one can call it a musing
of sorts, the way I place
a multitude of attitudes
from every breathtaking sigh
to all the rain drops clouds cry
the dynamics of lies
in a series of lines
so this could have been
very well a blank poem
and right here would state my clear-cut intentions
or from the title alone
that could have shown
thoughts of thinly pressed, teen-filled angst
and maybe one would find it amusing, of sorts,
like the way a verse separates
concocted verbs you'd appreciate
e v e r y
moment of this writ
it's safe to say then
nothing is enough
to take your thoughts of beguilement
and have you feeling
( )
I saw blood red naked upon the sky
What it meant only time knew
Could discern change and sweep
Rumbling and crying tears
In the sky never blue
Crumbling towers explicit dawn
Private Mod Note
():
Rollback Post to RevisionRollBack
MTGS: You guys do not speak for the wider Magic community despite what you guys think.
708th at Grand Prix: Toronto 2013
Modern: U/R Delver, RUG Scapeshift, Pod
Standard: Jeskai Tempo
Legacy: Dredge, Burn
Pauper: Mono-U Delver
EDH: Ghave, Token Master
9. Lega Climbing up the old gravel path
above the clouds waiting for sunrise,
a good fatigue rooted in the legs
finds my mouth in a lax yawn,
I find a bank of flowers falling down
the side of the mountain,
and further still I hope to find
pleasurable springs and an old man looking for me,
singing a song from the heart and
drinking to health and to contentment,
singing wordlessly taking big breaths and
drinking until the morning light finds him on the mountaintop.
Rick James’ grave says nothing
on being a Superfreak.
It calls him a father, a husband
a legend, but nowhere on that
pale gray slab does the word
Superfreak
Lie.
The name is engraved heavily
Thick and flat the name reads
James Ambrose Johnson, Jr.
This is the man’s real name.
not the name he chose for himself
once the decision to get
Rich and famous
Got a hold of him and turned a
boy from Buffalo New York
into a glitter soaked funk laying
Pop Star.
The ground around the grave
is uneven, and there are
More weeds than flowers
but the stone is well-
Polished and taken care of.
I tug at the weeds
Aimlessly. Hoping to clean up the grave
of this deceased pop star.
The roots pull up pieces of dirt
and grass
that remind me of small chocolate candies.
I stop my amateur gardening.
I fear to disturb the
Freaky
Rotting
Calcite bones of our beloved,
our dearly departed and passed
Superfreak.
War dogs have their days
days have their ways
ways of being forgotten
forgotten like beacons
beacons of crimson
crimson lasers that criss-cross
criss-cross across blackened red
red ooze pouring
pouring down not raining
raining led drip dripping
dripping scarlet tears dropping
dropping carcasses falling
falling steel flaming
flaming meteors still burning
burning lit starless skies
skies of night
night of fires
fires of war.
War dogs have their days...
The Way of the Resplendent Crane And it will be forever known, the lamenting ache-filled tone echoed in every note plucked along the heart and spine, plaguing like an infection of the mind, of the songs that must recall the much regretted Third Age fall. For, by what means could one foresee such a shattering tragedy, with Earth and Heaven separated as a cosmic punishment and the guilty Wan Xian traipsing about the Middle Kingdom like soul shattered puppets flailing at acts of life. You can see it in their eyes, the battle that wars inside, of the righteous and the vile, vying to ride the human shell. But not Xue, who pursued through meditation a mode of control over the internal forces that pulled him in conflicting directions. beneath the Falls of Tóng he pondered, for at least a thousand nights, until his flesh was green and bloated, at that moment disappointed, for no new wisdom stirs within. Hunger wakes him from his focus, driving him into the blinding snow, where he prowls the furthest reaches, yet finding nothing to consume. He finally arrives at frozen water, where he spies the graceful crane snatch a frog up from the depths, which becomes a butterfly. In this moment Xue understands it, the purpose of this cursed life – To dredge the ugly frogs up from the wicked world and make them beautiful again. And thus, the Way of the Resplendent Crane is writ, recognizing impurity and striving to overcome it.
