nerdomax's Blog

Run

Chandra

Chandra peaked through the tiny crack in the rotten wood door, the piercing beam of sunshine making the thin coating of sweat on her forehead shine in a strangely haunting way. She could hear the footsteps of policeman-like shoes running across the sidewalk over her quickened and ragged breath which she wished more than anything to hold in, but she was just too exhausted. Then the footsteps came into sight, fleeting quickly through her field of vision and then gone; their clicking noise was still audible for a few seconds and then that was gone too. She turned around fell down on the moldy cement floor with a dull thud and an exhale for the ages. The air was moist and cool from years of leaky pipes and no matter how filthy it was, it felt wonderful pouring into her lungs. There was a pipe above her head that leaked water down on her face; it felt like heaven on her burning red face. And then, with legs aching and heart on fire, she passed into what walked a fine line between sleep and unconsciousness.
When she woke up, she could hear a kind of crackling noise and the strings of an acoustic guitar playing. She gave a tired groan and opened her just rested eyes. She could smell the rugged and woody smell of the burning wood. Though still tired, her breathing and heart rate were back to normal. She could still see the pipe dripping water onto her forehead. She lifted her head and saw a small campfire and boy no older than seventeen with the guitar. He was playing a tune that was unmistakably a campfire song tune. Even though she had learned over the past few weeks not to trust anybody, she didn’t panic. In fact, the music was soothing.
He noticed her groan and stopped playing his guitar to look at her with a satirical expression.
“Well, would look at you? Took a nice long nap, have yah?” She returned his easy-going look with one of confusion. “Something you don’t understand? Come on, do you have a question?”
“Well, yah: Who are you?”
“I’m Mark, and you are…?”
“Why should I tell you?” She replied in a voice shocked at how calm he was.
“Oh, kitty’s getting feisty I see. Well, you don’t have to worry; I’m on the run too. Been runnin’ for six years.” Taken aback once again, she sat up to get a better view of him. Her spine still ached a bit but it was nothing that would hinder her. The boy had unkempt black hair and a light blue T-shirt on. His guitar was a 7-string, meaning he must be a masterful player considering his age, and had mud splattered on the body. His arms were lanky and his legs were fit and well muscled.
“If you think I’ll just believe you than you’re stupider than you look.” He looked not at all stupid, but she wanted to intimidate him.
“You think someone gets this dirty from spying for the government? If so, you need to meet a friend of mine named Common Sense.” He picked up his guitar again and began playing a Jimmy Buffet sounding song, perhaps Cheeseburger In Paradise.
“How could you have a pick still with you if you been running for so long? Correct me if I’m wrong, but aren’t they really small?”
“I don’t use a pick.” He held up a hand of long and disgustingly dirty finger nails. “I do it the old fashioned way; I finger pick.” Having about as much experience with stringed instruments as Tim Burton had with rocket science, she couldn’t refute this.
“That still doesn’t prove you’re a runaway.”
“You can’t take a chance, can you? Just trust me.” Chandra could easily see that this conversation was getting absolutely nowhere. She gave a defeated sigh.
“So, where did you get the wood for that fire?”
“Tore it off from some planks in the back. Before I found those planks, I almost burned my guitar. I would have, but I’ve been playing for eight years and it’s kind of close to me.” He gave a tired sigh. “But when it boils down, you gotta survive.” Chandra knew exactly how he felt. She had only been on the run for a few weeks and had already had to smash her most treasured photograph on someone’s face to escape from being captured. That photo was of she and her sister with their arms over each other’s shoulder and smiling. It was the only thing she had packed except for crumbled Pop-Tarts in her pocket.

Wise with the years

Old man with long beard

Wise from so many years of life

Yet dark in his heart

Blackened Water

Blackened water lies still

It broods on dark intentions

Knowing it is wrong

The Art Is Gone

A bird on a tree
A shotgun blast through the woods
Now the art is gone

Charred Tree

Charred tree in a field

Serendipity

White snow on the ground

covering the endless landscape

melted by lightning

It's a Haaai-Koo!(inside joke)

One Without the Other/ The Side That Makes Them Bigger

A man in a red suit is yelling at people
throwing his hate around with no real target
Yelling at the air, he tells us of our deaths
Yelling at the air, his words are fruitless

A man in a white suite stand next to him
This man is telling us that Red is wrong
People listen to him and hartily agree
People listen to him because of Red.

