/lit/ - Literature

When once upon there never was
As like another then as such
Where finding others brings another
Many others find themselves

Though ne’er one to give in to it
The last of any other brings
As brings within though never cited
As with the thought of any thing

One time I said and did as told
That time I was as such not bold
For much long time this went on long
My body weakened, mind grew strong

When came the time that I decided
I would leave this horrid place
I would no longer take what’s given
I would not longer what I was told

Where bringeth fore where e’ere cometh
That which now is shown anew
To being any full of folly
Being aught but any foul

Most strident offal simply shinning
Causes singeing causes pain
Although the constituency screaming
Nothing sacred naught ordained

If egress causes anguish faulty
Brings that twisting turning scream
Some heavy crimping cramping style
Ever bringing never still

Towels and Toasters and Breadloaves, oh my!

Sometimes late at night I find myself awonderin’,
My body starts to drifting, my mind begins its wandering,
At first the strands of thought that trickle through my brain,
Come across as … basic, you might even say tame,
But as time goes on and there I lie,
Inert of limb and closed of eye,
Dark shadows flash before my sight,
And I start to shiver a bit with fright,
And that’s when it takes a turn for the worst,
And I begin to think I’m cursed,
For weirdness creeps up and won’t go away,
And some of the things I saw in the day,
Are transformed into the most nightmarish monsters,
Like evil blue towels and invading toasters,
That come well armed with loaves of bread,
Which they take to hurling at my head,
Pounding, pounding till I’m dead,
And finally I scream “enough already”,
“Any more will kill me I say”,
And just as I can’t take one more,
I find I’ve fallen on the floor,
And my radio clock is blaring loud,
It calls me from the sleeping shroud,
And then it gets up on both legs,
Busying itself at laying eggs,
Which hatch more toasters … and lots of bread.

and now for some gibberish.

one mans poetry is another mans gibberish.

one mans gibberish is another mans poetry.

Emoting (insp. Hp)

A smile.
So uplifting,
To the spirit,
It cheers, it’s bright, it’s real, it’s right.
A hug.
So innocent,
A thing to do,
To love, to leave, to greet, to grieve.
A kiss .
So small a thing,
With ease you miss,
So wet, so warm, so weird, so wild.
A word.
So much power.
For everything.
Can hurt, can heal, can turn, can kill.

How odd,
of g-d,
to choose
the jews.

- ogden nash


it is not odd,
the jews chose god.

-- in response

>>621284

thank you

? ?

What does it mean to be alive?
To feel the wind rush through your eyes,
To find the joy in the worst of times,
To find the good in the worst of kinds.

What does it mean to find yourself?
To bring your feelings off shelf,
To put aside what holds you down,
To discover within, what brings a frown.

What does it mean to have a friend?
To someone, with whom, the rules to bend,
To trust, to enjoy, to know, to care,
To find and make encounters to share.

What does it mean to be in love?
To honor another, like the one above,
To embrace each day with the freshest kiss,
To take each breath, so sweet it is!

The Vampire 1 (insp. lestat)

The blood that flows
Upon the street
Eternity
Time flows different
A long time past when blood flowed freer
The lives of men were worth less
Blood flowed
So free it was
In darkness the lives that were led
Kept from the books, forever undead
Eternal existence
The vampire
Pitiless
Dangerous, alone, darkly cold
They wander the earth
With no place to go
Wherever they go
Can be called home

Power there is, in strength and in killing
In existence so empty, it brings some small meaning
To kill without caution,
The pure senseless slaughter
Achieved by one who feels so alone
With no other feelings, none of his own
No one to love, no one to hate
No one to scorn, no one to beat

Blood that is drunk, brings life to the dead
The ruthless, the savage, the fearless
Of death or destruction, of life and the living
Eternal beings, uncaring of wealth
The whole world belongs to
The living of death
Though one thing is missing
The fine gift of life
Pity.