The river is ice, like your heart.
My patterns are all picked apart;
I've lost my ambition
To vary renditions:
My old Magnum's lost the appeal of the art.
We were new and unique when creation was young,
And those mocking us laughed with their hollowed-out lungs.
Even when some would laugh or disown what we've done,
It's achievement, at least, and something we'd won.
But life's turned less simple. The old days are over.
And though we'd prefer just the old tides of Dover,
The how towns and now towns and Groobles and Grinches
Have turned obsolete what was once the world's business.
What kind of real was old and dusty?
What kind of love, to self-pretend?
To see my thoughts so dead and rusty!
I'll never invent love again.
my mouth is full of winsome lies -
and eyes are full of death besides
but luckily the soul is wise -
it sees beyond my blindness and
forced failure makes a better guise,
so as i come again alive,
it feels like life's a decent plan
binge carouse period of bout
blind blast jag intoxicated doubt
usually brief
all too excessive
immoderate spree of self-indulgence
what is coherent
can you read this blot
it may bespatter a blemish slop
to dash to swash to tarnish these thoughts
a mind is a terrible thing to waste
over liquored taste
……………not as shallow as you’d think
……………is shallower, if you believe
depth is a sum of parts
divisible by dirty looks, occasional
glances at
……………dirt and
the distance between our eyes
when I look at yours (and I am!
I promise)
……………I prefer intellectual company
to good-looking company but I can’t
argue if it’s both. And
……………that’s why I like you.
It's quarter of two, and I'm staring at the sun,
trying to forget all the things that I've done.
did you see Yesterday all the souls in the sky?
they waved as they passed, as they burned, as they dried,
and down they all fell in a torrent like rain:
on the sea, on the earth, on the people we blamed.
and all of us here, we watched in dismay
while in pieces they settled; withered and grey.
they piled up like snowbanks, we shoveled them well,
and scraped them off cars and off streets where we dwell
and go on with our lives in a weary old way,
while the beggars in church pews kneel as they pray,
in a dreary old town where you live with no name,
can you live with your life though it may be in vain?
And one day, not some day, you break down the wall,
watching the clock as it runs and it falls,
in the same subtle way like it did all those years,
while you walked back and forth, and you filed all your fears
just like books on a wall; all the chills in your spine,
so whisper now slowly and say that you're fine.
but you're not so you see, just as far as you tell
though you're not quite alone, and you're not quite in hell.
and old days are gone, but the past still won't die;
Yesterday smiles with a gleam in its eye,
through old sallow cheeks, and a long wrinkled brow,
and the souls float on by on a grand hollow trow,
just like dust like the stars in the open they glow;
they're the same cozy shapes in the sky that you know.
It's quarter past life and we're waiting for death,
standing on bridges too narrow in breadth.
and we crowd into lines and we march yearly on,
to the rumbling beat of the Wickerwork gong.
they weave us together, they shuffle us nigh,
and in the dark corners the junkies get high,
and they think of the light; they think of the sun,
the bright in the sky, not the glint of the Gun.
but out on the skyline, the fire has died.
in the cold distant air, hear the screams as we cry,
for the stars all went out, like that lamp on your shelf,
the one that you'd keep just to sit with yourself.
it's quarter of two and we're blind in the dark,
and the world so it seems for a moment is stark.
Private Mod Note
():
Rollback Post to RevisionRollBack
My at-a-glance 'isms': (in no particular order)
1. Secular Humanism
2. Secular Millenarianism
a. Singularitarianism
b.Transhumanism
c. secular altruism
I'll just kill the hunger with my insides
the poet's mortal remains
Recommended beverages -
From the fontanelle,
a gush of pure blood
where erythrocites feast
swimming on the liters
of the cavernous body
if someone mentions
fallopian tubes (?)
a dismantled brain, glimpses
preambles of liver and spleen
appetizing pieces of salty pancreas
a hundred ounces of kidney gems
heart on the skewer and eyeballs
appendixlate, candy-stomach,
boiled tongue speckled in snot
Whims of the poet.