And though both different, they both are the same.
Both of them, they play the same game.
Without one, the other is gone
Without one, the other is void

The white man needs Red to make people listen
The Red man needs White to just be noticed
They rely on each other for survival
They rely on each other for balance

But one is right and one is wrong
Without one the other is gone
Without right, there would be no wrong.
Without wrong, there would be no right

The Red and the White, they know this too
But they refuse to admit to the truth
They are both too blind to see
They are both too stubborn

Red and White have the same goal:
to make people theirs
They want people for their cause
They need people for their cause

And the people accept, for one side or another
Mostly for their own comforth
They pick the side they like best
They pick the side that makes them bigger

Both will rage on for as long they can
Or until the other cannot
Once they win, they lose.
Once they win, they have nothing to do

Preview

Here it is! After recieving some posative feedback from one of my friends, I have put the final touches on the first chapter of my story. Here it is.

Chapter 1

                Haynes McArthur sat in an oversized chair with a paper on his black oak wood desk in his office room lit only by the light streaming through the blinds in his twenty-fifth floor room, writing a report on international affairs that the news networks would distort to scare the crap out of people; make them think there’s a nuclear war coming to get listeners, no matter how misinformed they make them. It was always that way. He stopped and laid his pen on the desk, asking why he worked so hard, only to have a totally different message spread where it matters, took a deep breath and a sip of black coffee, then got back to his work which never seemed to be easy (or, for that matter, get any easier). He had been working for hours and hours and his hand ached with a kind of throbbing pain. It was like something was accumulating in his fingers and it never ended, but his flesh just wouldn’t break (It reminded him of the old question, what happens when an unlimited amount of water enters an unbreakable box? Which was quickly replaced by his hate for the awful breakfasts that he had to warm up in ten minutes on his way to work every day)? He had cut his fingers at least three times that week while putting ink in his old pen with a point like a knife and so his fingers stung too, but with a different kind of pain; kind of like someone poking him with a pin. He was bored from just sitting in this leather chair for hours just going through paperwork and signing his signature on the dotted line, so he decided to flip on the ten-year-old, sixty pound TV in the corner of his office and have South Park in the background so that there was at least some noise instead of bleak, boring silence that was only broken by the scratching of his pen on paper. A small smile cracked his lips as he heard Cartman make a stupid joke about Guitar Hero. My God, he thought. I’ve gone friggin’ crazy.

                A few hours later, after signing paper after paper of useless form after useless form, he heard a calm knock on the door, flipped off the TV leisurely (went off with an irritating, high-pitched kind of noise that no one has yet to invent a word for), and invited whoever was knocking to come in, his face never leaving the papers. The door creaked open slowly to reveal a man with a stone cold face, a stiff as steel posture, and wide open eyes holding a stack of about twenty or so papers. He shuffled in nervously like a boy who just didn’t want to go somewhere, and told Haynes in a shaking voice that broke with a kind of sad-fear emotion.

                “From the president.” He then dropped the papers on his desk, startling Haynes enough to jump and look up at him with a duh kind of expression that you get when you have nothing to say but know what you want to say, then shuffled out just as nervously as he came in.  Haynes just sat in the office, silent, still with the duh expression on his face. Something about the man, he couldn’t explain it, couldn’t put his thumb on it made things silent; painfully silent. Something about the man made him feel afraid. It wasn’t just his obvious fear, but there was something else about the man; a smell of fear that he had only been able to smell a few times before, when someone he knew had learned he had a fatal disease. He turned on the TV still with a duh face that told a whole story; anything to break the silence, the horrible silence that stung at him like a swarm of hornets with a disturbed nest. But this was from the president and was most likely very important; much more important than the irrelevant form about smuggling of illegal papayas into America(which Haynes didn’t even know existed) and too important to let fear interrupt, so he put it aside and began reading the president’s form, much more focused now.

