Brezzen's Magic Bookshelf.

[lysander]

POETRY:
I, ladies and gentlemen, am poeticism.

Here, I shall present to you, over periods of time, my existence in words. Expect the first few poems later this afternoon.
~~

PROSE:
Also, on the side I've got two stories on the side, which I'd like to turn into FM stories to be told at a later date with one or three of your lovely characters.

The World of Interim:
Long ago, the ancients, those great beings who possessed the power to bind the great isles together into one landmass, consolidated their into one great being. This infinite power rivaled that of the gods; those gods who had created the ancients in their own image. This consolidation of power brought forth a time of utter tranquility for the ancients, but the gods were anxious in having an earthly equal. In both fortune and misfortune the ancients began to squabble amongst each other.
Those two most powerful, Sinister and Dexter, created a cleft in the unity. Tensions mounted as the ancients separated to the northern and southern hemispheres of the world. They claimed their territories and shaped them to their vision. Soon the division became unbearable, and hatred was born. An age of war and destruction began.
Armies of unimaginable proportions battled for centuries, until only Sinister and Dexter were left. They met on the field of battle surrounded by the corpses of companions and foes. In each of their hands they held the strength of nations. They had benefited from the deaths of their own soldiers. No longer did they need unity, as they had taken that power unto themselves.
Their struggle lasted ages, decades, locked in a volcanic combat that tore apart their very earth, creating the islands, the oceans, the storms and earthquakes. Their hatred bore the promise of a fight to the death, and yet with such power neither could truly die. Thus the gods intervened, striking them both dead. Not the death that grants an afterlife, nor the death that grants change. The true death. That which ends.
The gods who had finally taken mercy upon their creation, Interim, knew that even a race as perfect as the ancients could befall the tragedies of hatred. Such power and such hatred could only mean eternal pain. So, unable to remove hatred they made something lesser. They created us. The humans, the dwarves, the elven and orken kind. So that we may not bear such a terrible history no matter our struggles.
This is the legend that tells us of our world my son. It is the legend that explains the northern hemisphere with it's large continents. It is the legend that speaks of how our island, Atla, came to be and how her outlying sister islands the Atlayna fragmented from her. It tells also of the three great wonders of our world. The Crater, the Whirl, and the Tempestuous Divide. The legend even speaks of gleaming treasures and mysterious relics left behind by the ancients... but then, the legends speak of many things.
(Precursor, The Rise, At the Cliffs of the End)


The World of Redcloud:
Good morning, it's surprising to see you awake so soon. I'm just sorry that you had to come to under such unpleasant circumstances. But I'm getting ahead of myself. Welcome! The year is 3063 ANE, and I'm an employee of DexaCo. As you may or may not know, DexaCo is the Biological Research Division of Sunshine Incorporated. You're currently in a department designated for the study and examination of-I'm going to give you a shot; don't worry, you won't feel a thing-individuals exposed to the Red Mist.
Now, you may wonder why I'm telling you all this. Unfortunately, I can't tell you; there's always someone listening in on someone else's conversations, you know. So perhaps you'll just lay calm, and let me continue? Yes, I thought so.
Hmm, your levels are good, but your memory is starting to fog. We'll have to do this quickly- I'm going to tell you the important things that you can't forget. You're going to fall asleep in an hour, and wake up seven years from now. When you wake up you'll be in a strange place. You'll be disoriented and highly mentally unstable. Sunshine Incorporated will be more than just a false clean-energy initiative. They will be the dominant world power. The truth of their highly irradiating methods will be exposed, but by then it will be far too late. The Red Mist will coat the planet, and destroy everything. All living beings will become totally dependent on Sunshine, relying on them completely to supply safe homes, and clothing, and everything.
There isn't much more I can say. I don't know everything, and everything I do know can't be revealed. When you wake, at first you'll only remember this conversation. Other memories will come back to you in fragments.-You're responding remarkably well to the Mist. All systems performing at optimal. No sign of muscle spasm or seizures.- You'll be curious and seeking answers, but don't come looking for me. It'll be a waste of time. I'll already be dead.

Feel free to make comments on either. Any opinions are openly accepted.


