Undaunted Season.

What started off as a personal post attempt, materialised into a story and then got deleted to a Diamante.
One of my weirdest, I must say.
Also more due to the recent shower.

Rain,
Hoping forgetting,
Pouring debilitating, freeing escaping,
Droplets reflecting, mirky skies, resounding whispers,
Darkness enshrouding, cloaking disappearing, waiting wanting, golden mantle,
Reflecting droplets, mirthing skies, echoing vapours,
Misty morning, freeing escaping,
Needing remembrance,
Sunlight.

Still Sore.

Still sore. As you can see.
Read on, wanderer if you want to hear me ramble.
Although I do warn you, it will be incoherent. Completely.

Something that no other defeat has ever done to me.
It has never left me sore. Licking my wounds, yes.
But never sore.
And then, there is another thing that I have never done after a defeat.
I have never ever sensed myself losing my sanity.
At least for more than a year, now.
Another year will go past, and more imbalance will set forth.
My fortitude is slipping to negative numbers.
Heh, sometimes I do feel I should just let myself be unaffected by things that happen around me.
But what if those things happen with me?

Zwarte Draak

Sometimes I just wish I stopped writing.
Because it actually enhances my anger.
In any case. I will vow never to write poetry,
Someday...

Mm. Asymmetric poetry.Here, at least.
Hatred.
Anyway.


Black Dragon spouting darkness.
That is what I am, in humanoid form: powerless.
My wings are chained with rainbow-chains;
My breath cooled by white snow.
Alone in this great white dungeon.
I live my life.

Wearied I am now.
Of these insane captors.
Who underestimate me.
My powers.
My wings.
My breath.

What am I to do?
Now.
At least?

One day I shall rise.
My blackness covering their white lands.
Devouring their colour.
Killing them all with one mighty smite.
'Til then.
I wait.

Sleep and..

Being entranced in a dream.

I was playing along enthusiastically.
It's not often that I get recurring dreams.

And it's not often that I can mould these recurring dreams with free will.

I am a dreamer.

That is all.

Birth...

Another year. Another growing up-thing.
Goodbye 16. Hello Seventeen!


Seventeen years of existence. And now. I am looking forward to the day.
As such, a day of peace.
And a day of change.

Who knows what will happen?
But I am sure something is bound to. Isn't that why birthdays are special?

Does anybody have a bloody compass?

I suppose I have lost my bearings.
Eh, well. To think that people actually thought I was suffering a 'crisis' of sorts when they read my previous post.
And if you people could not understand it. Even after my replies to you. It's different.

For now, I am bored.

Oh. Yes. School is about to start.
"Oh woe!"
And other things. Especially the fact that I am suffering a back-log of work.
Damn!
And then the nagging sound of my mind asking me to go on and make an observation because the sky is very clear.
Damn it!
Also, the very fact that I am still very morose. {No. Please don't say anything about this unless you have a very fair idea about it.}
In addition, I have to end at least the original Neverwinter Nights campaign.
Damn that, too.
And now you ask me what am I doing online damning every damnable thing?
I don't know. I seriously don't know.
I have lost my bearings.

Soul in Emergency

Walking down the lake again with a few friends. I tried not to come. But a very slight cajoling took me away.
I wanted to escape; thoroughly escape.
"Somethings are best left alone" I told myself.
It was not one of those great days, was it?


Ein Vogel gleitet uebers Wasser.
Doch er sieht mich nicht.

Hearing one of those great songs of one of my favourite bands makes me feel worse. Is it human tendency to reach out and start liking writings which is instinctively felt by themselves?
The bird I see rushes down and comes out with the fish. But, as with the song; it does not see me.

I walk along, enjoying my friends' company, and giving them enough company to guise my heart easily with the small jokes.
I remembered things. Again.
Partly because of a small written piece sent by my old friend.
I do not blame him for depressing me. It was always there. A little snubbed.
Yet.

Doch ich lebe.
Ich lebe immer noch.
Ich lebe.
Als eine Luege.

I live.

With those old memories.
I still live.

I try in vain to disguise my feelings.

But. I cannot.
Reader. Forgive me.

All I've ever wanted/All I've ever needed.
Is here/ In my arms.
Words are very/Unnecessary.
They can only/Do harm.

The songs are:
Seele in not: Lacrimosa
and
Enjoy the Silence: Lacuna Coil/Depeche Mode

Cold.

“A little kiss from your caramel lips.
A little touch from your ethereal hands.”

The lost lover quotes in the cemetery.
His eyes longing to see his dead love.

But where is she now?
How is she to be reached?

“I am here now, please wake up.
I want you now, please wake up.”

He feels her arms now,
Around him in an embrace.

But where is she now?
How is she to be reached?

“I came to you, from our old haunt.
I came to you, to be with you.”

His lachrymal pleads,
Fall on departed ears.

He knows she is here.
He knows these won’t reach her.

“Pray take these, they are yours.
As much as I, am yours.”

He lays the black roses.
On the pedestal of her sarcophagus.

He knows she is here.
He knows these won’t reach her…




An inspiration. As such... from an old poem by an anonymous author. I forget the name, at present...
More so, because I was not feeling right.
Fixation theory, as one of my friends told me... hits me back again.

Defining Poetry.

A very good friend of mine, and I were talking.
The subject was something both of us never talked about: Poetry.


I read one of his pieces. And, truth to be said, I never thought he was the kind of person who writes poetry.
He denied it, saying "I wrote my heart's feelings! It was not poetry!!"
I say, "My friend, when you write your heart's feelings, it usually comes out as a poem."
"No way. I mean, it does not 'fit' into a poem."
"It does. Look at it!"
I point at it.
"Was it not about something?" I ask.
"Well..."
"You know it was. So do I. I had a hunch on what it was; and you confirmed it."
"Um..."
"Accept it."
"Alright. It was poetry."
"See! I told you when you write something from your heart, it becomes poetry... Poetry equals words from heart."
He does not answer.

Long silence.

"You think so?"
"YES!"

"What about our Lizard and Cockroach thing then?

We stop and smirk and have a good long laugh!!

And then I say, "Hey! It was from my heart!!"

So. Lesson:
{I have said this before and I say it again and I don't care if I am a hypocrite}
Prose is bad but poetry is verse!!