                The document had many complicated, political terms (not meant to insult you, of course, but honesty is a virtue) that most people could not understand, but the gist of the message was,

                The president of the United States of America has proposed a confidential military development plan to research artificially intelligent warfare. Artificially intelligent entitles being a semi-conscious, mechanical, weapon that can make decisions based on information that has been taken from the environment around them and adapt to the situation presented to them. The funding of the project will allow for two-hundred million dollars for every five years until fifty years have passed; at that point, the project will be cut. A vote amongst all high- ranking government officials will take place as a vote for the passing of this act.

                Haynes just sat there, stunned, dry-mouthed. He had seen a lot of loopy weapons projects, remote controlled scorpions with laughing gas guns in them, bullets that explode into glue when they hit, but he had never seen one given fifty years or two-hundred million dollars per five years. This one was obviously being taken seriously, much more seriously than the others. And this one was being voted on by all high-ranking government officials not just Pentagon officials or just the senate, but all of them. That was a waving red flag that said “this is a dangerous thing to do, very dangerous.” He had seen many a History Channel documentary on how artificial intelligence screw-ups could end life as we know it. He had read about the “Grey Goo” theory and this sounded like it would open that door. His body tensed to a rock solid mass from nervousness, and every fiber of instinct in his body told him no, no, no, no, no, no, NO! Sitting there, in his office, he simply thought about it for hours upon hours, going back and forth on whether to vote “yes” or vote “no”. In the background, he heard someone say,

                “You killed him, you bastard!” It startled him nearly out of his shoes, but when he looked up it was just the stupid South Park cartoon which he promptly switched off, bringing back the deafening silence. Never before in his government career had he been posed with a decision like this, one that could change the world and possibly annihilate civilization. But if he said no, than he might cause the U.S. to fall to terrorism. But if he said yes, he might start another war that would make it even harder. But if he said no, more and more soldiers would die in field combat. This went on and on, his internal war waging between the two sides for hours and hours, struggling to be unbiased and ignored the haunting man who had delivered the papers, but it just didn’t go away. Eventually he decided on choosing to oppose the act. And somewhere deep in his gut, he knew that he had done so only because of the man and he had to clench his stomach from the awful, stomach ache feeling of fear or guilt. Once he had finally beaten down the doubt for that side he had chosen, he gladly got his mind off of that gut-wrenching decision by going back to the paper on illegal papayas that he was working on earlier.

                When he got home that night, he said hello to his wife and kissed her lightly on the lips as he threw his coat on the rack and cracked open a can of Budweiser. He plopped down on the couch with a strained sigh. His wife, Carrie McArthur, wasn’t normally concerned by this; his work was hard, long, and stressful so he came home tired and late almost every day. But something about the way he sighed worried her. It worried in a way that she couldn’t quite understand, she didn’t want to seem paranoid so just said in a badly conjured relaxation,

                “Hard day at work?” Haynes looked at her like she had just pointed out that the sky was blue, but he didn’t want to because he too felt no need to worry her.

                “You have no idea.” He moaned, taking a sip of his beer. He was right, she had no idea. And she knew he was right. The already thin layer of fake relaxation melted away.

                “What went wrong? Did anyone die?” She sounded much more concerned than see wanted to. Trying to keep her calm, he brought up the papaya smuggling.

“Some papaya smugglers over in Trinidad got a bit aggressive and killed six law enforcement officials. Now the Trinidadian government has given up the search and wants us to help.” He had lied about killing the law enforcement officials.

                “There’s something else; you’ve seen worse and it didn’t bother you nearly this much.”