OTHER:[/u]

Also, as an added extra, I figured I'd make my services public. I've been told by several trustworthy patrons that can be a good help in the brainstorming process. Some people come up against tough decisions or have to make some sort of ultimatum or another, while others just don't know where to start. Still others have too many options, and don't know what to hack it down to. Essentially the side-service I'm attempting to offer is an Idea-Refinement & Brainstorming Center.
Bring your problems, and I'll provide free consultations for any and all difficulties that you have.

[lysander]

POEMS FOR VAULT:[/u]

6.Candy is dandy.

The stars in our eyes
Form cars on the lights
Of the outer rim.
That atmosphere beyond our breath,
Beyond our touch.

Emaciated correlations,
Can’t implicate abrasions
Upon the hand that won’t let go.
Born too late,
But wishing too hard.

Please don’t leave me behind.
All I ever wanted,
Was just to follow at your side.
Don’t forget that I exist.

And if the great stone god,
A mountain that can’t be stopped,
Decides that I cannot follow;
Let me hold on until I am crushed.

From hand to foot.



2. Bees

Rush busy busy.
No time to get tizzy.
There's work to be done and things you must do.

Write, draw, and scribble.
Your work must be civil.
You must fly higher than you would ever just choose to.

Talk fast and quibble,
Be proud and/or snivel.
You'll take yourself there if you make yourself new.


There's work to be done.
There's work to be done.
No longer can we just sit in the sun.

There's places to go.
There's places to go.
If you work hard enough you'll get there, you know.

You must make your way.
You must make your way.
You must prove your worth at the end of the day.



4. A Night At Java Cat

Here we are, Captain.

The son of the infinite animosity
Is a traitorous inner beast,
Convincing those easily convinced.
Condescension curls like steam from his tight jeans
And from his DC shoes,
He picks pieces of egos inferior to his his own.

Her persona eagerly falls into the treacherous reaches of his words.

He is the enemy, and she is the victim.
Away they walk,
A pair condemned
To obvious End.


They are who struggle,
They are who fight.
To create,
To spread life,
To loose disparate hounds of ideology.
They scream to a deaf crowd,
Assembled only to smile and nod.
A miracle ignored.


The memory of our finest general
We will hold dear to our heart.
He was shot by his own bullet,
By his own gun,
In his own way.
We only hope to see the day when he arises into past self.
Clay, pick up the pen that wrought perfection.


A hand of comfort washes through your mind.


These dynamics appear ruined, dear.
These dynamics are all wrong.

[lysander]

MORE OLD POEMS FOR VAULT:

7. I Read The Odyssey

Scream Godlike Telemachus,
Follow in the footsteps of your father,
So that one day your greatness may compare,
and he will return to your home.

Drink honey-sweet wine,
To ease the heart's sorrow.
Offer thigh-cuts to the gods who hold wide heaven,
and hope that they will bring you home.
For the gods can do anything their heavenly heart desires.

--His words had wings.

Weep Resourceful Odysseus,
Son of Godlike Laertes,
Descendant of Zeus,
Sacker of Troy,
You whom the gods despise,
With more sorrow than any other man.
For you will come home late and alone,
and when you do it won't be your own.


12. Fury

Letting off steam.

Stop victimizing yourself,
and maybe you won't any longer be a victim.

Cast out your self-pity,
and maybe then your life won't be pitiful.

Fix your failings.
You hate those who hate you when
You hated them before they knew
They hated you.

You're whimpering, tearful,
sniveling and fearful.

Justified in crying by
pretending that you're cast out.

Maybe you should choke more on your truth.

Deception led to Armageddon.
Not hate.

Greed, weakness, and self-comfort
Began.


A. Everything Is Enormous

Hypersensitivity overloading,
the vast network of ongoing
reactivity.

Reflexes embedded into thought,
and the thoughts pulled tight
empties thinking.

Limited by the boundaries,
of Every & Nothing Foundries
pouring molten disorientation.

I can't see a tree for the forest,
can't hear a sound for the noise.

-

Simplicity swallowed into complexity.
Specificity consumed by generality.

Everything's so green.
I can't see the emerald,
nor the jade.


C. Ideal Weather

Bloom, grinning granger.
Break earth, bust sod, plow forth.
Burst forth, eager lord of sweat.
It's time
To rebuild the the things you've built a hundred times before.

