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Something SomethingNormal


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#1
SomethingNormal

SomethingNormal

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My poetry sucks. It's either that, or my prose writings are fucking incredible, because they are much better than my poems. I tried my hand at poetry several times (something close to 30, 40 poems) and they just don't compare with my prose. There are a few exceptions. I'm gonna leave y'all with 3 of my works, 2 poems which survived my critique, and an allegorical story I wrote in like, 5, 10 minutes this afternoon.

Another Alley

Take a walk
On your own
Down another alley
The same alley
Through which walks The Lonesome
Everyday
Before the sun's rise
Every night
After the sun's fall
Head down
Don't face the world
Don't welcome the sights
Deaf to the sound of the alley
To the sound of the heart
To the sound of the mind
Deaf to all but the symphony in the head
A symphony heard by only one
The Lonesome who walks through this alley
This alley, through which Lonesome walks
Alone
Everyday
Before the sun's rise
Every night
After the sun's fall
Until the day the sun never rises
Until the night the sun never falls
Death
In one mind
The symphony's requiem
The last note
Played all too short
Played all too quietly
The last note
All in its lonesome
Walking through another alley
The alley where The Lonesome walks
Alone again
Everyday and every night
With his head down
Blind to the world before him
Deaf to the world around him
Memory of the world behind him
And the symphony which is heard no more
By Lonesome



That's actually supposed to be aligned in the center, but whatev.

#2
SomethingNormal

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Here is one of a less sad tone, more frustration and bitterness.

Monster Under My Bed

Tell me to be silent
Tell me not to cry
Everything will be OK

They said Gaia can’t die

Harder to create
Easier to take away
Change no longer constant

Curtain call for this play

Tree took 100 years to grow
It takes 10 minutes to make it fall
Chip it, and lay it in a park

They learn to walk before they can crawl

Spray unreadable names on brick
Carve them into the bench
Folly marks its territory

The unbearable stench

Drop balls into holes
Drop hammers onto nails
Drop bombs onto towns

Master’s lapdogs wag their tails

Curse the rats in the gutter
“Plague carriers ahead!”
Counting your life in miles per gallon

The monster under my bed

#3
SomethingNormal

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This is the allegory I wrote earlier. I've hardly even proofread it yet, so this is fresh off the press.

"Don't stick the fork into the outlet. You'll get hurt."
"Really?"
"Really. I've seen it happen before, lot's of times. I've even done it. It hurts."
"Oh... Alright. I'll be fine though, you know?"
"You're wrong."
So it went on like this for a while. Lucy held the fork near the outlet, John told her not to stick it in. They talked about it for a while, and then John went home. Lucy left the fork about a foot from the outlet, and went to bed.
The next day, John came over again. Lucy was sitting by the outlet. She sat like a little kid, with her legs straight out in front of her, spread out like she was waiting for someone to play "roll the ball" with her. John came and sat in front of her. He sat like her, with his legs straight out in front of him, and spread like he was going to play "roll the ball" with Lucy. His feet were gently touching her feet. They didn't have a ball though. They had a fork, and it was about a foot away from the electrical outlet.
Lucy picked up the fork. She toyed with it, rolling it around, looking at it closely. After some consideration, she reached for the outlet.
"Don't put it there, you'll get hurt," John said.
"I'll be fine."
"You're wrong."
Lucy put the fork down about six inches from the electrical outlet. John went home, and Lucy went to bed.
The next day, things happened almost the same, but this time John was getting irked.
"Are you stupid? Stop that, you're going to hurt yourself!"
"You're just jealous."
"Yes, that's it. You're going to get hurt, and then you'll see how stupid you're being."
John went home, and Lucy went to bed. The fork was right next to the outlet that night.
The next day, John came over, and Lucy was laying down next to the fork and the outlet.
"Did you get hurt?" He was concerned, and annoyed.
"Yes," she answered quietly. She didn't turn around, she instead looked at the outlet and the fork, and wondered what went wrong.
"Don't do it again, ok?"
"Ok."
John went home, and Lucy went to bed. The fork was right next to the outlet.
The next day, John came over and saw Lucy laying down in front of the outlet. Her hair was messy, and she was sniffing. She had been crying. The fork was there, where she'd dropped it.
"You did it again, and got hurt?"
"Yes."
"Stop doing that. It hurts me too."
"How the hell does it hurt you too?"
John didn't answer. He went home instead. Lucy went to bed, and the fork laid there where she had dropped it.
John didn't come back the next day, but instead the day after. Lucy was sitting across the room from the outlet. She looked at the fork, and looked at the electrical outlet. She had been crying again, and her hair was messy. She wore makeup that day, so when she cried, the tears took some makeup with them.
"You did it again, and you got hurt again, didn't you?" He asked.
"Yes. I did it yesterday too. I realized something today."
"What's that?"
"It hurts. I shouldn't do it."
"You realized that?"
"Yes. I realized that."
John gave Lucy a hug and then went home. Lucy didn't go to bed. She stayed there, looking at the fork and the outlet, and she cried some more, and some more of her makeup went with the tears. John wrote her a letter when he got home. It said:

Dear Lucy:
I told you that you would get hurt. I told
you, I told you, I told you, "Don't stick
that fork in that electrical outlet," but you
did it anyway. So you got hurt, and I had told
you that you would, but you didn't listen. You
said you realized that it hurts, but I had
already told you that it hurts.

Love;
John

John read the letter he had written to Lucy, and then he crumbled it up, and threw it into the fireplace.

#4
PsycoticPenguin

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    Horton Hatches The Egg

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  • Location:In The Headlights
  • Interests:I want to dive into everything's blissful moments and take courage for a spin. Let lifeless eternity not leave me dry in it's dismal rythm. Everything but nothing taking me for a magic carpet ride. And "As the pattern gets more intricate and subtle, being swept along is no longer enough."
The first one irks me a bit and I don't know why.
The other two I really like.

#5
SomethingNormal

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The poems were written in 03. Another Alley may even have been from 02. They's old. The prose is the most recent thing I've written.

#6
n_joy_n_sorrow

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    Friends don't let friends kill people.?

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I like the last one. It kind of lets the reader make their own symbolisim with the fork and the outlet and the hurt. Very nice
Nothing quite brings out the zest for life in a person like the thought of their impending death." -Nny
"touching, informative, inspirational, secondshifters"

#7
SomethingNormal

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Methanks you, milady.

#8
Ryver

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    Yertle The Turtle

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I like them. there nicely put together.


... but why are all poems so... depressing? I feal like... personaly harming people when I read most of the ones on here. its just really sad. You should lighten it up with a poem about.... kitties Something! But I do like yours. Very nice.they made me cry (Im assuming that was the intentional fealing you put into them)
Take me home.... Im delicious!!

#9
Enki Anunaki

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one hundred and twenty volts is electrifyingly entertaining...
when i was a child i played with open faced outlets...
and light fixtures...
and many things i shouldn't have...
sufficed to say...
they don't hurt...
but that could alos have to do with my bodies negative twenty three amp charge...
i like the oldest one...
the talk of alley ways reminds me of my childhood...
and the sounds of the human mind...
as each instrument is broken...
to silence the individualism of mental music...
submit...
conform...
support...
martyr...

#10
SomethingNormal

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Give me some time to look through my... database of writings (crappy, and good) and I'll get a happy poem, a mushy poem, an angry poem. I've done a few of each.

Most of them make me sick.

I'm a goddamned prose and essay writer. Poetry isn't my forte.

#11
Ryver

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well then wright an essay on... kitties! LOL im sorry in in a really weird mood!
Take me home.... Im delicious!!

#12
SomethingNormal

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Something about kitties coming up... Sometime. For now, Here is a short story I wrote. I hope it isn't too long for the site. It's 4 Word pages long, so if it's too much, someone let me know.