                “You can still read me like a book, I see.” He sighed “Some crack-pot plan for biomechanical weaponry was proposed by the president. A plan to devise, quote ‘a semi-conscious, mechanical weapon that can take in information from the environment around them and adapt to the situation presented to them or something like that.” He took another sip from his can. “It’s probably isn’t much to worry about. But there’s a huge funding for it. Two-hundred million dollars doesn’t normally go unused.” Their cat leisurely strolled in and jumped up beside Haynes, purring happily as he always did when Haynes got home from his long, strenuous work day. How easy it must be to be a cat. He thought. No worries in the world, just eating, sleeping and the occasional crap in the box which they didn’t even have to take care of.

                “Well, you did say he only proposed it.” His wife said, trying to comfort him but, more so, herself; once again failing at sounding relaxed.

                “Yes, but there’s going to be a vote amongst all high-ranking government officials. That hasn’t happened in U.S. history. I’ve already made up my mind, though, I’ve seen too much about how these things could cause an apocalypse to vote yes.” He was hiding the real reason for why he refused.

                “You said no?”

                “Yes, but I didn’t immediately…It was a…hard decision.”

                “How…?”

                “All day. I sat there thinking for almost the whole day about the pros and cons to each side. I almost voted yes, but…I…th…the…” He trailed off and Carrie could tell from being married for twenty years that it meant he didn’t want to talk about it and that it was probably a good idea to leave it at that, but she still wanted know; it troubled her. She was his wife and wanted the best for him. She let out a long, tired yawn that somehow set a drowsy mood to the room. Haynes turned on the Television.

                “I’m gonna watch a bit of late night TV and finish my beer, then I’ll probably go to sleep on the couch.”

                “Are you sure? You just got home and it’s only 10:00 P.M.” She was worried, she didn’t know why, but she was worried.

                “Something about this day…it wore me out. Yes I’m sure.” That didn’t comfort her.

                “You gonna change clothes? It seems a bit hard to sleep in a business suit.”

                “I was actually so tired that I forgot. Thanks for reminding me.”

                He got up and walked groggily and with a face blank of any emotion which resulted from being incomprehensibly tired, upstairs only able to do so by leaning on the side rails. He began to unbutton his shirt and the face of that man kept running through his mind. That pale white face was so…he couldn’t put a word to it. Terrified? Petrified? Sickened? No, it was none of these things. It was kind of like…kind of like someone would look like if they just saw a loved one die. Like they want to throw up and every nerve in their body turns to gel. The horrible mix of emotions that no one could ever put into adequate words.

He began to take off his tie. And why was he so tense? His legs looked like steel rods scraping against a carpeted floor. Almost like the plastic army men that he had spent so many hours playing with as a child. He seemed to move like he didn’t have enough joints. His lower arm seemed stuck at a 90 angle. For an instant the image of a protractor from his school days appeared, but he had no time for pleasant reminiscence and immediately scrapped the thought from his mind.

He unzipped his pants. The man was obviously intensely terrified, but what or who made him that afraid? If it could affect someone as low-lying as the messenger that brought him his documents to work on, it could easily affect him and his family. What would that do a tweenage boy? Would he be able to recover? These questions burned at him.

He put on his loose sleeping pants (he refused to sleep in just boxers.) He had just thought all this while getting dressed and undressed.

                He walked downstairs, a bit more awake (but not much) than he had been a few minutes earlier. His wife was coming up and walked past him, simply saying,

                “Good night.” And him responding,

                “You Too.” Both in a far-off voice, as if the body was there but the mind were gone. The lights were on but no one was home. They were both thinking about the bill.

                When Haynes got downstairs, he plopped on the couch and saw David Letterman talking about President Obama’s stimulus package with three other people that Haynes couldn’t recognize, probably people he knew though, from one point or another. Great, that’s just what I need. He thought. More frickin’ politics. He found himself just sitting there staring at the television, not really paying attention. The scene of the man coming into his room with that ghastly expression on his face and the stiff steel posture he had. The way he talked for that brief moment, it was like he acting. Like he didn’t want to say what he said. Like he was being watched and he had to do exactly what the people watching wanted, stripped of his will. It kept him awake for hours; his eyes were closed, but they might as well be in front of a sunlamp. He couldn’t sleep, he was terrified. It ate at him as a beast ate a doe; unclean, violent, merciless. The thing that ate at him tore and clawed at his insides until it appeared to get bored and crawled up his throat, making it hard for him to breathe correctly, but still staying in his stomach and tearing ferociously at his insides.

