Welcome to Gaia! ::

Alright guys, lets get comfortable. I know I have some poems that I write. Lets see what everyone is made of. It helps to express ourselves sometimes.

Alright, I'm going to warn you right this very minute that most of my poems are very dark. I always write them on the spur of the moment, and usually it's when I'm in a bad mood so it fits.

Facing West

(This one I wrote in 2006 and it got published in my high schools literary magazine in 2008 in the black licorice portion because of how dark it was)

She leaves her home for fear of her life,
And is forced to walk each day.
Through rain and snow she treads,
As hunger steals her strength.
Each day is a brand new nightmare,
As she struggles to stay alive.
Dreams of safety and peace fill her mind,
The only things that keep her going.
Never sure what tomorrow has in store,
She lies down for one more night.
Now to weak to move,
She lies in mud and rain.
People pass by, but don't stop to help,
They are too busy pushing on.
Finally at the end, she lies there facing west.




Alright, one more to get us warmed up.

you count the spokes as the wagons roll by,
Just waiting to make it on through to the night.
The sun is so hot that you think you might die,
But you try to imagine a beautiful sight.
Then all of a sudden it begins to rain,
It's cold and diseases are so far from rare.
You try to keep yourself from crying out in pain,
So far from home that you no longer care.
You're trying so hard to head the prophets call,
Then your husband is gone leaving you all alone.
And with ever step you take you begin to fall,
While your children hear you crying as you try not to moan.
You long for the words saying you've found the right place,
But each day that passes it is never the case.


Now it's your turn. Show me what you guys are made of. You get some up and I'll give you even more.

I really like "Facing West" Crystal. Even though it's dark, it just gives off such a strong emotion that I really like to read.

And "On the Trail" made me think of this one story I read a long time ago. It was sad, but I really liked it.

This morning (at 1:30, that is) I was trying to write a "fractured fairytal" for a writing contest for my summer theater...and it turned into a harry potter fanfiction. *facepalm* anyway, it seemed like a lot of people liked it, so it can be found here.

Here's one I wrote for Advanced CW last year. God, that class was fun.. Anyway, this poem was for the "Serious Comedy" challenge assignment. Hope you guys like it. It's a different perspective on Edgar Allen Poe's Raven.

The Raven’s Wife

Where do you go when you’re not perching
On that pallid bust of Pallas
Above some poor schmuck’s chamber door?
Do you go home to a nest and a woman
And proudly state, “Guess what I said a hundred times today!”
Nevermore?

She looks at you with beady eyes,
Is that all you did? She squawks. I’ve spent all day
Drudging up pieces of a lost Lenore for supper.
The least you could do is put that poor fellow
Out of his misery and peck out his eyes.
He doesn’t use them but for crying.

And you, Mr. Raven, never flitting,
You’ll go back to sitting on that bust,
Drinking shots of another’s amber sorrow.

When you come home the wife will caw,
You reek of incense; been hanging out with Saraphim I see.
She doesn’t care about forgotten lore
Or what really is a Lost Lenore.

You’ve sat there on that bust for days and days
Looking at that poor fellow and wondering
What it is that haunts him like a ghostly haze
And calls you in to roost. You’re powerless
To leave, for you love to watch him suffer
It’s good to know you’re not alone.

That man is your raven and you are his
Your souls trapped in each others’ shadow
As the birds of sadness make their nests.
You will haunt each other-
Forevermore.

This is a 12-segment story I finished recently, on my DA account.

One Step Away

The story of Henry and Klara (Yes, the girl's name is Klara like my character here; I'm not all that original with characters. xd ), a young man playing his music in the streets and a Czech girl who draws his eye one day when he hears her singing along with him. As their friendship grows over the following weeks, so does the mystery of the Praguer who sings like an angel and plays piano like a dream, but falls silent at the tip of a hat. Will the music they share draw her from her silence, or bury her back within its depths?

WARNING: THERE IS EXTREMELY MATURE AND MILDLY GRAPHIC CONTENT IN THIS STORY. IF YOU ARE UNDER THE AGE OF 17 YOU MIGHT WANT TO THINK TWICE BEFORE READING. I SAY 17 BECAUSE I WROTE IT AND I AM 17 SO I THINK THAT'S FAIR. THAT IS ALL.