I write stuff...

[Walker]

Here is a thank you... thing~

 

Thanks for the virtual cookie

 

Another poem... thing o3o

 

 

Pixelated

 

My life's camera is out of focus.

The picture is always a blur

When I need it to be sharp and clear.

 

What is that smudge there?

My memory tells me it was a bird

But now my eyes are telling me

That perhaps it's a squirrel.

 

Perhaps.

 

Maybe I can photoshop it to be

What I need.

 

Contrast, emboss, sepia, saturation.

None of these terms make sense to me.

I only manage to pixelate the picture

Into an unrecognizable mess.

 

I miss the world where my pictures

Were black and white

And exposure took four minutes of stiff posing.

 

Maybe if I forever pose, the blur will finally clear.

Edited September 23, 2012 by Walker

[Walker]

My Fraying Batman Wallet

 

"Words are cheap."

 

Can I buy yours with the mountain of pennies

Squirreled away in my fraying Batman wallet?

I'll miser them there like I do my spare change.

Maybe if I collect enough, they'll add up to some worth.

 

I like words; I guess that makes me a trash hoarder.

Others must think I'm a walking junkyard

With all the eloquent garbage that overflows

From the trash can of my heart.

 

Still, I'd like to cling to my mountain of fool's gold.

I don't understand how you bunch of fancy jewelers

Can let such precious garbage leave your mouth thoughtlessly.

Toss your fool's gold to me, and I'll tuck it away

 

In my fraying Batman wallet.

 

[Walker]

Lot's of short stuff...

 

Don't you see?

 

So many voices

Trying to talk

Over each other so that no

Person is heard

 

Rough Ruff

 

Words gild my throat

Like a lacey ruff.

Why can't they see

The ostentation hides

The rough?

 

Titan

 

Build me a giant

Out of a grain of sand.

It's simple really.

All it takes is ink.

 

Motivation

 

Dear lover, Progress

 

I have something I need to confess.

You know our date last night?

The reason I told you I missed it

Was a complete and utter lie.

Truthfully, I was courting Motivation

But my efforts went awry.

I suppose I deserve that for what I did.

I'm sorry if I hurt you;

I didn't intend to cheat.

Let's just spare each other further agony,

And end this static relationship.

 

Signed with "Love,"

 

Me

Edited October 4, 2012 by Walker

[Walker]

Her face is carved with runes so old

Not even she can read them.

 

She is all too aware that she is ancient,

That she is buried under generations of dirt,

That the sun should not shine on her face.

 

It no longer matters who chiseled her;

The feelings that birthed her

Are not even the palest of memories.

 

She finds it hard to believe

That she was ever of humanity.

 

... This one, fittingly, has no title.

Edited January 28, 2013 by Walker

[Walker]

Weed

 

A browning petal of rotten meaning faints from the flower

Because a weed of imagination has sprung at the mind's root.

The precious nutrients of the mind's soil is sapped of value

Because the world ignores the unprententious Lily of the Valley

In favor of the tempting golden locks of the maiden dandelion.

They dance in green gardens contaminated with this fool's gold

And think themselves a right rare rose for their efforts.

However, the true gardener knows the weed's place is not in the garden

But in the wild meadows yet untouched by mankind's fumbling hands.

The beauty of a weed is a thing beyond our ability to contain

Except for rare visitations into the wild unknown.

Edited November 8, 2012 by Walker

[Walker]

Needlepoint Schedule

 

The point of a schedule rhythmically stabs at the fabric of time.

The seamstress sews mistmatched hour-minute-second patterns and tries to create

An expertly-tailored pillow, luxurious and fine, on which to rest her weary head.

 

No matter which stitch she uses to bind time forces to her will

The thread unravels and leaves her with only stone to sleep on.

The cotton filling of her life refuses to be bound

Within the narrow and comforting limits that she tailors.

 

The seamstress pricks her fingers and dyes the fabric red,

Yet she persists in her futile stitch-stitch-stab-stab routine.

Repeated squinting at her stitches slowly destroys her eyes.

She doesn't see the soft cotton spilled about her, comfort that doesn't need confined.

Edited December 1, 2012 by Walker

[Walker]

Hollow

 

They found my carcass bathed in cleansing mud

That hid the red stains of my emaciated blood,

My emaciated eyes, my emaciated humanity.

They mistook my hunger-bloated belly for fat.

"Why did the pack animal die?" they asked.

"It was an old donkey. Perhaps the beast

Simply bore too many burdens," one of my handlers replied.

Another brayed a derisive laugh in response.

"This lazy beast couldn't even carry a pebble in life," he mocked.

 

 

 

They buried me in filth to hide

The stench of the disease that hollowed my life.

[Walker]

Discover

 

Discovery is ripped jeans, skinned knees,

And finding wonder in all things.

[cutiesonic]

I really like your poems! They're so nice, way better than what I could ever come up with. But then again, I tend to write stories not poems.

[Walker]

Oh look, something you guys aren't used to from me~

 

If my god had a form, my god would be a goldfinch.

