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TGB - Things Fall Apart
2 season-cycles ago, North-Western Nandryx, Pre-Tribal Period
Thistles – though Hubris’d never given them much thought, he didn’t mind them as flowers went, unsightly as they were. Prickly, graceless, guileless – there was an unaffected, honest ugliness about them that pleasured him deeply. Not that he gave them so much thought. There was just something admirable one could observe in their erect, thorny stalks and sickly purple, taloned blooms. Their ugliness didn’t deter the bees at least, and they were only brought down by a few of the swamp’s more hard-paletted herbivores – and so were more than a little prodigious. Unsightly survivors, not unlike himself. Of course this never crossed his mind, even when he was midst the very plants – not having a mind for their kinship with him, but for the prey that warrened amidst them.
It was a lazy afternoon. Hubris’s pelt was half-shade
TGB RP - Battle-Lust - Fadri, Mar, and Neytiri Takethra
Mar was pleased to finally be at it again. It had been a long time since he’d last had a chance for a good battle, since the tribe-cats had driven most of the other rather more hostile creatures out of Nandryx. Of course, the tom he would be in combat with was rather a smaller one, smaller than him, at least, and only a miner, hardly more than a youngling – certainly biting off more than he could chew. And pathetically enough, he was only a primary, in the way of tattoo skill – on top of his unimpressive fighting skills, only able to do little more than make a few seeds grow in winter. What Neytiri saw in the little tom was beyond him. The chausie snorted at the thought. This would be no great fight, but fight it would be, at least, and his claws sank into the earth he walked upon at the thought of it.
Now, where was that little twerp? A tree, he said – that was where he said he would be waiting. But there were many tr
I AmI am an artist,
But my handiwork is trampled on.
I am a mother,
But my sons vanished with the dawn.
I am a father,
And my daughters go ripped
Naked in the streets.
I am a father.
I am the mourner of the World,
I am the World’s most abhorred.
I am the weeper of the rain,
Though renewal rises like a rainbow,
Always to follow,
After thousands of years, always to follow.
My smiling face over all penitent,
Though I am returned always with betrayal.
My mercy is raped.
All my friends faithless.
Those taken into the chambers of my soul,
They violate my heart.
I am the one who returns from war,
Only to find his lover lying with another.
I am the one whose children slay themselves at her breast,
I am the one whose brothers always turn their backs,
I am the one whose sons thrust their brother off a bridge,
I am the one whose daughters speak their sister into suicide.
He hanged himself, he who kissed me in deceit.
And I saw my own children incinerate
Roots Unsevered - Denton and RamsesTakethra:
For the fourteenth consecutive time in the last three hundred and eighty seven days, Ramses watched as the convoy finally disappeared into the urban rubble, out of his sight from the hill. Blighted sedge bristled against his face as he caught a final glimpse of the final dog’s tail.
He would not follow this time. His memories were coming in too raw, now.
He blinked, laying his head on his paws; when he shut his eyes, all he saw was the glint of their gasmask screens in the red sunlight. So he did not shut his eyes long.
But even still, blue eyes open, the familiar faces paraded by in his consciousness. They’d walked by, or rather beneath him, not an hour ago, in the moors that led up to the scavenging city; he’d been perched in his usual spot, belly to the ground on a hill, to watch them pass, from the spindly foliage that was cover. It was from here that he always watched; he tried never to miss a convoy, but to be their punctually as it passed, to a
Blood and Fool's GoldYour scar tissue
Shines like veins of fool’s gold
Ever to be mined in pursuit of charlatan peace.
The stripes on your wrist
Are like the tally marks of a prisoner
A stranded soul’s count of days.
Your mind revolts against your heart
Your heart revolts against the world
And you end the quarrel
The noise and fire in your head
With a blade.
You have your flesh cry the tears that will not come.
Breaking urns of ashes against the temple walls.
Those who have ears, let them hear
Past the iron maiden of their hands:
No one’s red can heal their wounds
No one’s red but one’s.