Unfold, inner seedling.
Stand up, climb high, be proud.
Explode, life unfolding limbs.
It's time
For you to rise and share the sun and air with loving impartiality.

Waken, slumb'ring sun.
Rise high, burn hot, know noon.
Forget, blinding storms of gray.
It's time
Again to realize the greatness of potential and of childish truth.


C. Written For "You"

Indelible curiosity brought,
Childlike animosity wrought,
Enmity that they each sought,

Resolved before it ended.
Finished before it fixed.

[lysander]

Announcements:[/u]

Hmm... The Bookshelf is lonely!

Also said this in the Cbox.

But I am undeterred! Stay the course, I say!


Alas, I have to interrupt the poetic cycle as it currently is. I'm at school, and facebook is unavailable (where I keep all of my old poetry), so I'll have to make something new.

I've made no real progress on either of the storylines, but that's okay. I've got no adoring fans expecting anything from me yet, so I can afford to slack off for now.

But not too much!

On a side note! Looking through my old poetry and the comments thereupon, I've got a few things in mind. Something lighter on adjectives then some of my other poems (antonym: Written for "You"), and as powerful as some of my more Saul Williams-esque poems (homonym: a poem that isn't here yet).


Poetry:[/u]
Off the top of my head, no editing, no revisions. From here to there with as few stops as possible. Title to ending, with only hopes of success to arrive in any intended destination.


*New* Engine Lab

Sccrraaaatch.
A spark, a light
and the infinite abyssal dark
explodes outward into creation.

That one firefly,
sputtering in depressive dim,
is here to help me breathe.

Suck, inhale, release.
"Nope. No good."
"It's okay. Maybe you're just not a smoker."
"I think you're right. I'm destined to be an alcoholic."

Laugh.
"Dammit."
Skrrrriiiitch.
Flicker, flicker.
Like the dancer of a silhouette,
Like the shadow of a star.

---
It's just a short autobiographical (if somewhat fictional) piece. It's essentially the same as an event in my life with a few unimportant alterations to make it reader friendly.


I'll probably do another one before I leave today.

[lysander]

Hmm... So okay. that last poem was less powerful and more personal. Not exactly what I was going for, but it's all the same. Which means I've just got to try again. I'm listening to that great power I aspire to now, The Great Lord & King of Slam, Saul Williams.

*New* What Are These Fingers For?

God!
That great thing above,
beyond!
That monument to human loneliness!
And what good are these fingers that; carelessly; cast off responsibility and shirk their aspirations?

Orion!
Nightly
Above!
You put me to shame!
Never do you quiet, never do you tire. Your ceaseless grasp, and eternal shine. Your light casts me into depressive darkness.
What good are these hands that cannot shine, let alone, nightly?

What is a mind that aspires for greatness good for-
When that mind is also one that abandons consistency,
Determination,
Perseverance,
For such a thing as comfort!

Stars and Planets!
I pray,
Grant me a diamond will.
Gods and Spirits!
I am not hopeless!

--
Afterword: Still not exactly what I was going for, but it's a little more general, and I'm more comfortable with general statements. Today's not a poetry day. Nothing super amazing came out today, but it's some stuff. I hope it's semi-enjoyable.

I think that'll be it for today.

[lysander]

My conscience condones double posting.
I just thought this would be a fun little addition to the repertoire of stuff I'm throwing up.

Music that is inspiring me!
My playlist includes:

• Saul Williams
  
• Muse
  
• Coheed & Cambria
  
• Bloc Party
  
• We Are Scientists
  
• MGMT
  
• Daft Punk, Justice, Simian Mobile Disco, MSTRKRFT, & FIRE4EFKT
  
• Occasionally some Flight of the Conchords
  
• Countless Visual Kei Bands, all of whom are, in essence, the same.

[lysander]

Announcements!:
Yeah, I know, I probably just should let this guy die.

But I refuse. I like it.

My magic bookshelf will survive by some essence, regardless of whether or not people want to make comments. It's time to flood poetry.

Poetry!:[/u]

The Curator[/u]
hold the key
to every door and lock you see.
An enterprise of too-locked eyes,
All waiting just for me.

