Fun life, no worries
Races and hi-jinks.
Maturity, separation
Working, and education.
Stupid donkey.
Stupid picture.
Reckless adventurous childhood,
oh, how I miss it.
Monday, March 26, 2012
The Changes of a Nord
In these past few months of creative writing, and poetry, I have changed for the better. I am obviously more social, but I have always been like that when I get used to the people around me. I focus more on school at home than I used to, so I'm actually doing my homework at home now. I am overall just becoming more responsible and reliable in anything I do. Now that I have answered the question, I am upset. My dog is getting his first haircut today and I wanted to go, but nope I got to be in school. Sadface.
Thursday, March 1, 2012
Dulce et Decorum Est
Bent double, like old beggars under sacks,
Knock-kneed, coughing like hags, we cursed through sludge,
Till on the haunting flares we turned our backs
And towards our distant rest began to trudge.
Men marched asleep. Many had lost their boots
But limped on, blood-shod. All went lame; all blind;
Drunk with fatigue; deaf even to the hoots
Of tired, outstripped, Five-Nines that dropped behind.
Gas! Gas! Quick, boys--An ecstasy of fumbling,
Fitting the clusy helmets just in time;
But someone still was yelling out and stumbling,
And flound'ring like a man in fire or lime ...
Dim, through the misty panes and thick green light,
As under a green sea, I saw him drowning.
In all my dreams, before my helpless sight,
He plunges at me, guttering, choking, drowning.
If in some smothering dreams you too could pace
Behind the wagon that we flung him in,
And watch the white eyes writhing in his face,
His hanging face, like a devil's sick of sin;
If you could hear, at every jolt, the blood
Come gargling from the froth-corrupted lungs,
Obscene as cancer, bitter as the cud
Of vile, incurable sores on innocent tongues,--
My friend, you would not tell with such high zest
To children ardent for some desperate glory,
The old Lie: Dulce et decorum este
Pro patria mori
by Wilfred Owen
Knock-kneed, coughing like hags, we cursed through sludge,
Till on the haunting flares we turned our backs
And towards our distant rest began to trudge.
Men marched asleep. Many had lost their boots
But limped on, blood-shod. All went lame; all blind;
Drunk with fatigue; deaf even to the hoots
Of tired, outstripped, Five-Nines that dropped behind.
Gas! Gas! Quick, boys--An ecstasy of fumbling,
Fitting the clusy helmets just in time;
But someone still was yelling out and stumbling,
And flound'ring like a man in fire or lime ...
Dim, through the misty panes and thick green light,
As under a green sea, I saw him drowning.
In all my dreams, before my helpless sight,
He plunges at me, guttering, choking, drowning.
If in some smothering dreams you too could pace
Behind the wagon that we flung him in,
And watch the white eyes writhing in his face,
His hanging face, like a devil's sick of sin;
If you could hear, at every jolt, the blood
Come gargling from the froth-corrupted lungs,
Obscene as cancer, bitter as the cud
Of vile, incurable sores on innocent tongues,--
My friend, you would not tell with such high zest
To children ardent for some desperate glory,
The old Lie: Dulce et decorum este
Pro patria mori
by Wilfred Owen
Favorite Lines Poem - SkyRenPoet
It is now poised on the tip of your toungue,
singing sin.
Mouths, wide with laughter,
yet thoughts, filled with fire.
One look ties people down to a chair,
tortured emotionally.
Sharp minded,
enough to cut like a knife.
singing sin.
Mouths, wide with laughter,
yet thoughts, filled with fire.
One look ties people down to a chair,
tortured emotionally.
Sharp minded,
enough to cut like a knife.
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