Hunting For Vendetta - Strike and GrisTakethra:
The night was dark, as usual, made no more lucid by the green tint in Gris’s goggles; the scorched and bitter smells of the wasteland came through a veil of purification through her respirator. In short, she was reduced to only three senses in the Wastes, and only two, if you didn’t count the useless sense of taste.
In short, the wastelands sucked. And they sucked even more at night. But that was never a deterrent for her. It wasn’t a deterrent for raiders, so she could not allow herself rest over so minor a handicap. The moon was shining, anyway, and that was light enough for her.
Despite her size and skill, she hardly entered the city in her nightly wanderings. Too many things could go wrong therein, and signs of passage are harder to discern in the star-shadow of the buildings and their trackless black trails.
The places with cold dirt underfoot, brittle sprigs of grass and weeds, and unbroken flow of air; the places with a horizon. That was where
It's NotIt's not the lipstick gloss
that makes a kiss
the warm pulse beating through
It's not their size
but the words they whisper,
It's not the color
nor the length
nor the glint
of her hair
that makes her special
it is her smile
in the falling rain
reflecting the joy
of yet another Spring,
It's not the time
she spent getting beautiful
that makes her so
but in fact
it is the hours
she was besides my bed
when I was sick
and in fact
it is the minutes
I could hear her breathe
in my embrace
AND in fact
it is the seconds
I saw her cry
(out of happiness)
Because she's beautiful.
It's not the clothes,
nor the jewellery,
nor the colored nails,
nor the drawn-in brows,
nor the words she says
to other people,
and neither it is
It is her mind
that entertains my poems,
it is her charm
that paints my cheeks
and averts my shy eyes from her
It is her soul,
that I love.
You Were Not An Aquarium BoySea-glass became your bones,
brine your blood, and seashells
melded into your skin.
You were not quite an ocean
when you said "This is your sign to love me."
My body was like a building;
tall, cold, almost unbreakable.
I was metallic and sharp,
towering over your waters.
I remember taking your hand in mine,
conch and coral shells scrubbing
my skyscraper wrists, and laughing
about how one day you would
submerge every last bit of me.
Your lips, riddled with argonauts,
found my cheek and I cringed
at the coarseness.
You asked if they bothered me
and I finally told you "I
think I love you."
The Origins Of The Ice Queen (Story)
As the Duke slammed into the cold, hard ground, Elsa knew that she had only made the accusations worse. As the fear began to consume her she ran out of the castle's huge, wooden gates, her breath increasing in speed and intensity the whole time. She heard a familiar voice shout after her. "Elsa! Wait!" It was her sister Anna. She was 2 years younger than Elsa and had a beautiful young face with a rosy complexion and had strawberry blonde hair with a white highlight in it. She wore a green and black royal gown with a flowery pattern over the torso. It was perfect for the coronation that had taken place that day. However, it was not so perfect for chasing the new Queen. "Elsa please! Stop!" Anna shouted at her terrified sister. Elsa started to sprint even faster now, she flicked her wrist and created an icy path in an attempt to slow down her ever worrying sister. Anna slipped and fell onto her behind. She let out a small yelp as she sat, stunned for a moment. She looked up and saw Elsa
SIRENNeath the woe of Ulysses' blood and toil,
A sea of heavenly-fury once awaken'd
Her gaze clad in honey’d delirium ablaze
Of such beauteous prize, he shall yield;
For her tongue hath seized mortal desire
And lo the Moons’ glory shall weep in vain!
Journey’s of madness sung with promise;
— A rising tempest hurl'd to Hades reign
Oceanic rhythms untwine love forbidden,
Breaking the mists of insatiable dreams
The Sirens call ebbed like darkness falling;
Her lust bleeding into the mythic abyss ..
His anguish bestow'd the folding tides,
Unto their lips would perish in mystery
Deeper jewel'd the haunting of his soul,
Forsaken to the ink of Orpheus' muse.
And ghostly twilight shone low and pale,
O’er the hum of those ethereal seas
Long wherest his heart shall forever sail
— Arthur Crow © 2014
You Are My AngelYou came to me in my dreams
When I was below the surface looking up at the sunlight filtering through water molecules
Your hand took mine
And you let me pull you down to lay beside me, where we looked up at everything floating by together
You came to me in my dreams
When I thought about how not worth it this life was and convinced me of otherwise
Your heart sat down beside mine
And I realized I felt alive.