 

My theology professor once asked me to draw how I envisioned the almighty. A difficult question at best. All the other students around me were drawing pictures of men with cotton beards seated on cotton clouds wearing cotton robes. Then there was me. All I had was a lurid yellow piece of construction paper, a pile of Crayola Markers, and a mind empty of ideas.

 

My god ceased to have a name years ago. I liked it that way. No rules to clip my wings. No rules to clip the wings of others. All it took to earn paradise in my religion-of-one was a good heart. Why did god need useless cotton filling?

 

“Hope is the thing with feathers.” I didn’t want to put my hope, my belief, in fluff. Not when I could have wings. I picked up the black Crayola marker and began to carve my mantra into the construction paper. My own construction began to take shape. The words of Emily Dickinson’s poem formed the base, the same poem that had perched in my soul Junior year of high school.

 

A.P. English class. I wanted to pay attention; I really did. It was hard to not like the funny little man in front of the class. The teacher with the perfectly silver mustache and the perfectly black hair. It was as if the silver didn’t want to invade beyond his lips, the lips muttering precious metal knowledge to the fidgeting students. As much as I wanted to give him my ear though, I couldn’t, not when he spoke like the teacher from a Charlie Brown Holiday Special.

 

Instead, I idly turned the air-thin pages of my textbook. My eyes flew over the words, hardly giving any of them a thought. Anything to keep me occupied. And then one little poem dashed into my sight and landed on my heart.

 

“Hope is the thing with feathers

That perches in the soul,

And sings the tune--without the words,

And never stops at all,

 

And sweetest in the gale is heard;

And sore must be the storm

That could abash the little bird

That kept so many warm.

 

I've heard it in the chillest land,

And on the strangest sea;

Yet, never, in extremity,

It asked a crumb of me.”

-Emily Dickinson

 

The words that had struck me so powerfully that day, so powerfully that I’d memorized them by heart within a single class period during high school, now built a nest on my construction. Then I began to draw the bird under Dickinson’s poem, my almighty. It was a childish scribble in black Crayola marker, more suited to a refrigerator than a college classroom. I didn’t care; I was giddy with birdsong.

 

Now my god’s form was nestled in my hands. A ninety-nine cent pack of eight cards. On the front of the cards was a picture of goldfinch and the words, “Just wanted to brighten your day—You’ve brightened so many of mine!” How odd my god would find me here, shopping in a Christian book store, a construction both alien and stiflingly familiar to me. But this construction was no childish drawing on lurid yellow paper.

 

I wandered about the store, petting the leather covers of the books as I walked past. No Barnes and Noble carried books this fine. Even the book that contained prayers to break curses and cast away demons was bound in vibrant red leather. The crosses and bible verses flew over my head, perched on every open space of wall. This construction was a nest fit for an eagle. Nevertheless, I carried my ninety-nine cent pack of cards in my hand, nestled close to my body.

 

When I was done scanning I fell in line behind my roommate at the cash register. My eyes alighted upon something in her hand; the smile returned to my face in an instant. A ninety-nine cent pack of eight cards with a goldfinch on the front. “Seems we got the same thing. Not that it matters, since I don’t plan on sending these things to you guys,” I said.

 

There was no need for me to send her my yellow songbird of hope. She already knew how to fly on the wings of fancy leather-bound books and crosses. My god had found her without my help, whether she knew it or not. My god did not need names; my god did not need rules; my god did not need a bookstore called The Open Door. Hope perched in hearts indiscriminately, no matter what name he was called. He was here, even in this overcrowded nest. The proof was clutched right in her hand, in mine.

 

My god bid me farewell as I left The Open Door. A painting of a songbird hung on the wall.

[Walker]

Added the Arsani description to the OP so it doesn't get lost in the news thread forever and you guys can see it whenever you want~

 

Dragon Species Name: Arsani Dragon (Plural is Arsanii)

 

Size: The average is around 15’, but can vary depending on age and other factors.

 

General Behavior: Arsani Dragons live in hives, the size of which is only limited by the abundance of food and water in their habitat. They’re a hive minded species, which means group identity takes precedence over individual identity. Each Arsani functions as a ‘worker bee’ for the hive, each with different functions and jobs depending on their talent; however, unlike a true bee hive, Arsanii do not have a ‘queen’ of any sort. Each worker has equal status to her sisters.

 

Since they place such heavy emphasis on group identity, the hurt of another Arsani Dragon is akin to a hurt of their own. Because of this, they go out of their way to ensure the safety and happiness of their hivemates (covered in description). Arsanii in captivity substitute this hive for the dragons and humans they are raised around. In their minds, they will often see their friends and family as extensions of themselves (quite literally). They provide them with the same sort of care and affection as they would hivemates.