Every day,

I let exhibits in,
Sit them nice and neat.
And after hearing
All I've said
They'll look anywhere they like
Seeing things
they've never seen.

I'll tell and teach
To speak and seek,
To look loudly and feel alive.


Feelings:[/u]

Not-enough words
describe everything
right now.
Twenty six weapons
of infinity
held at my disposal
But I'm out of ammo.
Every word
is another
wasted breath.
Silence
is
my only
language
now.

I am
Lost in clarity.


For Lack of a Better Title: Blub[/u]

Igenuine candor,
Incongruous splendor,
Is this all that's meant for
This pittance of greatness.

Shock'd to stoic silence.
The words come ill-advised,
Yet like lambs to the lord,
There's naught to do but follow.

Fed battlecries and convenient lies
From that crying instant we
First tasted air, to
the Final breath we drew.
What was there to know beyond the soldier's song?

Twas our virtue alone,
That blessed us,
with this bloodshed.
Our great
Heroic responsibiilty to,
slay the heathens.
So why then does this conquerance taste bitter?

Clad in robes of white,
He stole into the dawn.
Glory was his aim,
The wretched dragon was his prey,
And
Returning with the head,
of a beast slain in it's slumber
The holiest of heroes
Proved no different from his prize.


Inane Mumbling[/u]

As I sit and I write,
In light of my mind,
And in light of the signs that I'm losing my mind,
The times that I find that I feel the most right,
are the times that I find that I feel the least blind.

[lysander]

Prose!:[/u]

Archibald the Brave[/u]

There is a man who sits. Lonely, balding, quiet, he is stoic in his demeanor, hardened by battle and misfortune. He wields a slow strength at his hands, wrapped in gauntlets of bronze. His face is weathered and weary, his eyes; they are hooded and gray.

There is a certain level of an infinitely undefinable something in this man. A something that others subconsciously react to, and a something that he has labored many peaceful hours fighting a war with himself as to it's meaning.

This IT, for that is the only word he can use to call it by, is something whose presence he can sense, who leaves a visible aftermath. But he does not know what it is. A force so powerful that it has caused this gauntfaced man to break with tears, to burst with rage, to endure unscathed through hardship no less than smiling.

This IT that causes him to think that he understands himself and to prove him a liar at every attempt to explain or define. To make his words both true and untrue, to force him to admit that he does not know himself when his convictions, deep rooted, so strongly shout otherwise.

This IT is silent, says nothing, only doing. It is invisible, unattachable, and cannot be understood. No label could correctly define this IT. And yet it is something. Or perhaps is it some sort of happening? No. It is neither, and it is both. To say it simply, and without lie: Whatever it is, IT is and it is not. It is between and it is beyond.

Slowly, Archibald rises from the ground he rests upon, coated in armor. Whether or not he walks among people with his head raised or with it down, they will act how they will, and so he walked head raised. He has no reason to. Ne'er has he slain a dragon, nor saved any despairing damsels.

He has done little to prove his worth or his right to exist, but still he walks head raised. His eyes squint in the sun, and he sweats in the heat, but he does not falter. Before long he spies a young a child, crying.

He walks toward her, and with his shadow engulfing her she ceases to cry. Looking up in wonderment at this awe-striking figure, she smiles. In turn Archibald smiles. His thin cracked lips, colorlessly-sandy blonde hair, deeply rutted face do not agree with the expression, but it is a comforting smile in that very reasoning.

Taking her hand, they walk, both silent.

It is not long before the child departs from him to her mother. He was, after all, assisting the little girl in that very task. Inevitably the mother would be found, and inevitably the girl would leave. Back to her natural state of things, and leaving Archibald back to his.

With a deeply furrowed brow he begins to wander, and he is consumed by his ponderings of IT. Eventually his wanderings will bring him to another quest. This will break his focus yet again, and he will live vigorously with purpose.

Just as there are no measurings for a hero, there is no rest.


Clayborne[/u]

Michael lay upon the soft ground of the hillside, with his arms folded behind his head leisurely. He looked up at the skies. They were big. Empty. Plain. Soft and amorphous like a hundred piles of blue velvet curtains lain on top of each other, obscuring space and stars. The subtle shift in color, the minute difference in blue from here to there. The consistent inconsistencies on a canvas of eternally shifting blue. The sky. A playground for imagination. And the clouds were his muse.

