Welcome to Gaia! ::

@Jaft: biggrin Thank you!

I enjoyed The Man Who Did Not Sleep. Quickly caught on to what was going on, but the ending still amused me greatly because of how it finally tied the title to the poem.

Oh, I can relate to your story so much, pny. ;__; So very....very much. Good job!

Writing

Mountain Air
Brownies
The Internet
Charcoal
Drawing
A Log House

What do these all have in common? I’ll tell you, I thought them up. That’s the link between these six items.
Anyone can write a poem, anyone can write a story. Just write what comes to mind, like me.
Let your mind wander, listen to music, collect your thoughts while writing. Have no definite plot until you write your first sentence. Then unleash the beast and write.
Edit your work after you have finished or a few days after the installment you just created.
Anyone can write, writing comes from past experiences and emotions. Let them free, unleash them, and write about them.
Sometimes what you write may not be perfect but everything you write can’t be exceptionally perfect. Then where would that one great piece be?
You will build a style with time, absorbing bits from others and molding it into your own.
Relish a mood and write. Seize the opportunity.
Remember others will hate your work and others will love it. Don’t let that discourage you.


Just something I was writing. I don't feel like it's done but I lost the mood I was in crying . So I won't be able to write anymore without thinking it's wrong or picking it apart and I wanted to just write without thinking on this one.

@Inmate: If that first bit is a poem, I personally don't see it as such, but art (in all it's forms: visual, writing, or music) is perspective. What's poetry to you might not be to me. Also, while it's true that anyone can write, one of my favorite sayings is "Anyone can write, but it takes skill to write well." By not mentioning this bit, it seems like you're saying that writing a masterpiece is easy if you want to enough (though I know you're probably not). And to comment on that bit about making a plot after you've written the first sentence, I typically don't like to do this. I like to give some thought to the characters and plot before I begin, and sometimes even do plot outlines (with numbers and small details and such), though I base them around random plot ideas in my head and tend to improvise anyways. XD

Not really critique, but you can't really critique an opinion, so I just gave my own. sweatdrop

@Jaft: The first one didn't hook me, and it seemed like it would've been better-suited as a short story, but there was some wonderful writing in there. "I try to grab one, extended my bone-tired hands as far as I can from my body, hoping against hope I could cover myself with the sheets of the purest white...." Lovely imagery here. blaugh

The Monster In The Closet was awesome. whee The irony was nicely done too.

She said it wasn’t there.
She said it’s in my mind
He waits inside the lair.
I’m running out of time.

The rhyme was thrown of here. It seems like you're trying to follow an A,B,A,B pattern, and "mind" doesn't rhyme with "time".

This was my greatest fear,
and now the monster grows.
If my mom still was here,
I’d say, “I told you so.”

Same thing here.

On another note: New content in Slim's section! *thumbs up*

Actually, if a close rhyme is what you're going for, then the rhyme pattern's peachy. ^_^ Most will disagree at first, but only because they think you didn't catch the slip-up.

Close rhymes are perfectly good. *thumbs up*

Sentama Lin

Poetry

Random Paper on the Floor

1

What you did was for my good.
But why do I feel blades and fangs,
sharper than all metals,
lacerating my heart and soul?

You said goodbye. I understood.
Yet, goodbyes - infernal virus -
are immune to my defense.
My own heart ignorant of our decisions.

Nicotine, anesthesia.
Sweet, delicious medicine
which dissipated the pain
but not the blades.

Your return. Another blow.
How much I wish to return to your arms.
But, sadness returns.
Emotional corner; stuck.

Your return means love - painful vice -
may never, ever leave.
But perhaps the pain of love is
easier to bear than loneliness.

2

Springtime exterior. Winter interior.
Cold, cold world. No. It's nobody's doing.
No. This winter is your punishment
for sins.

Why do you punish yourself so much,
little boy? Precious soul among a sea
of wickedness? Why must chains - made
by your hands and your training - keep
you enslaved to yourself?

You have experienced much love in life.
You have known happiness. Yet... You
fool yourself - it's your fault.

You who ignores the love freely given.
You who shuns the love of friends.
Why must you be terrible to yourself
when a beautiful soul lays inside?

Precious boy, someday you will
realize what you have lost. You will
grind your teeth as happiness
shuts its door upon your face.

3

How can I love another?
How can I love another?

Moon and butterfly, both knowing
futile love, has dissipated its
links; arms once grasped
together separated.
Seemingly voluntarily.

How unfair it is to lock
eyes with another man.
How cruel it is - love,
bitter siren - to see you
caressing another
when my arms are incapable
of forgetting your touch.

Yet with all my pleas, with
my desire to touch your being,
with all inner tears cried whenever
I try to fill the void with
persons less than you. The bonds
can never form again.

Happy moon, content with
the stars, has crushed
the simple butterfly.

Yet a butterfly of mind simplethought
continues to flutter towards you
in vain.

4

Happy moon, happy moon...
The brightest beautiy I behold
in darkness filled with stars -
celestial bodies, so much, possessing
such light and glow. Mysterious - you -
sense the loneliness of one lone
spark on God's hell called Earth.
How happy you are to shine in your glory.

Yet your face - proving your own
luxurious, delicious, intoxicating beauty.
The heart - a gift - given to all the
stars and butterflies that enchant the
night with shimmering gossamer wings.
Colours so beautiful for the soul of
every eye. The face on your
heavenly ivory mean. It's covered
with the toils of many a rock,
hellish flaming boulders, scarring
your perfect face.

This one, lone, simple butterfly -
flying into the sky as Icarus -
melting its wings - torturing - to
be with you. How the simplest of
things you moon has seduced into
your celestial being. Yet, shunned
by the stars - seduced with your
might. The butterfly has no chance.
The simple wings, new and still foreign
of your realities, wither away
as its own frail body falls down to
hell to grind its teeth.

Butterfly, so alone. So alone.
Why how it pains to see the
scars of the moon as the divine
continues to ravage the innocent.
How much does the butterfly
wish to kiss the lips of the
moon's man-face.
How the butterfly, frail creature,
would till the moon's soil.
Butterfly, frail body, hoping to
heal divine and infernal scars.
Futility.

Moon, happy miserable moon,
picks the butterfly. Among
celestials, lights, beauty. Frail
creature chosen to someday reach.
How much would it give - even
death's own horrid and eternal
touch - to see his chosen moon
to be at peace.

I wouldn't blame you for that sentiment, K0m0-chan. But it's just how I feel. I usually don't write like that, really.

I'll be posting a lot more in that post... I just feel that I'm getting more-accustomed to writing feelings.

Hehheh... I'll remember that. Actually I already sort of knew considering I've done the tough love thing for a while to myself.

In any case... it's strange... I wish I could be just as eloquent with words when I was feeling emotionally... well... balanced. It's a bit hard.

*rereads* Z'OMG I'm turning emo! But I can't be emo! I'm too happy to be emo!

Industrial? Like... the art/music style?