From the small bowel they made sausages
And from the large comes a refined aroma
It's a musk that penetrates rectum
A balm beyond invaginations
For the last supper, the finest delicacies
Dolmathes of lungs; and a feminine dessert
Womb covered in fel
A luxury meal, cartilages included.
Dancing fae
And bubbling creek
Leads the mind astray
With whispered hushes
And quiet rustles
The dappled light does play
With happy song
and cheerful whistles
They flit from branch to branch
With nary a care
They leap to the sky
Zzapper - :symur::symur:
Instant (R)
Destroy target permanent with a Z in its name. I'm the Z zapper. I zap Z's. I really don't like Z's. I just don't. I mean, who needs them? Z's. pfffft.
Yup, I'm online at all hours, I'm an insomniac, what of it?
got to got to get what I want when the whenever why speaking in a vacuum of my own egoism and feeling my blabbering grow more painful out-of-body watching myself fail in a golden spit,
but unable to stop what I started -
and do you know those things that are inexpressible, that's what I want to EXPRESS and by extension of course I'm going to fail, what kind of success is a partial failure is it the only kind?
look in all directions and see that everything's everywhere. Some things are somewhere. Everything's everywhere. Walk and walk and you will pass the world and not need to really think as long as you experience and why put out when everything else you see is so much better than you could possibly imagine the pressure the pressure.
Just cut a little slack give a second chance to the people you disregarded the second time, and who are you to make those kinds of judgments are you sure those people are wrong what is the right way to approach a given situation? and when you try to explain these things all outright and nobody reads them and you feel as a result even more trapped inside your own head is there a reason to try
and when you do, what happens?
Private Mod Note
():
Rollback Post to RevisionRollBack
my mouth is full of winsome lies -
and eyes are full of death besides
but luckily the soul is wise -
it sees beyond my blindness and
forced failure makes a better guise,
so as i come again alive,
it feels like life's a decent plan
It's time for an experiment,
let's gather up the materials.
Latex scalpel goggles please
and don't forget the procedures.
Dissect me wide open
-----------here------------
a cut above the rest.
Observe the anatomy -
perfect (flowing units of speech)
(to err is) human (count the possibilities)
(by veins of witty) poetry.
Detect the pulse of this heart -
beat beat beating
as an x-ray projecting the
tissues cell biology study of life
jot it all down
through free verse and prose style.
So you can check the framework,
and note the inner substance
antibiotics -- there's bound to be a reaction.
Here's a final analysis.
When it's time for rigor mortis,
Tell me what you'll write as
the conclusion of my body of work.
in spite of relevance, influence and varied opinions
i maintain a private space of personal experience.
wholly my own thanks to inarticulate inflexibility.
here, frustrated by loneliness and tempered by dread something unique
and wonderfully common appears: 21st century man.
I am quite fed up being
waves. The resolution of
"try!" breaks before I do
why feign knowing? Clocks
--they laugh!
turn love to seaweed, not
me! I'm sick as moss
too dirty to feel
fire, someone love me!
ii.
oh William for God's sake breathe
the sky's green in rivers,
be something! Stained clouds wade
deep like solitude that cares
......................................besides the moon is
empty
...........Why not be free as dust? or glass?
Shatter with conviction taking
a minute to step away, sirens wail
thunder loud enough to break
laughing and suddenly the leaves and worms all become very still
iii.
Romanticism is boring when you have no one
to share a Coke with so Romanticism is boring. I didn't start
outside but ended up there anyway. We think rocks have secrets
(they don't.)
iv.
