up stairs. I managed to get half way up the wooden hill before deciding to go to the kitchen and get some kind of rudimentary snack. This time I cursed myself, like I tend to when I get half way to somewhere before realising I was about to do something completely different. I've never found out whether anyone else does this, but I did it before and I still do it now, it's nice to know some things don't change.


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superboyian
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02 May 2012, 5:14 pm

My Other Half

All these years I've been waiting for this day,
Someone that I would be happy; up until today,
All these years I've been wondering, who is the one,
Looks like that I've found her, God told me she is the one,
All these years I've been missing a part, the one that becomes one flesh,
She has always been the one that always makes me fresh,
All these years I've been searching but I couldn't find my love,
She showed up by surprise who showed me how to love just like a dove,

I thought she would be like everyone else who has left me because of their lust,
I thought she would be like everyone else who has left me because I wasn't worth a thing,
I thought she would be like everyone else who has left me because I was too different,
I thought she would be like everyone else who has left me because of the money,

But she was different,

She wasn't the type that would be with one and jump to another,
She wasn't the type that thinks I'm worth nothing,
She wasn't the type that would take advantage because I was too different,
She wasn't the type that would love me just because of the money,

But she was different,

I think to myself; why didn't she leave me when I made many mistakes,
Why did she not leave me when I'm not like anybody else,
Why did she not leave me when I'm nothing like a millionaire,
Why did she not leave me when I'm not worth anything,

But she was different,

She knew God, she knew love and she has his heart,
It all makes sense to me now, she really is different,

She loves me and I love her.


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Heidi80
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03 May 2012, 8:58 am

Pretending to be normal

I'm trying
to check everything;
hair (ok)
clothes (slightly smelly)
behavior (don't know yet)
my mind
going from disaster
to disaster:
what if
I say something wrong?
I do something wrong?
I get a panic attac?
my stomach acts up?
I start coughing?
I bump into someone?
I spill something?

I love
going to the theatre
or opera
but hate
the expectations
my mother
always nagging
always finding flaws

so I do my best
to prepare myself
to hide
behind a mask
act right
smile right
be right
pretending
to be
someone else
pretending
to be
normal