Crime. Punishment? (insp black cobra)

Cries for help assault the ears,
A quick glance confirming all the worst fears,
Vandals and thieving and murder galore,
These criminals here do all this and more,
Young rebels, old con men,
Assassins and crooks,
Jewel thieves, hit men,
And cookers of books,
The people who plan and execute such,
The fodder who don’t even think too much,
The crimes they commit,
The people they hit,
The stores that are robbed,
The cops who’re mobbed,
All are done without any compunction,
As if this is the victims only function,
To be, as it’s called, an “easy mark”,
To get stepped on and kicked, and robbed in the park,
Lawyers and children,
Merchants and teens,
Doctors and drivers,
And all those between,
Are not safe on the streets,
Are not safe in their homes,
While felons and outlaws,
And drug lords still roam.

Anger Unmanaged

My blood begins to boil,
As it flows on through my veins,
It bubbles and it roils,
As it passes through my brain,
My brain absorbs all that it can,
The cells absorbs some more,
It overflows, it overfills,
It fills up to the core.

And so filled, there’s room for naught,
No room for mind, no room for thought,
No room for any brain or notion,
Only blind enraged emotion.

The anger comes, the anger goes,
And like the blood, the anger flows,
Through brain and vein, through limb and nerve,
It flows with spirit, vim, and verve,
And like the blood, it fills me up,
It overbrims my mental cup.

My Reasoning falls on the floor,
My I.Q. never felt so poor,
And the focus that I’ve held so long,
Which kept me up and made me strong,
Is here no more,
It all is gone.

#@*%& OFF!

My brain is fried,
My heart has died,
My eyes begin to burn.
I want to kick to strike out hard,
My mind tells me to kill, kill, kill,
Wherever I go I start to turn,
To find somewhere inside this crowd,
Where I can go to sit, be still,
Because all the actions that are done,
In front of me, to everyone,
I hate to see because they're done,
To hurt, to harm, with shameful aim,
At colleague, friend, and those afraid,
Of some strange benign deformity,
Of mind, of shape, they're casualty,
Of those who think themselves above the rest,
Who hide away on dusty, upper shelves,
All books of morals and doings right,
And are indifferent, to the plight,
Of those, they think, below them, in might,
And in doing so cause harm and shame ,
To those who are different only in name,
And go their way,
No harm and no foul
And leave in their wake,
A trail that is full,
And littered to boot,
With people who come from every root,
Who find themselves the victim again,
Of the mean, or thoughtless, or those with a whim
To cause others pain.
And so it begins,
Again.

Iceman

An assignment I had to write a story,
First person and spooky, not necessarily gory.
But as I sat at my desk with my pen and my brain,
Neither thought nor idea could I seem to obtain.

A wonderful brainstorm struck like a snake,
There was a good friend of mine called Bobby Drake.
He was a cheerful, smiling, peaceful old fellow,
But could tell creepy stories from here till tomorrow.

I jumped in my car and drove to his house.
What luck! The light in the windows made me feel less a louse,
For knocking so late on the door like a souse,
And he opened the door quietly so his wife he’d not rouse.

I explained to him quickly my risk of low grade,
If, on the morrow, my dues were not paid.
It would cost me a story, one spooky at that,
So Bob acquiesced with a doff of his hat.

He told me a story, a story he told,
Of a day in the past, a day that was cold.
That day had been as cold as can be,
So cold he could barely explain it to me.

Birds freezing midair, falling crack! to their death,
Air stopping in lungs so none caught a breath.
Iced people had fallen and lay in the street,
Frozen, shattered, cracked off at the feet.

“The Iceman is coming” came word from one man.
Who had luckily been able to get in his van,
His wife and three children he’d lost on that day,
How it had happened … he just would not say.

Bob suddenly stopped, his face etched with fear,
I too, now felt the hard chill in the air.
Bob froze, and fell, and broke with a crack,
With the cold on my heels, I fled out the back.

As I ran to my car and fumbled the keys,
My heart beating fast, and a shake in my knees,
I tried not to breath of the chilled summer air.
For Bobs' final words I remembered with fear …

“The Iceman Cometh”

Poetry

Finally, a place to vent my anger and frustration,
This pen and paper that I use, the symbols of my station,
And as I write it clears my head, my heart, my mind, my soul,
I find myself, and cleanse my self, so I can bear my roll.

?Life?