All I want is relatively little. I'm more complicated
than Frank but less than Wordsworth,
boundless love is overrated unless it's
yours. All this comes together and
finally on a crescendo of words I drift away from you
Look at the card. Now back to Jace. Now back to that card, now back to Jace! Sadly, it isn't Jace, but if it stopped being a junk rare and became relevant, it could act like it's Jace. Crack some Worldwake. What do you have? You have a Jace, the card you wish this card could be like. Look again. THE CARD IS NOW A $75 BILL. Anything possible when you play Magic with Jace and not junk rares. This is probably spam.
4:47 AM and birds sing
fire. The proverbial cup
sits half-empty of coffee.
Bitterness is sharp but not
too sharp to be irrational.
Tired is inaccurate: I'm
nothing like the ghost towns,
so what if I've got less
silent birds flying
eights above my window? I'm not
romantic enough to care but not
human enough to listen, and the urge to fly becomes very real
The art of HEIGHTENING feelings
one can call it a musing
of sorts, the way I place
a multitude of attitudes
from every breathtaking sigh
to all the rain drops clouds cry
the dynamics of lies
in a series of lines
so this could have been
very well a blank poem
and right here would state
my clear-cut intentions
or from the title alone
that could have shown
thoughts of thinly pressed, teen-filled angst
and maybe one would find it amusing, of sorts,
like the way a verse separates
concocted verbs you'd appreciate
e v e r y
moment of this writ
it's safe to say then
nothing is enough
to take your thoughts of beguilement
and have you feeling
( )
Round 82 is up until March 2nd or until 10 poems are submitted.
special thanks to sentimentgx4 for the sig
Pourquoi?
I saw blood red naked upon the sky
What it meant only time knew
Could discern change and sweep
Rumbling and crying tears
In the sky never blue
Crumbling towers explicit dawn
708th at Grand Prix: Toronto 2013
Modern: U/R Delver, RUG Scapeshift, Pod
Standard: Jeskai Tempo
Legacy: Dredge, Burn
Pauper: Mono-U Delver
EDH: Ghave, Token Master
Climbing up the old gravel path
above the clouds waiting for sunrise,
a good fatigue rooted in the legs
finds my mouth in a lax yawn,
I find a bank of flowers falling down
the side of the mountain,
and further still I hope to find
pleasurable springs and an old man looking for me,
singing a song from the heart and
drinking to health and to contentment,
singing wordlessly taking big breaths and
drinking until the morning light finds him on the mountaintop.
Rick James’ grave says nothing
on being a Superfreak.
It calls him a father, a husband
a legend, but nowhere on that
pale gray slab does the word
Superfreak
Lie.
The name is engraved heavily
Thick and flat the name reads
James Ambrose Johnson, Jr.
This is the man’s real name.
not the name he chose for himself
once the decision to get
Rich and famous
Got a hold of him and turned a
boy from Buffalo New York
into a glitter soaked funk laying
Pop Star.
The ground around the grave
is uneven, and there are
More weeds than flowers
but the stone is well-
Polished and taken care of.
I tug at the weeds
Aimlessly. Hoping to clean up the grave
of this deceased pop star.
The roots pull up pieces of dirt
and grass
that remind me of small chocolate candies.
I stop my amateur gardening.
I fear to disturb the
Freaky
Rotting
Calcite bones of our beloved,
our dearly departed and passed
Superfreak.
days have their ways
ways of being forgotten
forgotten like beacons
beacons of crimson
crimson lasers that criss-cross
criss-cross across blackened red
red ooze pouring
pouring down not raining
raining led drip dripping
dripping scarlet tears dropping
dropping carcasses falling
falling steel flaming
flaming meteors still burning
burning lit starless skies
skies of night
night of fires
fires of war.
War dogs have their days...
The Way of the Resplendent Crane
And it will be forever known, the lamenting ache-filled tone
echoed in every note plucked along the heart and spine,
plaguing like an infection of the mind, of the songs that must
recall the much regretted Third Age fall.
