I know I said that I'd do it by December 9th, but I've been busy as crap. So I thought I should do it NOW.
This is my poetry world. For your poetic/philisophical thoughts, writings, songs that mean something to you deeply, etcetera.
Ground rules:(I hate them, too but we have to follow them)
1: If it is romantic, keep it anonymous, even if it is not someone on TheOtaku. Dedications are an exeption.
2: Keep the heavy language a little contained.
3: Have fun.
4: NO SLAMMING, your off in two pumps of a shotgun(after two warnings) if you fail to comply.
5: You can do ANYTHING, fan art, cards, songs, whatever your heart's consent.
6: If I think of other rules(probably won't) I will notify you immediately.
7: I recently added this rule as of December 1st, 2011...
If you want to, can you explain what you are saying at the end of your poem?
I realize something about this World.
I wrote a lot of depressing and emo shit on here.
Wow, I've really changed. I don't feel like the same person from back then as I feel right now.
This is just a poetic description of the annual Inspection that I attended on Friday. The emotions I felt were very detailed when I was standing at Attention & Parade Rest for hours.
Ahem.
The foreplay of the event was thrilling,...
Crying Without Tears-
How does a person cry?
Whether they scream bloody murder, drop stinging tears from their eyes, or go further than physically predicted, they all cry.
Feelings of pain pour through their bodies like hot lead from a gun.
Only a hollow soul cannot fathom the scars, honor the blood, or drop the tears.
The fakeness is what drives these people to the point of crying.
All the anger, all the shame, all the fear, all the pain.
Death insinuates pain, death insinuates, crying.
But you know what's worse than death? Agony. It'd be great to die with peace and honor, and most importantly, without pain.
But agony, pain, and torment, is a terrible terrible death...The way your body decays and the way it returns to the ground; without an aura to replace the physical body of the deceased, that is worse than death...A death with no life to remember.
To know what it is do die means to know what it is to live...And have that life be syphoned out of you bit by bit. All you can do is cry, a way to scream for help, a desperate scream of woe from a writhing victim.
But a spirit that is crushed, only a fragment can be left behind after death, and is wounded beyond repair. All that poor soul can do is grieve its life and fade into dust...A terrible death.
And even its cry is hollow as a black night with no stars.
A cry without tears...A cry without voice...A cry with a broken spirit.
Shameful the bloody trials of agony in its life...Even more shameful the death.