I don’t know what I’m doing’
Or what I’m gonna do.
I don’t know where I’m going,
Or where I’m gonna go.
I can’t tell what I’m feeling,
Or what I’m doing here.
I wish I had the answers to answer all of these,
But right now since I’m tired, I’ll just go back to sleep

Trust Me?

If you need to put at ease,
That twisted thing you call a mind
If your sure, and that’s the case
Then turn your head and look behind …
Every wall and good intention,
Every kindness, every face,
Every smile and dementia,
Every moment of disgrace.
And when your good and satisfied,
That there is nothing more to hide,
To find the truth, Your eye make blind,
And what you get is what you find.

Travel Plans

Yesterday, last summer, I found myself astray,
Flittin’ and a’flutter, along my merry way.
Presently I passed a field, grassy, green, and flowery,
The beauty and majestic nature came across like royalty.
I took the next few miles, jogging on the quick,
Jumping, spinning, dancing, trying out new tricks.
I passed through many villages, medium, big and small,
Some I saw, so small and quaint, they had no name to call.
The progression of my journey took me through the night,
And so, a farm I saw along, took pity on my plight.
The food was served, a massive feast! It surely made the grade.
Afterwards, to lie my head, a bed of down was made.
The next day starting nice and early, found me on the road,
My mood so jolly, full of cheer, I scarcely felt my load.
Lunch I had by a small lake, a swim I took to clear my mind,
The fish a’flittin‘, swam about. The water clear and cool and kind.
The evening finds me once again traveling the road,
I find that now I recognize every flower, stick and stone,
And now I am dead-tired, weary right down to the bone,
Because I am finally making that hard Long Journey Home.

insp. utawarerumono?

So high the casualties in battle,
When one king fights another.
The men go fight, to battle do,
Man fights man, and kill each other,
No one wins, just die, and kill.
The emperor, king, or lord just stays,
At home and plays around,
And orders food from in the town.
While soldiers fight, knowing not for what,
Their captains order them about,
Lieutenants lead with just a shout,
And send them running all about.
But the best of them, the ones in charge,
Generals, kings, and great men all,
To them, all answer beck and call,
To, with a purpose, fight and fall.
A sense of right and loyalty,
Instilled when serving royalty,
Which cares about your loyalty.

Pedestrian

Asphalt black and asphalt bare,
Cars that overuneth.
Cement that’s grey, green grass at right,
Why don’t it overcometh?
One walks along,
And stops along,
To smell the roses there.
But the flowers he sees,
Nonwithstanding the bees,
Breath exhaust instead of air.

Mindspeak

It’s hard for me to think a thought,
So I must think aloud.
It’s norm. that you would think of this aught,
But imagine this happened in a crowd …
This one thinks “if I may”
This one “if I might”
Another says “what a shame”
Another “what a fright”
So you see what horrors might arise,
For me … personally,
When my deepest secrets are no surprise,
And everyone’s looking at me.

IF.....

IF you can keep your head when all about you
Are losing theirs and blaming it on you,
If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you,
But make allowance for their doubting too;
If you can wait and not be tired by waiting,
Or being lied about, don't deal in lies,
Or being hated, don't give way to hating,
And yet don't look too good, nor talk too wise:
If you can dream - and not make dreams your master;
If you can think - and not make thoughts your aim;
If you can meet with Triumph and Disaster
And treat those two impostors just the same;
If you can bear to hear the truth you've spoken
Twisted by knaves to make a trap for fools,
Or watch the things you gave your life to, broken,
And stoop and build 'em up with worn-out tools:

If you can make one heap of all your winnings
And risk it on one turn of pitch-and-toss,
And lose, and start again at your beginnings
And never breathe a word about your loss;
If you can force your heart and nerve and sinew
To serve your turn long after they are gone,
And so hold on when there is nothing in you
Except the Will which says to them: 'Hold on!'

If you can talk with crowds and keep your virtue,
' Or walk with Kings - nor lose the common touch,
if neither foes nor loving friends can hurt you,
If all men count with you, but none too much;
If you can fill the unforgiving minute
With sixty seconds' worth of distance run,
Yours is the Earth and everything that's in it,
And - which is more - you'll be a Man, my son!


-- kipling

can it be original?

>>586840
tv show was horrible, that part which i watched,
books were much better