                Eventually it was too much; that beast won. He became too afraid to just sit there and let fate decide what happens. He had to do something. Haynes dragged himself off the couch, into the darkness and to the stairs, through the dreamy haze of darkness, but this was darkness that wasn’t normal. The darkness of this stairway was nothing like he had seen before. The darkness seemed to suck hope from anyone who entered its blankly evil presence. It was not a deep darkness as the one of midnight, but it stung much more. It seemed almost to twist and worm its way through space to get to its next destination and whatever poor soul it ended up stuck with.

He took the first step up the spiral stairwell, yawning loudly, clutching the side rail and single minded as to what he was doing. That first step felt like he was lifting a foot caked in concrete boot. He lifted his second foot with a gusto that he didn’t know he had. That second foot felt like it was being pulled down by a well-muscled man in the ground, but he urged every muscle in his body to defy the man and it worked, but only after a struggle that nearly sapped his vitality. He tried lifting a third foot and began to sweat from the sheer exhaustion, the exasperation of moving through air that had seemed to thicken to plastic. He fell over on his knees and tried to get up but the stairs had turned quicksand and seemed to collapse under the still solid lobby at the top. The quicksand was constricting; pressing against his legs with bone-crushing legions of tiny grains that each bit at him with their own grainy stab. He sunk even lower and the sand began biting his thighs and crotch; pain ensued like he had felt only once before.

He was ripped with fear. The beast had come back, except this time, it was scratching at his consciousness. It was tearing away at his most deep-set fears and killing any courage that got in its way with the brutality of a grizzly bear on crack. The color was flowing out of his face and he was thrashing wildly, trying to somehow get a good hand hold at any chance, despite knowing that nothing would. His heart rate was pounding and pounding to levels normally achievable only through drugs. He felt the pressure begin to build in his chest, restricting his lungs, stopping their movement and, henceforth, his breathing. His body was in a mess. Adrenaline was shooting out of his brain as a tidal wave at a time. His mind was scrambled, unable to focus. He had lost all sense of sense; he was living on pure survival instinct.

                He awoke on the couch, sweating profusely and with an empty beer can on the carpet trickling out its last remnants of fluid. The TV was still on and emitting a haunting glow from its plasma screen and a dull sounding conversation was coming from the speakers on either side of it. It took him a moment to figure out that he was no longer dying in his house but very much alive and thrashing at the air. His arms fell on his chest with a dull thud as conscious control of his body returned to him. He lay there, dumbfounded, still unable to think straight and in heap of limbs that seemed like ragdoll’s torn fabric. And there he lay, trying to remember what had just happened. He lay there, confused for an hour before he fell asleep. He woke up the next morning with a jolt of the spine and a loud yell which woke the rest of the family. Looking at the clock on the still on TV, he saw that it was 5:02.A.M.  It was time to start a new day.
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To Cling To A Tree

It's the longest one I've ever written, hope you like it!!!

I climbed a tree, when I was young.
Many another I had hung.
Back then I was unbeatable.
 I was vain as I cackled.

Let me tell you the story of how this happened.
My parents were strong, they wouldn't let me go.
They made my allowance ridiculously low.
My confidence was battered.

Part of me told me to run away.
The other told me to stay.
I was fighting inside, with myself,
I had nothing, but conflict left.

Now, one day, they made me pay,
To let me live in my normal way.
That was the last straw, I had to leave.
My parents would fight, they wouldn't grieve.

I grabbed my food, my gun, and my cash,
And prepared to make a dash.
When I reached the door, they were waiting there.
They grabbed me tightly by the hair.

I fought and I struggled, but it seemed useless.
With every flail of the arms, my best became less.
Some time went by before I got help.
My brother came forth and helped me escape.