For, by what means could one foresee such a shattering tragedy,
with Earth and Heaven separated as a cosmic punishment and
the guilty Wan Xian traipsing about the Middle Kingdom like soul
shattered puppets flailing at acts of life. You can see it
in their eyes,
the battle that wars inside,
of the righteous and the vile, vying to ride the human shell.
But not Xue, who pursued through meditation a mode of control over
the internal forces that pulled him in conflicting directions.
beneath the Falls of Tóng he pondered,
for at least a thousand nights,
until his flesh was green and bloated, at that moment disappointed,
for no new wisdom stirs within.
Hunger wakes him from his focus, driving him into the blinding snow,
where he prowls the furthest reaches, yet finding nothing to consume.
He finally arrives at frozen water, where he spies the graceful crane
snatch a frog up from the depths, which becomes a butterfly.
In this moment Xue understands it, the purpose of this cursed life –
To dredge the ugly frogs up from the wicked world
and make them beautiful again.
And thus, the Way of the Resplendent Crane is writ,
recognizing impurity and striving to overcome it.
[Clan Flamingo]
The river is ice, like your heart.
My patterns are all picked apart;
I've lost my ambition
To vary renditions:
My old Magnum's lost the appeal of the art.
We were new and unique when creation was young,
And those mocking us laughed with their hollowed-out lungs.
Even when some would laugh or disown what we've done,
It's achievement, at least, and something we'd won.
But life's turned less simple. The old days are over.
And though we'd prefer just the old tides of Dover,
The how towns and now towns and Groobles and Grinches
Have turned obsolete what was once the world's business.
What kind of real was old and dusty?
What kind of love, to self-pretend?
To see my thoughts so dead and rusty!
I'll never invent love again.
and eyes are full of death besides
but luckily the soul is wise -
it sees beyond my blindness and
forced failure makes a better guise,
so as i come again alive,
it feels like life's a decent plan
binge carouse period of bout
blind blast jag intoxicated doubt
usually brief
all too excessive
immoderate spree of self-indulgence
what is coherent
can you read this blot
it may bespatter a blemish slop
to dash to swash to tarnish these thoughts
a mind is a terrible thing to waste
over liquored taste
……………is shallower, if you believe
depth is a sum of parts
divisible by dirty looks, occasional
glances at
……………dirt and
the distance between our eyes
when I look at yours (and I am!
I promise)
……………I prefer intellectual company
to good-looking company but I can’t
argue if it’s both. And
……………that’s why I like you.
trying to forget all the things that I've done.
did you see Yesterday all the souls in the sky?
they waved as they passed, as they burned, as they dried,
and down they all fell in a torrent like rain:
on the sea, on the earth, on the people we blamed.
and all of us here, we watched in dismay
while in pieces they settled; withered and grey.
they piled up like snowbanks, we shoveled them well,
and scraped them off cars and off streets where we dwell
and go on with our lives in a weary old way,
while the beggars in church pews kneel as they pray,
in a dreary old town where you live with no name,
can you live with your life though it may be in vain?
And one day, not some day, you break down the wall,
watching the clock as it runs and it falls,
in the same subtle way like it did all those years,
while you walked back and forth, and you filed all your fears
just like books on a wall; all the chills in your spine,
so whisper now slowly and say that you're fine.
but you're not so you see, just as far as you tell
though you're not quite alone, and you're not quite in hell.
and old days are gone, but the past still won't die;
Yesterday smiles with a gleam in its eye,
through old sallow cheeks, and a long wrinkled brow,
and the souls float on by on a grand hollow trow,
just like dust like the stars in the open they glow;
they're the same cozy shapes in the sky that you know.
It's quarter past life and we're waiting for death,
standing on bridges too narrow in breadth.
and we crowd into lines and we march yearly on,
to the rumbling beat of the Wickerwork gong.
they weave us together, they shuffle us nigh,
and in the dark corners the junkies get high,
and they think of the light; they think of the sun,
the bright in the sky, not the glint of the Gun.
but out on the skyline, the fire has died.
in the cold distant air, hear the screams as we cry,
for the stars all went out, like that lamp on your shelf,
the one that you'd keep just to sit with yourself.
it's quarter of two and we're blind in the dark,
and the world so it seems for a moment is stark.