And God overlooked his balcony from up above, lying upon his magnificent blue ceiling with his arms folded behind his head. He was looking upon the earth. It was small, and yet so big. Limitlessly finite, and full enough to spill at every turn and sway. Every glance was the sighting of another stark contrast or logical paradox. It was a patch-work quilt, torn and quilted a hundred times. It was one ant hill superimposed upon another one million times over. A vast array of thriving movement. The electric green of massive forests and plains. The glimmering silver of cities. The tans, the reds, and greens, and blues. Colors inconceivable. Nothing like his home, the infinite sky that would end only when the world ends. Only when the last living thing to look upon the great heavenly expanse ended. And it was all his muse.

[ophelia]

I was kind of blinded by the cliché, I needed to dawn a pair of shades in some sections. But your style and vocab is pretty rockin', if a little impetuous. Slathered with a few too many "sophisticated" words. Don't just pour them on, just use 'em when needed. (Like pepper or electroshock therapy.) And A Night at Java Cat caught my eye.

Though, what I want to see is more of your personal flavor. A little of that West Coast pizazz you like so much. Break out in some free-style with a stupid black bandana over your mouth and some gang signs. XD Your own voice is more important presence in your writing than all this "King James" junk going on.

[Beaver Dude]

There are grammar issues here. I'm not a grammar nazi by any measure of the expression (my grammar's piss-poor, as many others have already noted) but even a cursory inspection reveals a conflation between its and it's, semi-colon mis-use and, umm, words that are just plain missing.

Your prose doesn't feel like it's ignorant of the rules, just a bit rushed. Take your time to fiddle with sentences, wording, structure, style - it can be fun if also occasionally tedious. I wouldn't suggest it as a way to write but I think it's a fair way to edit.

While your diction is impressive it does tend to try and run away with itself as Ophi noted. Simple isn't always better, but it's definitely always safer. If you feel you absolutely must have those poly-syllabic words strung together, you're going to have to take refuge in audacity and make the style uniform. I'm thinking James Joyce when I say this and I never found JJ particularly readable.

I liked the poetry.

I also TOTALLY speed-read through most of your writing so if you think this criticism's a bit un-fair you're within your rights to say and think so.

[lysander]

Reader Response!:[/u]

Heeeeeey! Thank you very much for your reviews! I agree with some stuff, and disagree with others, but yer. There is no perfection for everyone.

Cliche? I haven't gotten that comment before, and I'd like to see where you see it coming from. I haaave gotten the criticism on my constant use of the more smothering adjectives.

To Dei, I'm a nazi for most spelling, but beyond that my fingers usually think of grammar as something to be used and not followed. It's not an argument, but more of an admission of a problem. I don't use semi-colon's appropriately; in that you are right.

To both of you: Is there anything that you particularly liked, or did all of it seem choppy? I'd love a lot more criticism. If anything caught your eye vomit your opinions at me.

[lysander]

Announcements!:[/u]

Well... I'm a terribly irresponsible writer. Not too exceptional. Bleh. Whatever.

Well I've been toying with ideas in the two plot ideas in the very first post (Redcloud specifically), and I've got stuff that I want to get out of my head.

It's a terribly lazy contribution, I know, but at least I'm updating.


Prose Elements!:[/u]
((NOTES CURRENTLY IN PROGRESS, THIS PAGE WILL BE MODIFIED))


Important Concepts[/u]
AU: All of this is taking place on an Alternate Universe Earth. Same geographical structure, very different happenings.

The World & Sunshine: Sunshine was an multi-monopoly that was best known for spear-heading clean energy initiatives. With special generators called RED Generators, they supplied massive amounts of energy with no visible environmental backlash. Now, the world is here. The terms Flora & Fauna are obsolete. The earth is covered in a red fog. All the nutrients have been sucked from the soil. Water requires intense filtration. And Sunshine controls it all.