“Rest Assured,” the Reaper Said

Again with the pacing. If Joline didn’t know any better, she’d think that something had gone awry for her captor. Unfortunately for her, she did know better. Things weren’t about to go her way, and if her instinct proved true, they were going to get worse. For now though, Joline had her head in the present. She didn’t have her wits completely about her, on the count of the injections, but whatever thoughts she had were focusing on a way to break free. Any kind of plan was welcomed, because being ready for the chance to run was better than lying there decomposing alive.
It was becoming increasingly difficult to plot any movements because of the damnable pacing. Her captor, whom she’d heard referred to as “Chief” by one of the shaggy looking underlings she’d seen walking around, was pacing slowly throughout the dark wood-veneered room that was her prison cell. In his hand was a very powerful looking, silver magnum. The slow rhythmic thudding of his dirt-encrusted combat boots assaulted Joline like an 18-wheeler rolling back and forth over her head. The resounding cacophony washed over her like a rockslide in the Swiss Alps, and she silently prayed to whatever god would listen that it stop.
The Chief suddenly came to a halt, and Joline sent quiet praise to whoever had answered her prayer. He looked into her eyes for a long moment, and seemed to break out into a sweat, but he shook his head, and holstered the gun. Then, as though he had settled a debate with someone who wasn’t present, he said, “No. It’s on now.” He turned abruptly on a heel and stalked out of the room through the door across from Joline’s cot.
She had to assess the situation. The rag soaked in paint thinner, which they tied to her neck for about four hours a day had been – thankfully - tossed away, unable to take the wear and tear of active torture. It was more like a plaster cast of her neck when one of the Chief’s two flunkies took it off. The source of her headache, nosebleed, and nausea gone, she could now hope to clear her mind a little bit, and think her way home. Unfortunately, with the acrid stench gone, her stomach seemed to hurt more than it had before. The leather bands that cut off circulation to her hands and feet were rubbing her wrists and ankles raw, and her bruised forearm still stung from all the needles that introduced God-knows-what to her system. Needless to say, she was in no condition to fight off the militant, depraved psycho that kept her.
Joline had overheard samples of several single-sided conversations that took place in the other room. Chief spent a lot of time talking about this, that, and whatever on the phone with someone. So many arrangements, arguments, shouts, and fists slamming onto the large oaken table that furnished the antechamber to her cell, and all she could infer from it was that this was not the end. There was still another hand to be dealt, another act to be played, and another step to be taken.

It was another two days before that hand was dealt. After two and a half months of captivity, Joline was about ready to give up, and try swallowing the recently replaced rag, doused in paint thinner. As she fought back the tears that are her usual precursor to a merciful suicide attempt, glass shattered in the opposite end of the small house. A loud crash marked the displacement of the heavy door that sealed off the building from the outside world and shouts rang. The staccato of heavy gunfire sounded throughout, and the shouting ceased abruptly. Immediately ensuing the silence, the gunfire stopped, and there came a loud, “Clear!”
Within only several seconds of the initial racket, the door to Joline’s room crashed violently open allowing a cloud of smoke to roll into the room, followed in short order by two men in black jumpsuits, black gas masks, and flak jackets, each carrying a police issue sub-machine gun, who quickly scanned the room for any more of their quarry. Seeing none, one of the men came forward, standing over a petrified Joline. He looked with sad eyes - darkened by make-up - into the terrified Joline’s eyes - darkened by a pair of shiners she’d gotten a week before. Then he knelt down next to her and stroked her hair gently out of her face. The other man gave him an impatient kick to the butt, and after the initial surprise, the one kneeling next to Joline produced a small bottle, and a handkerchief from a vest pocket. He opened the bottle, and held the handkerchief over the opening, and then placed it over Joline’s nose. The chloroform put her under immediately.

When Joline came to, she was in a quaint, white washed room. A steady beeping marked her hearts contractions and rarefactions. The pillow on which her head rested was a very welcomed luxury. She smiled weakly to herself, and then closed her eyes to go to sleep.

Time to wake up. She felt well rested when her body clock told her it was time to rise. The smell of French toast, and orange juice filled her nostrils, a stark contrast to the paint thinner and urine stench that filled her existence for some time previous. My god, she thought. I made it! They found me, I’m alive, they found me, I get to go home! I’m finally free! Mom, Dad, Danny, Joe, Melissa, even that damn dog that barks at 3 AM and drives me insane, I get to see them all! Her elation was followed by tears of joy, and raspy sobs. The sun shined in through the single window behind her on the wall above her headboard. Things were finally going her way.
The door to her room opened, and a man wearing a white lab coat, and a stethoscope around his neck came in. He looked rather young, maybe late 20’s, early 30’s. The doctor gave Joline a smile, as he walked casually to her side.
“Well, I’m glad you’re awake. You’ve had quite an ordeal Joline. I’m surprised really. You’ve done well for yourself, in spite of all this. You’re quite the spitfire,” he said calmly.
Joline had to fight tears again. A friendly face. How long it had been since she’d seen one of those! “I’m free,” was all she could manage to say without choking up.
“Yes, you are free. You’re a long way from home, but your parents are flying out today. You should be seeing them tomorrow morning. Do you feel like eating?” The doctor rolled the tray with the food over to the bed.
“No,” replied Joline. After she had regained composure. “I’m not hungry. I mean, I am, but I don’t feel good enough to keep it down. They drugged me.”
“Very well then. I’ll leave it here if you change your mind. I’m going to give you some morphine for the pain, OK?” He pulled a vial from his coat pocket, and prepared to inject her with the substance. “Rest assured. You’re going to be OK from now on.”
After the dose was given to her, Joline smiled at the doctor, the tears welling up in her eyes once more. “Thank you.” She was soon fast asleep.