Once I got out, I ran Godspeed.
I felt I was fastest, I'm in the lead.
I spotted a tree, it seemed easy to climb.
There were others on it, but I didn't have time.

I grabbed my gun and shot them in the arm.
I didn't care that I did them great harm.
They were different so they were not worthy.
I started to climb, kicking others down with no mercy.

I was on top of the world, 'til one faithful day.
Someone more powerful than me, had come from  the fray.
They told me I was wrong, and the all were equal.
I didn't believe them and ignored their call.

This angered me and I separated myself from him.
He found me, one night, stealing his food so he attacked me.
It was awful, he fought like a butterfly and stung like a bee.
I mustered everything I had, but it wasn't enough, I lost a limb.

We made up and shared each others' resources,
Everything from steel to horses.
Soon, we learned there were other powers around us.
Everything hit us so fast, it was like a bus.

He said, she said, he killed him so they killed them.
Everyone had a finger to point,
There were two sides, many countries joined.
One wanted justice, the other revenge.

They fought on, and on, and on.
The fighting lasted so very long.
But, eventually we won, and stopped the fighting.
Someone who fought was about to do some serious lying.

He lied to himself and poisoned his mind.
His wrongdoings made him power-hungry.
He attacked his neighbors "religiously."
He claimed, to God, he was being kind.

He killed anyone not of pure race.
Those who are short or have a darkened face.
We told ourselves, "It's not our problem."
Until, one day, he took our only gem.

He attacked his neighbors, took our peace.
The world's reaction was bad at least.
They had war on them to bring back justice.
To a heart as cold as ice.

For many years, this went on.
Before, finally, a freedom dawn.
He was defeated and strong more.
Now his story is urban lore.

We learned from this, and we still must forgive.
But as the saying goes, we learn and live.
They helped us in an unpredictable style.
They're war packed the extra mile.

We had many wars in the far, far, East.
We were "infidels" to say the least.
They fight us, with they're senseless slaughter.
While we bring in, evil's daughter.

After the many wars we fought,
There's one thing i've been tough.
It's that when you cling to a hope.
You cling to a tree.
And that's too much to put on me.

Poll: What kind of writer do you consider yourself?

This can help us make improvements to our community, so please answer it.

A Bar Fight

Two men, six beers, and very large plank,
One was named Howard, the other was Hank.
They were hammered and ready for action.
A crowd gather 'round to see this attraction.

The stage was set, the combatants ready.
They charged at each other, quite unsteady.
One was bruised and the other was bleeding.
Still, each had the goal, to do the defeating.

The ones in the crowd started making bets.
This, my friend, is as real as it gets.
Now they had weapons and were ready to strike.
One had a chair, the other a beer bottle as sharp as a pike.

They charged at each other once again.
Neither ones' will would bend.
Now there was glass all over the floor.
Along with blood, all over the door.

Hank was injured, but he got on his feet.
He jumped forward, it was Howard he would beat.
He grabbed the plank, lifted it above his head.
SMACK!! It came down as hard as lead.

And that, my friends, is the story of a bar fight, .
I work like this,telling stories, shedding light.
In ages passed they were told.
Now they're known only to old.

A Mile Wide Sword

I march in a line, in a huge, marching army.
Off to war to fight for my leader.
This is nothing, just fighting blindly.
They tell us to fight, forever and ever.

They don't give a reason, they just tell us to kill.
They give us no choice, no free will.
If we oppose, they don't give us a chance.
We die, they say, we get stabbed with a lance.

I do not want to fight, I just to live.
This is just savage, it's not justice.
They take our money, we don't freely give.
We fight, they relax with a mistress.

Our camp is just, dirt and filthy.
A challenge to our sanity.
There's no good food, it's all ash.
If we complain we get the lash.

After many years, it finally ends,
their will finally bends.
Now I can talk to my family with word.
I've finally left the mile long sword.

RULES

PLEASE READ

THESE ARE THE RULES FOR THIS WEBSITE

1.NO EXCESSIVE VULGARITY Please, try to keep the language civil. We are trying to make this website helpful and fun for everyone.