Red Mist: Radiation produced by RED Generators. It scorches matter on an atomic level, so that simply breathing air particles exposed to Red Mist one hundred years ago will be lethal. It reduced the world to a wasteland in days. Symptoms of exposure include seizure, internal bleeding, organ failure, rapid muscular dystrophy, breakdown of skin tissue, etc.

RED Generators: A cheap and powerful generator that every home and apartment could be equipped with. They were advertised as clean, effective, and user-friendly. Before The Sunshine Takeover 98% of living spaces on the planet had one. But each generator was much more than that. The energy they produced was counter-balanced to an amount of radiation they produced. This radiation, though contained, was capable of killing anyone within a square mile. The generators were remotely operated and could release the radiation at any time. These were used as leverage.

The Sunshine Rise & The Sunshine Takeover: Sunshine Incorporated was everything America could want and look up to. Ethical, powerful, and the best. Stocks were rocketing up with no sign of slowing. We finally had something to brag about again. Sunshine began to extend their reach. Charity work in third-world countries, global outreach programs, monopolization of not only the American market, but the Global economy. Soon Sunshine had their hands wrapped around everything. They choked the world off. People started to defy, but no one could live comfortably and defy Sunshine at the same time.
When government tried to intervene is when the Takeover began. Sunshine made the world aware of it's capabilities: it's ability to flood the world with Red Mist, and pointed to each of the RED Generators. There were scattered revolts. Sunshine abruptly put a stop to them. Facing overwhelming power, the world was silenced. Sunshine proposed their terms for world domination. All people who submitted to the will of Sunshine would be moved to a designated living space, and they would be issued anti-red supplies. With the final phases of their plan complete, Sunshine showered the world in radiation, and turned it to what it is today.

Bioengineering: Cloning, mechanical enhancements, genetic alteration, and so on are all relatively inexpensive and easy to acquire procedures.

Mist Weapons: Weapons of various types that use high concentrations of Red Mist, in addition with a special technology used to control the radiation. They are used almost exclusively by Sunshine, and it's unheard of for a civilian to get a hold of one. They come in multiple styles: Burn, Charge, and Ammo. The burn style is used almost exclusively for sword shapes. It shapes the mist into that of a blade which is then intended to come into direct contact with the enemy. The charge style is the most difficult to understand. Used mostly for large hammers or maces, radiation is charged through the instrument and can cause different effects. Ammo is the easiest to understand. Mist cartridges are sold that, although highly unstable, can reduce a man to mud in minutes.

Experiments: Sunshine Incorporated has not beaten around the bush with experimentation on human test subjects. They love it. Experiments are found in nearly all of their divisions, from food distribution, to research and development, to military armaments, and so on. However, when someone from Sunshine specifies "the experiments", they are referring to a series of human experimentations on the Red Mist.

The Experiments:

Living Conditions: There are two types of living spaces. Metropolars and Boondockers. The names are fairly clear, however, what they imply may not be so. Boondockers live in specially outfitted homes out in the wastes. Metropolars have more normalized lives. They live in massive cities, the size of small countries, all pressed together in towers built skyward. In addition to each home have it's own safety equipment, the entire city is surrounded by a Repulser field. This allows short walks through open air with minimal protection (long enough for you to get to a taxi or elevator with an oxygen mask).

Characters[/u]
"Jack": A man & Experiment - Mark I. An ex Marine, Spec. Ops before going AWOL. DexaCo murdered his family, abducted him, and performed experiments on him for six or seven years. He can breathe the red mist. Dies in a fight with The CEO.

"Trent": An older teenager & head hunter. Abducted from his home two or three years ago, during the early stages of the Sunshine Takeover. He is the adopted son of The CEO, the biological grandson of a DexaCo scientist who worked with the experiments. Enhanced physical speed, healing factor, and counter-tech. Dies in a fight with "Jack".

"The CEO": An elderly gentlemen & business tycoon.

"Volta": A young girl & Experiment - Mark XII.

"Niro": An older teenager & Experiment - Mark VIII.

"Nimo": A man & Experiment - Mark VII.

"Trane": A young man & Experiment - Mark III.

"Sarah": A woman & Experiment - Mark V.

"Bompa": An old man & Experiment - Mark XV.