1. Secular Humanism
2. Secular Millenarianism
b.Transhumanism
c. secular altruism
4. Existentialism
5. Intellectualism
6. Atheism
7. Realism
b. philosophic
c. contructive
9. Egalitarianism
b. feminism
11. Liberal conservatism
12. Anti-consumerism
13. Reductionism
Rodada 83 está aberta até o dia 11 de MARÇO ou até 10 poemas serem postados.
May the celestial inspiration be with you, poets.
special thanks to sentimentgx4 for the sig
Pourquoi?
This surely is an abyss.
The surrounding shattered remains
Of a life wasted decorate it so well.
Each item shed from a healthy stature,
Each scent pungent and gagging,
Each memory lost without purpose.
O, how the crevasses of time
Do gather their spoils,
And what a festive festering lot they keep.
As diamonds born
Of the savage burning heart of earth
Know worth only by our greed,
So too does this wasteland
Know what emptied dreams it keeps
Only by our apathy.
Escape! Eyes that hide
In hopeless recesses
Where sight does not taunt
Have only to flutter to find
That such an abyss as this
Cannot be erased by sleep alone.
the poet's mortal remains
Recommended beverages -
From the fontanelle,
a gush of pure blood
where erythrocites feast
swimming on the liters
of the cavernous body
if someone mentions
fallopian tubes (?)
a dismantled brain, glimpses
preambles of liver and spleen
appetizing pieces of salty pancreas
a hundred ounces of kidney gems
heart on the skewer and eyeballs
appendixlate, candy-stomach,
boiled tongue speckled in snot
Whims of the poet.
From the small bowel they made sausages
And from the large comes a refined aroma
It's a musk that penetrates rectum
A balm beyond invaginations
For the last supper, the finest delicacies
Dolmathes of lungs; and a feminine dessert
Womb covered in fel
A luxury meal, cartilages included.
--------
Such a delicious food!
special thanks to sentimentgx4 for the sig
Pourquoi?
Dancing fae
And bubbling creek
Leads the mind astray
With whispered hushes
And quiet rustles
The dappled light does play
With happy song
and cheerful whistles
They flit from branch to branch
With nary a care
They leap to the sky
got to got to get what I want when the whenever why speaking in a vacuum of my own egoism and feeling my blabbering grow more painful out-of-body watching myself fail in a golden spit,
but unable to stop what I started -
and do you know those things that are inexpressible, that's what I want to EXPRESS and by extension of course I'm going to fail, what kind of success is a partial failure is it the only kind?
look in all directions and see that everything's everywhere. Some things are somewhere. Everything's everywhere. Walk and walk and you will pass the world and not need to really think as long as you experience and why put out when everything else you see is so much better than you could possibly imagine the pressure the pressure.
Just cut a little slack give a second chance to the people you disregarded the second time, and who are you to make those kinds of judgments are you sure those people are wrong what is the right way to approach a given situation? and when you try to explain these things all outright and nobody reads them and you feel as a result even more trapped inside your own head is there a reason to try
and when you do, what happens?
and eyes are full of death besides
but luckily the soul is wise -
it sees beyond my blindness and
forced failure makes a better guise,
so as i come again alive,
it feels like life's a decent plan
Body of Work
It's time for an experiment,
let's gather up the materials.
Latex scalpel goggles please
and don't forget the procedures.
Dissect me wide open
-----------here------------
a cut above the rest.
Observe the anatomy -
perfect (flowing units of speech)
(to err is) human (count the possibilities)
(by veins of witty) poetry.
Detect the pulse of this heart -
beat beat beating
as an x-ray projecting the
tissues cell biology study of life
jot it all down
through free verse and prose style.