FiveWhen the wind blows,
It speaks your name to me.
When I stare at the clouds,
I see your smiling face.
I watch the people passing by,
I see them wave and say hello,
And I think of you all the while.
At night I look up towards the milky way,
And I see the glowing stars,
And my eyes meet your gaze.
The grass beneath my feet
Is soft like you are to me.
The sunshine on my head
Is warm like your heart.
Everything I do
Makes me think of you.
In everything I see,
You're looking back at me.
In all that I say and feel,
I know you'll always love me still.
For you are my everything,
And my everything is you.
SixI am weak
And I am cold.
You are strong
And you are warm.
I am incomplete,
But with you
I'm made whole.
I am dirty
And covered in mud.
You are clean
And your heart is pure.
What is my world
If it doesn't include you?
I am harsh
And I am rough.
You are gentle
And you are smooth.
Without your love
I am nothing,
And life has no worth.
I am broken
And I am bent.
You are right
And you are true.
And this is why I'm loving you:
You're the beautiful one
Between us two.
Sexual TensionI see the lust in his eyes,
a whirlwind of locked desire,
looking for a way to be unleashed
There's hidden intentions in all he does
He's always finding an opportunity
for our skins to touch
I want him to cross the line
I want to feel what he feels
I don't want to be forbidden anymore
I want to be his sweet meal
To feel different hands on my body
would awaken what I've been trying to hide
The fact that I want him to take me
I can no longer deny
I wish I could touch his body,
feel him up with my hands;
rub myself against him,
do his every command
SevenEach day is a new struggle.
Each day is an uphill fight.
I go out, and I wage war against them,
And I lose.
Then I come home,
Beaten and bruised,
They won the last one,
They'll win the next.
They'l win all the rest,
Until I'm finally dead.
But I am a warrior,
And one who will protect,
One who will serve,
Until his dying breath.
And why do I go out each day?
Why dawn my dented armor?
Because I know what I'm fighting for.
And though they may have victory,
And the sparkling spoils of war...
I have you,
And that is enough
To make me get out of bed each day,
To walk out the door,
To draw my sword and fight them,
To come home beaten yet once more;
But then I see your face
And I know I'd go through it all again
If it meant I won your love,
If it meant your affection.
For you I would fight this many battles:
Seven times seven times seven.
The Heart of a StrayEyes, misty jasper,
A misty sun over mire.
Scars as uneven as the broken metro tracks,
But like tracks they lead to somewhere,
Running parallel to a scarred heart.
Paws and a broken tail that bleed,
The scent of sorrow and happiness,
Mingling on a grey pelt, ledger of fear and anger
And fought-for hopes wrote red on skin.
Eyes, the misty jasper, the misty sun,
That look away and back, and away again.
Eyes as round as a wheel, a marble, a life,
Perfect in all its scars and self-smote red,
Perfect in all its imperfections, perfect,
Because two broken parts can make a whole,
Broken parts like cracked ice
Merging in the frost of winter, broken, but
Perfect, and sad and fearful, and hopeful
And finding peace, finally finding peace.
A Bloody, Stupid Miracle The day we’d cured the human condition was the day I put a bullet through my head and didn’t die. It was also the day I realized how scared I actually was of death, and after hours of muscle ache from holding that gauze against my open skull, after the wound closed and everything went back to normal, I had myself a good old-fashioned brainstorm. How ironic.
But when summer came, everything had fallen to shit. The air scorched my skin and parched my tongue every time I took a breath. The sun glared down on a rapidly-collapsing world, full of the undying bastard children of cruelty and misfortune. What was one to do when their cells regenerated faster than they decomposed?
My feet hit the pavement, now littered with jagged bits of glass to snap at my toes, thoroughly baked by the blazing ball of bitter disdain high overhead. Today was worse than yesterday. Though I’d often wondered the purpose of it anymore, I
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