[Prince Valium]

Jun 10, 2009 14:24:25 GMT -5 @lysander said:

Cliche? I haven't gotten that comment before, and I'd like to see where you see it coming from. I haaave gotten the criticism on my constant use of the more smothering adjectives.

It's mostly the themes and the content, and a little of the "stylized" parts. They rival the intensity of the sun. (Just remember- You asked for it.)

Busy As a Bee- Yes, Bees are busy. No kidding. I think this metaphor has been driven into the ground. XD If you are going to write a poem about activity or stress do not include "bees", and if you are going to write a poem about insects don't use idioms. Stop yourself from beeeing Jerry Seinfeld.

God- Yes, that guy may or may not be up there hanging out. But everyone's tired of: Blah blah blah, meditation, blah blah blah, vast incomprehensibility, analytical psychobabble, blah blah blah, ect. Come up with something fresh and less evangelical. Preachy is not peachy. “God is a Speedboat” “God is a Petunia” “God is That Missing Other Sock” I want the writer's opinion on God, not something sluggish that buckles under the weight of it’s own importance.

Romantic Soul Searching- Half of these poems just depict “inner growth” or “self discovery” or some kind of other Turmoil invisible to the human eye. Which could be cool, except that they seem like random pretentious words strung together in lumps (using “poetry” language). Yay intellectualism or whatever~! but, I have no idea what these poems are actually about. Do you have a concrete idea? XD Seriously. Who is leaving? Who is fighting? Who is crying? Ambiguity sucks.

Big Business is BAAAAD- Ooh, the spooky corporate world has dumped chemicals in the town well again! What ever shall we DO?! Evil capitalism has struck again! Oh come, on.

Your technical skill is awesome though. XD But, as a reader, I want stuff that could you and only you could produce as an original author. Not just some jumbled common influences.

[lysander]

ReaderResponse!:[/u]

@ophi: Hahaha, I asked for it indeed, but me oh my. Think of this less as a series of defenses, and maybe more as just a discussion:

Bees- The poem actually said nothing about bees. =\ In most of my poems, the title is arbitrary. I probably could have come up with a more original title, and probably should have but eh. Bleh. I see what you're saying though.

Mythics- +1 Point for you.

Introversion- Most of the time I don't like mixing poetry and prose. A story-poem just isn't me. Set plot, characters, all of that junk doesn't happen all too often. I like to write about feelings. Some come from my perspective, and sometimes I press my perspective on imaginary circumstances. I write poetry about feelings. It's more general stuff, and I know it's not for everyone, but maybe if you think of a poem and give it your own characters and plot it'll help you identify more? Regardless, you are you. We will not see eye to eye.

Business- =\ You're probably talking about my Redcloud storyline, but I'm not... totally... sure? If you are, that's cool. Just remember I've only put the notes up. I haven't actually written the story yet. : P

But yeah, as I said, we can't always have perfect synthesis, but I'm getting more complaints than ever which means that at least something is happening. Criticism is good. Thank you, sir.

[lysander]

Prose!:[/u]

I Admit
By Henry Stauffer

Chapter One
Henry T. Stauffer was sitting at a desk in the library, using one of the available computers there just as any other day. Just like every day for the past twelve years he dropped in at eleven, wrote until three, took an hour long reading break, and wrote for another two hours until closing. His schedule was never interrupted. Not even hell itself could stop his clockwork rhythm in life.
To the people of the library, he was a noble and gallant man with the saintly virtues of a knight. Anywhere else, his scrawny frame and wiry hair, his birdlike features and gaunt expression would be interpreted as signs of age. But in this library, where the souls of all books converged, he was a god. People would whisper quietly, “I hear that man’s writing a book,” as he passed before them.
That was the nature of things on that Wednesday afternoon, while Henry wrote. Or tried to at least. Over the last three months, writing had been especially difficult. Another man had been to the library on a schedule that perfectly coincided with Henry’s. He was a loathsome fiend belched from the pits of hell to sow the seeds of chaos and disorder. His name was Tom Celery.
Tom was a lighthearted and jovial bum. A generally apathetic and disconcerned man, there was not a cell of ambition or courtesy in his body. Vulgar, roguish, mischievous, rude, juvenile, boisterous, loud, and a bawdy. And those words only began to describe the “depth” of his persona.
And not five minutes after Henry had started writing did Tom barge in. A large bear-like man wearing aviator sunglasses and stinking of destitute poverty sauntered right over to the computer two chairs away from Henry. He had a bushy beard with leftovers of Whoppers and Big Macs clinging to the matted curls.
Henry’s arch-nemesis had arrived.

