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There are two novels that can change a bookish fourteen-year old's life: The Lord of the Rings and Atlas Shrugged. One is a childish fantasy that often engenders a lifelong obsession with its unbelievable heroes, leading to an emotionally stunted, socially crippled adulthood, unable to deal with the real world. The other, of course, involves orcs.

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Some published poetry.

Started by AFK, August 25, 2005, 02:59:15 PM

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AFK

Plywood

Liquid blue drops from above.
It enters into a cold metal chamber
Where it is squeezed and gushed through
A revolving silver-like sphere rolling
Along a vast plain of fibrous planks
Matted together.  With the lines of blue
Traveling across every so often.
And over the horizon I see
An encased slice of life
Between scorched sand and
Processed pulp.  With a border
Of shiny gray around it.  
It is a slice that used to be
A part of me.  It was cut from
My ever-beating heart and captured
In a limbo I can never access.

Everything Changes

Length of day light swiftly shrinks,
And the warmth evaporates into space.

Transformation.

Vibrant, green leaves lose vitality,
And shrivel into withered fragility.

Decay.

Summer dew is ushered off,
And Jack's soldiers take guard.

Changing.

Mother Nature's citizens scavenge and scurry,
And layer their bodies in nutritious warmth.

Anticipation.

White flakes of pureness float to the ground,
And the land slips into quiet slumber.

Shhhhhh.....
Cynicism is a blank check for failure.