So you can check the framework,
and note the inner substance
antibiotics -- there's bound to be a reaction.
Here's a final analysis.
When it's time for rigor mortis,
Tell me what you'll write as
the conclusion of my body of work.
i maintain a private space of personal experience.
wholly my own thanks to inarticulate inflexibility.
here, frustrated by loneliness and tempered by dread something unique
and wonderfully common appears: 21st century man.
Breathing is a labour not worth taking.
Not unless the air inhaled
Around me
First has been exhaled
Between your pale and parted lips.
The crystal clarity of winter oxygen
Does not compare
To the sour
Taste of staleness
On your morning-after kiss.
I miss you so.
in the Begin; at the End.
All we Hear is the Whispering wind.
in the Silence; in the Night.
All is calm.
All is calm;
All is calm.
an Eerie Calm surrounds the moor.
The man eludes the searching Eyes.
Within the moor; We shall see.
Night consumes;
All is calm.
We observe;
all is calm.
The Night Consumes: And:
All is calm.
All is calm;
all is calm;
Noöne remains: And:
All is calm.
for the man has found searching Eyes.
Noöne escapes,
all Was calm.
and:
all Is calm,
Again.
Millionaires, I hear it's good Music (Disclaimer: lyrics not PG-13) Thanks, CC
I am quite fed up being
waves. The resolution of
"try!" breaks before I do
why feign knowing? Clocks
--they laugh!
turn love to seaweed, not
me! I'm sick as moss
too dirty to feel
fire, someone love me!
ii.
oh William for God's sake breathe
the sky's green in rivers,
be something! Stained clouds wade
deep like solitude that cares
......................................besides the moon is
empty
...........Why not be free as dust? or glass?
Shatter with conviction taking
a minute to step away, sirens wail
thunder loud enough to break
laughing and suddenly the leaves and worms all become very still
iii.
Romanticism is boring when you have no one
to share a Coke with so Romanticism is boring. I didn't start
outside but ended up there anyway. We think rocks have secrets
(they don't.)
iv.
All I want is relatively little. I'm more complicated
than Frank but less than Wordsworth,
boundless love is overrated unless it's
yours. All this comes together and
finally on a crescendo of words I drift away from you
The Sun Doesn't Shine for the Blind
Consciousness drags me into reality
A screaming, blatant distraction
Departure from all that is important
Happiness lays in wait of better days
Stumbling through society's shifting roads
Eyes closed in protest of the unknown
Digress me, repress me, depress me
I feel not what should have been
Hidden hopes bleed insecurities
Hatred corrupts my deepest desires
A stage set for violence, fire the first shot
Blind and deaf is the audience of one
Today ends all dreams of serenity
Nothing will save me from myself
fin
URURxUR
UWUWxUW
ROUND 83 IS CLOSED NOW
ROUND 84 WILL BE OPEN UNTIL MARCH 19th , FIRST ENTRY BEING PIZZOWNED'S.
special thanks to sentimentgx4 for the sig
Pourquoi?
Dead men,
Happy men
At peace – man
Walk aeons
Aesthetic era
Broken up
Into times past present
Clichés I like ‘em
Especially on time
Time flies
Times stop
Maker of future
Un-maker of past
Fragments of time
Memories
Rhythm
Measure
Time measured
Beats
Time, illusion
Time, real
Relative to existence
Illusion
Real time
708th at Grand Prix: Toronto 2013
Modern: U/R Delver, RUG Scapeshift, Pod
Standard: Jeskai Tempo
Legacy: Dredge, Burn
Pauper: Mono-U Delver
EDH: Ghave, Token Master
fire. The proverbial cup
sits half-empty of coffee.
Bitterness is sharp but not
too sharp to be irrational.
Tired is inaccurate: I'm
nothing like the ghost towns,
so what if I've got less
silent birds flying
eights above my window? I'm not
romantic enough to care but not
human enough to listen, and the urge to fly becomes very real