Chapter Two
The library sat in stoic silence around Tom for a few minutes, but with time things returned to their normal routine, and the flow of life tentatively resumed. Henry’s fingers returned to the keyboard, and expertly typed out a few neat paragraphs before glancing over at Tom with a smug sense of superiority. Tom had just opened up an internet browser, and was proceeding to poke a URL in with his beefy pointer fingers.
Henry felt a brief sense of satisfaction at how inefficient and ineffectual Tom was, although Tom took no notice of this. Instead he hunched, down, squinting at the address bar. His finger moved leisurely to the backspace, removing the address he’d typed in to give it a second try.
“A mistype no doubt. Hah,” thought Henry.
Feeling better, Henry returned to his work. But again, this did not last long. Henry was minding his own writing when he heard Tom inhale deeply. Now, normally, this wouldn’t have bothered him in the slightest, but Tom had a nasal voice and a permanent cold. This meant that every time he breathed in Tom sounded like a walrus in copious amounts of pain.
And the day only got worse. If a few seconds went by without anything eventful taking place it seemed that Tom had no choice but to create some action of his own. Whether it be a horrendous sneeze (without even covering his mouth), obnoxiously picking his nose, or squeaking his shoe loudly against the floor. It seemed that like no matter what Tom did it was the cumulative annoyance of nine thousand and one ten year old boys playing paddle ball. And always he was breathing that miserable sound. Henry couldn’t even take his break in peace. It was constantly interrupted by Tom’s incessant snorting banshee laughter or a volume issue with the videos his computer was playing.
By this time Henry had grown weary of it. True, he did deal with it on an almost daily basis, but there’s only so much a man can take. And even a proud and cultured man like Henry had his breaking points; breaking points which he was quickly reaching.

Chapter Three
As Henry got back from his break, the situation had not improved by much. Since Tom hadn’t left yet, improvement was a rough term, but Henry was very sure in saying that it had not. It may have even gotten worse.
Then, something terrible happened. Tom’s cell phone, a contraption that he had acquired and maintained under god knows what means, went off. And it didn’t just go off. Set on its highest volume with the most obnoxious club rap song imaginable, Tom stopped everything he was doing and began to wiggle. That’s the only way Henry could think to describe what Tom may have called dancing.
Henry’s jaw tightened. He spoke in slow, deliberate tones.
“Are you going to answer that or not?” He inquired venomously.
Tom continued to dance.
“I said, are you going to answer that?” Henry raised his voice, standing up and staring at Tom. Tom seemed to pout before reaching into his sweat pants pocket. As soon as the phone was within reach, Henry snatched it, and launched it across the room.
It shattered against a wall. Henry started shouting.
“Do you realize how much of an ungrateful wretch you are? Are you aware that exactly no one, not a single celled organism, in this entire place is on your side? Look at that! Look at it!” Henry pointed to the remnants of the cell phone. “That’s the proof of how pitiful your life is. And why? Because you are a spoiled and boorish vagabond who deserves nothing more than to die a miserable death out on the street.
“There is a community here. A community made up of people who love to read and write. Do you know how rare that is? Do you even know what you’re doing when you come here, and make that so hard on the people here? You’re a lout! You’re a lazy layabout!”
“I don’ think you know what yer sayin’,” Tom Celery stood up to his full height, “Naw, I s’pose yuh said a lot of mean things ‘bout me, juss now. But I’m willin’ tuh-“
Henry would have none of it.
“No, Sir! I don’t think you know what you’re saying! I don’t think you have any clue! Because I’m not frightened, nor am I terrified of you! You are a ruin, and a human misery!”
“I’ve beaten up-”
“And I care? What you have done in the past is, essentially, ineffectual to me! I don’t care, Sir! Because no matter how belligerent you are, there comes a time when you finally overstay your welcome! That time is now, Tom Celery!”
And with that, the ground beneath them trembled.