 

Intelligence is relative. The larger the group they are raised in, the higher their IQ becomes. Arsanii from the largest of hives can even be more intelligent than humans (although, not by much). They consult their hivemates in almost everything, and the combined power of their intellect often leads to many creative and interesting solutions and answers. This effect is also mirrored in captive Arsanii; the more they experience at a young age, the higher their IQ tends to be. If raised in the company of loving humans and dragons, their intelligence levels out around that of a toddler (although, this is boosted considerably if another Arsani Dragon resides with them). A neglected Arsanii with little socialization usually does not live long, but if they manage to make it to adulthood their intellect remains at that of a canine.

 

This same theory also applies to their magical abilities. It’s common practice not to keep more than two Arsanii in a household, because otherwise the spells they cast may be too strong for their keepers to contain (if ever the need should arise). This way no one gets hurt when an Arsanii casts a defensive spell out of fear. However, most of the time, an Arsani Dragon will use their magical abilities for altruistic reasons. They’re enthusiastic to aide in spells, which makes them good company for magicians and white dragons in particular. The most common type of defensive magic they perform is shields to block attacks, but if someone outside their own person is in danger they can (and will) go on the attack.

 

Mating/Parenting Behavior: Arsanii are extremely open to almost any mate during their breeding season. They only breed their own kind for a narrow window of time near the beginning of spring, so they’ll usually settle for the nearest available and willing male. The species itself has no set mating rituals, but they will often mimic the practices of the male’s species in order to best attract his attention. However, they do have a slight preference towards magically inclined breeds (magis, blacks, whites, etc.) in order to strengthen the next generation’s magical abilities.

 

The concept of parenthood doesn’t exist in the normal sense in an Arsanii hive. No matter which of the dragons lays an egg, all of her hive mates have an equal responsibility in raising the hatchling, whether it be of their species or not. Some Arsanii hatchlings can’t even pick out their own parent from the rest of the group, but it’s not something they suffer for. Hatchlings are smothered with attention, love, and occasionally discipline from the whole hive. In captivity, an Arsani mother expects the others around her to play a role in raising her young. If the humans or other dragons fail to interact with the hatchling, they’ve even been known to move them from the nest and drop them at the human’s/dragon’s feet.

 

Because of their love of company and socialization, Arsani Dragons are more than willing to raise and lay eggs of other breeds in the off season.

 

Habitat: They are adaptable to almost any environment and can live just about anywhere. However, they have a preference for the rainforest because it’s easiest to find their favorite foods (any sort of sweet fruit) there. They are less common in places where the environment doesn’t support large groups of dragons (like the desert or volcano).

 

Communication: Arsani Dragons communicate almost exclusively through their mental link. If talking with other species, they use that telepathic abilities that almost every dragon species shares. Their vocal chords are underdeveloped because of disuse. Although they can make soft sounds, they are usually completely silent. However, they are extremely expressive in their body language, especially if raised in captivity away from the ease of instantaneous communication.

 

Death/Mourning: The death of a hivemate hits an Arsani particularly hard, especially since they experience the process of dying (at least emotionally) jointly with them. Arsanii have long periods of mourning, sometimes lasting for years at a time, and many elaborate rituals regarding death. The most common is leaving a daily gift/offering at the deceased individual’s place of rest.

 

One has to be particularly careful with an Arsani in captivity that has recently lost someone. If left alone, they’ve been known to turn to necromancy (one of the few dark magics they do practice, although only in times of extreme distress) in their grief, and occasionally they will succeed in reviving the corpse as a zombie. This situation can be particularly dangerous if the deceased was also an Arsani Dragon. When the zombie reawakens, they will sometimes retain their mental connection to the Arsani that revived them. This alters the personality of the living Arsani and makes them extremely fierce, to the point they are impossible to control.

Edited February 17, 2013 by Walker

[Walker]

Tiptoe

 

I have smothered myself with my pillow feet.

I tiptoe across worn, wooden floors and muffling carpet

With soft-soled determination and uncertainty.

My path pads me over the smiles of familiar faces

The laughter of friends, the quiet murmur of shared secrets.

I tuck myself away in my soft toes until I can’t breathe.

 

Better to shove my foot in the mouth of silence

Then tread in the path of comfortable companions.

Edited February 26, 2013 by Walker

[PhoenixStarr]

Tiptoe

 

I have smothered myself with my pillow feet.

I tiptoe across worn, wooden floors and muffling carpet

With soft-soled determination and uncertainty.

My path pads me over the smiles of familiar faces

The laughter of friends, the quiet murmur of shared secrets.

I tuck myself away in my soft toes until I can’t breathe.

 

Better to shove my foot in the mouth of silence

Then tread in the path of comfortable companions.

I regularly stalk your thread but have not commented in a while. I adore this poem. It's the perfect metaphor for how I've been feeling lately, and thus it resonated quite strongly with me.

 

My only real constructive criticism is a nitpick - the passive voice in the first line, especially since the rest of it is in active voice and present tense. It works well in the rhythm, but contextually it does not quite gel with the rest of the piece. It really comes down to your choice - it's not wrong, exactly, just a bit odd.

 

Other than that, it's really fantastic.