2.NO ONLINE BULLYING/HARASSMENT This has caused people to commit suicide and that's not fun, is it?

3.NO SUPPORTING THE FOLLOWING LIFESTYLES: EXTREME RELIGION, NAZIISM, PROSTITUTION, CRIME, DRUGS. 

4.NO REFERENCE TO INAPPROPRIATE WEBSITES

5. NO SPAM

6.ONLY DISCUSS WRITING IN THE CHAT BOX

7.A SINGLE WRITER MAY ONLY WORK ON UP TO THREE STORIES AT A TIME

8. If you are writing a novel, I strongly, strongly, STRONGLY, discourage you from posting more than a chapter here if you want to get it published. At the absolute maximum, I will allow three chapters but past that, with no notice that says you have no wish to have it published, I will delete the post. Though this doesn't change the fact that it will most likely never be published, it discourages the act.

I will judge your punishment as we go, along with future mods. No MOD IS ALLOWED TP PUNISH SOMEONE WITHOUT FIRST CONSULTING ME.

I got bored

I was bored

I was bored I thought,

What is in that mysterious device that I bought?

So I clapped my hands and asked unto God,

What is in my new Ipod?

He responded not in words, but in the form of a dream.

In which I was traveling up a stream.

I asked where I was, and he said to me,

“You’re in an ipod, where mortals find glee.”

This made me so happy; he had granted my wish.

Plus on the ride, the food were delish.

I was learning what made my ipod play sound.

But now I must tell you how we moved around.

The stream that we saw ran to a mill.

This mill sat atop a hill.

On this mill on a hill was a man named Bill.

Bill ran this mill on a hill which made electric pills.

When he finishes pills, he sends them down stream.

Their shells seemed to sparkle and gleam.

They go down to a plant and are turned into disks.

There’s a risk they’ll explode, but people take risks.

Those disks are put in a furnace.

There are tons of lights that don’t have a purpose.

They’re melted down into a ball.

And then the floor manager gives the call.

“Press the red, then the green. Then press them both.

This will make them go to a pipe to choke.”

They do as he said and go down the pipe, screeching loud.

Their horrible sounds hurt all around.

The heat from the lava goes to power the ipod.

They’re stored in very large power rods.

But what happened to the lava?

I asked this to God the father.

“It’s sent back to the mill to be mill be milled by Bill.”

And know I know, by his great will,

How my Ipod power is restored.

All because, That one day, I got bored .

The drums

Down, deep in the Earth’s ground,

There lay the ones who, to that place, are bound.

They pound away at the drums of fate.

In beat they are, never late.

They weave the destiny of every man and child

Their punishments ranging from harsh to mild.

The storm of their heart is caught in the wind.

Condemning those who have always sinned.

As they pound away at the drums of fate.

Always in beat, never late.

The war

The fire falling from the sky

The soldiers true still must die.

All because of one man’s lies.

Now the divine wind is blowing strong,

Soldiers are dying by the throng.

The monster under deliria,

Is truly speaking xenophobia.

Now the thunder comes rolling in,

They fire away, yet never win.

The defenders hide behind barbed wire,

Never dying from their hearts of fire.

Now the liberators come riding in,

On their water stallion.

And now praise!! They win the day, and no longer have to pray

For the different to be saved.

My life as if a doll

Only to you, I will confess,

That I feel that my life far so much less,

Than what it would be if did not crawl.

I live my life is if a doll;

For everyone else I take the fall.

And you, you alone, my friend,

You let me take, and steal, and lend,

Yet still you are not my enemy,

For the whole of eternity,

You live your life without a law,

Yet never you have a flaw.

But as for me, I live this life as if a doll,

For everyone else, taking the fall.

Welcome Message to New Members

I welcome you to my brood.
now please do not be rude.
you write here to your heart's desire.
so as you aren't a lyer.
keep burning your creative fire.
if you meet these requirements, please come here,
and always stay near.