Hi! Here's a couple of poems (I think), I hope you like them. Sorry they're kinda dark and sad.

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Ticktock

Looking out of the amber lens, you can see your entire life up until tonight. But you can't reach the controls.

You walk over to the buttons and dials and levers, but there aren't any labels. And it takes so long to push and pull and twist them, and it's so hard. And you're afraid of what will happen if you do.

So you lie back on your couch and stare through the amber lens. Life is peaceful here, and you think so much, yet speak so little.

But still the clock ticktocks, ticktocks, ticktocks. And everyone and everything gets older, except for you. Ticktock, ticktock. And you will be the last to die, but that's alright, because you never were alive. Ticktock.

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Chris

Chris is eight years of age. He enjoys listening. The school teachers tell him things that strum and pluck the strings of his mind. His classmates discuss what they are going to do when school lets out, and he hears everything they say. All trains of thought are filed away so they can be resumed later. Chris never stops thinking.

Chris is fourteen years of age. He enjoys reading. The books talk about people like Chris. Or rather, they talk about people like Inner Chris. Because inside of Chris is Inner Chris, who does anything he wants, and talks to whomever he wants, and says whatever is on his mind. Inner Chris' mind-strings are always vibrating.

Chris is eighteen years of age. He enjoys seeing. When Chris sees people, he can pretend he is standing near those people. And talking to those people. At night, Chris thinks about what he says, and what they say to him. In bed, Chris likes to stare at the shadows on the walls. Sometimes, he can make the shadows move. He wishes the shadows could talk, because he knows that they know more than he ever will.

Chris is twenty years of age. He enjoys nothing. The shadows move always, now. They don't talk, but that doesn't matter, because Chris already knows what they would say. During the day, Chris can close his eyes and see the shadows whenever he wants. Chris keeps his eyes closed a lot lately.

Chris is thirty years of age. He enjoys dreaming. And that's all he does.

Great writing.

Thanks, SJ.

For a school project I had to do community service and then make a public service announcement promoting it. I helped out at several public library events, and made a video in which Giles does a public service announcement about the library. I've put it online in case anyone would like to see it: Video

I hope you like it!

Dream

I know not your name
Yet I've seen your face
Night after night
In our dream-space

I reach out with my mind
Come with me, take my hand
Beneath Morpheus' gaze
On a beach of dream-sand

The sand is warm
The sun is low
Your pale skin
Appears to glow

Our bodies touch
Our palms do meet
The sun is gone
So we make our own heat

But the tide does rise
Sand slips away
Grain by grain
We wake to a new day

The day drags on
My memory fades
The image of
Your face degrades

Perhaps some day
I'll see your face
Remember it from
Our dream-place

Will you know me
Or continue unthrown
Meaning that
I dreamt alone

Like the rhythm to your writing,great poem!

Thanks

[center]The Great Experiment[/center]

He wakes up at the same time He does every morning and steps out of bed. Groggily He wanders into the bathroom and stares at His countenance in the mirror. Backing up a few steps, He glances at the rest of His body, aged and ageless, average and sublime. He mumbles something to Himself, and then gets on with the business of freshening up.

In the kitchen He pours Himself a cup of coffee. He takes His time drinking it, as He does every morning, and eats some toast as well, to delay the inevitable, as He does every morning.

He steps outside, barefoot and naked, to check the mailbox. Of course, He knows that there will be no mail today, just as there was no mail yesterday, and will be none tomorrow. He always knows, and He knows all. Doesn’t He?

Finally, He gets down to His business. He enters the house and closes the front door behind Him. Entering the laboratory, He dons a pair of white gloves. He picks up His clipboard and reads the first item. He pulls aside one of the many sliding doors, behind which are hundreds of tiny jars. He picks one up and examines its blue-green contents. Opening a hatch on the top, He sticks His finger in and wiggles it.

A hurricane in Kansas.

He replaces the jar and checks the tiny box on His clipboard. He picks up another jar and prods its contents as well.

A single mother in Brazil wins the lottery.

Check. As He picks up a third sample, He sighs deeply. This planet’s ordinarily blue-green complexion is turning a sickening crimson at an alarming rate.

He opens the jar’s hatch, dumps its contents, and fills it to the brim with soapy water. After a few rinses, He places the jar on an empty base. He presses the button labeled BB. He’s been doing this job forever, but starting over never gets any easier.

He puts an X on the clipboard. Someday, He knows He’ll make one that’ll last. Utopia can’t be that elusive, right?

Great writing!

Hope you like this. BTW, I'll continue to post some of my writing here, but I've also started a blog that will probably focus on writing, but will include other stuff as well. So if anyone is interested, the url is http://mohawkondisplay.blogspot.com/. If you visit it, please leave comments to let me know what you think! If enough people leave comments (so I know I'm getting visitors) I'll buy a shorter domain name (mohawkondisplay.com) to make it easier on you.

In Winter's Grasp

Alone I stand, naked and bare
Beside a well-tread road
My clothes (when I need them most
In this shivering cold)
Have been scattered by the wind
Beyond my reach

Travelers pass
And remark on my beauty
(My bare limbs, covered in snow)
With no regard for my feelings
My pain

So year after year
I must brave the Winter alone
Drawing courage from my rings
(One for each year I've survived)

And if I'm still here in Spring
(When Mother awakens)
I'll get pretty new green clothes
And another ring for my finger
Another year to go

Great piece of visual writing!