When Joline woke a couple hours later, she was feeling adventurous, albeit in a great amount of pain from her stomach. She hadn’t eaten a good meal in a long time. Nevertheless, it was time to test her surroundings. She reached over to a side table, and fumbled around finding a TV remote control. She picked it up, studied it briefly, and turned on the TV that was hanging from the ceiling in the far corner of the room.
It was the news. An aerial view showed a small, rustic cabin out in the middle of a forest, with a single white van parked outside. All at once a half dozen SWAT team personnel charged the house, tossing smoke grenades through the windows, and knocking the front door off its hinges with a portable battering ram. The men charged in, one through each window, and four through the door. The sound of machine guns sounding off, and one lower pitched boom could be heard, and then it was quiet.
The anchor was talking about a tragedy, and the grizzly discovery of a teenaged girl, who had been kidnapped over two months ago. After the police stormed the building, the three, armed kidnappers and a poisoned teenage girl lay dead.
Joline had not been conscious for any of her transportation, so she was uncertain of the whereabouts of the cabin she had been confined to. It seemed somewhat familiar, but she was fairly sure she wasn’t dead. A camera on the ground some time after the assault showed four stretchers, each with a white sheet covering a human body. A medic tended to a minor wound one of the policemen sustained in the fighting.
Joline sat in wonderment, and almost a hint of pride, that she had made it out, and this other girl hadn’t. The blood rushed out of her face when the TV changed over to a video of her mother, father, and older brother huddled together, hysterical, and in tears. The anchor’s words were lost to her, as the familiarity of the situation stung her. A school photo featuring her flashed on the screen, and a date beneath read “1987-2004.”
“I’m not dead,” she said to the TV. “I’m not dead, I’m here!”
She suddenly felt nauseous again, and slipped out of her bed to stumble over to the sink across the room. Her knees were wobbly, as she hadn’t walked on her own in weeks. She collapsed over the sink and vomited what precious little fluids she had in her. Dehydrated and horrified, she hobbled to the only door in the room. She turned the knob, and when the door swung into the room and was no longer supporting her, she fell to her hands and knees.
She crawled through the halls, sobbing and shaking, until she came to a door. Her atrophied limbs gave out, and she lay flat on the floor. The door was a mere few feet from her, and she could hear the voices inside.
“Look, we’re already treading on thin ice here. If we don’t hurry up and finish this Goddamn experiment, the feds will shut us down, and we won’t get the contract!”
“Relax, will you? I’ve got it under control. The girl’s already showing signs that the virus is at work. Her liver is failing at a high rate. If you hadn’t kept her in such shitty conditions for the past 10 weeks, we MIGHT have had more accurate results, but since you screwed up, it’s going to take some more time!”
“Don’t feed me your bullshit! None of this is my fault, so finish your Goddamn studies, so we can put this behind us! This whole thing is making me sick.” With that, a man wearing clean-polished black combat boots, and tan pants stepped out of the door and in front of Joline.
Joline lifted her head, and found herself looking up, once again, at the Chief. The Chief stared back into her eyes, and anger faded into sadness, and pity. The doctor stepped out of the room and saw Joline lying there, staring at her captor.
“Back to bed Joline. You’re not done yet. I’m sorry you had to hear that.” The doctor spoke in an all too calm manner.
“It’s all a lie,” Joline whispered, barely audible that neither man could hear it.
The doctor knelt down, and scooped up an unresisting teenage girl, and carried her back to her room.
The Chief stared at a doomed Joline all the way down the hall.
Joline stared at a very much alive “Chief” all the way back to her white washed cell.


There. No kitties, and not altogether cheerful, but it ain't bad. The dialogue could use work, and some stuff at the beginning needs to change, but that's a third or 4th draft of that work.




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