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Poem thread? Poem thread!

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I like poems! They're fun to write, and once I get an idea down, the pen does too, and doesn't come up until the thought process is done, or the emotion is gone.


So post any and all poems/free writing!


The road to revolt isn't Paul Revere's

ride at midnight.


It's that man who yells down at the

end of the street,

Covered by a throng,

The one you're not allowed near.


It's the raised hand,

The one you're not allowed to fight,

The one you can't say no too.


It's the stopper

hat keeps you silent;

Glaring, yet silent.


It's the man dragged out of his room,

by men in red.


It's the looks,

Those armored men receive,

Walking down the paved walk,

Looks of their own.


Its the bears tanks,

Creeping down the dusty


The threads kicking it up.


It's the sunlight blocked out not with


But with smoke.


The road to revolt isn't the first shot.


It's who fired it.


((Something i'm proud of (though it might not be the best) to start off!))

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A Sonnet for the Fury

Iceborn goddess, for our own heart's solace,

Renew today this sacred trust that binds

Our towers gleaming, your image flawless.

So they together ever will entwine.

We knoweth thee, beneath our frigid plea;

That you alone command hard frostbit cold

And harken not to warm our land with glee,

But narrow lucent eyes on us to scold.

For what is fear of bidden ice-cold rime

Compared with perils of dragon fire.

Learn thee to face the harshest cold, sublime.

Lest fail yourself the test of time, and tire."

But... as she cloaks our land with bulwark cold,

Shall she our hearts' goodwill and warmth withhold?



An Ishgardian Girl's Retrospective

Cold spring gives way to colder summer.

The seasons having lost their way.

‘Twas not that sun chose to slumber,

But that the frost preferred to stay.



Whatever spell was cast upon it,

On that remembered fateful day,

Could not be fled, except by permit,

Sooner some escape, than to obey.

To find the world, than to submit.



I once was one that longed to see

To hear, to feel, to learn, and know,

What it meant to be a woman free.

To leave it all behind, and let it go.



Now I know, the taste and feel of sun.

Beach-hot white sand beneath my feet,

In salt-sweet air, and carefree fun,

And endless smiles for all I meet.



But I cannot forget, or cease to care,

From where I came, and who I am.

Embittered cold, that all must bear,

From where I came, and who I am.

The howling gale, hope, despair.



Where cold-capped snow peaks linger still,

Where frost strong-clings to all it sees.

Where hearth and home bring warm goodwill,

Where love exists beneath the freeze.



Black Sands of Ul'dah

Black sand stands watch, bitter sun

Days hard toil, spirit spent, wages won

Beneath tall spires, that toward the sky stretch on,

Wondering from day-to-day when it will be done,

And who, when it comes, will have won

And what it is, they shall acquire.


Those who cannot shun hard sand blown,

Know what those above have never known,

Where hot air boils, and bakes the bone,

Spirits worn to pound the sand and stone

Yet still are told they must atone,

and stubbornly refuse to tire.


While those in towers watch with scorn,

Upon those lesser, to toil born,

Whose clothes, tools, and hands hard-worn,

Have little, gilded, or untorn,

And know not what it truly means to adorn,

The polished pleasantry of the buyer.


Upon hard dust, where pity breaks,

All are owned or bought by he who takes,

And uses them for all good things he makes,

Reminding each again of the stakes,

The threat that awaits when he awakes,

Should the master, in his whim desire.


Hope, and eyes raised to aspire still,

When rain comes to bring its thirsty-thrill,

Letting all below, devour and drink their fill,

While, showing masters beyond the till,

Who know the truth, and all they will,

Give faith to eyes, and inspire.


The sight of rain that cannot recognize

That doesn't know or seem to realize

That it should know who to penalize,

and who its supposed to demonize,

But instead, seems to emphasize

That none should be the drier.

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Here's something I did as a class assignment. I'm not much of a poem writer, myself, so I ended up starting with the first stanza of one of Y'lani's songs. The theme was, "Connecting Communities, Peace and Prosperity".


Tales from Lost Nights


With a passion for all, he held out his hands

Only to be dealt a blade with disastrous plans

No courage, no strength, could keep him from running

And so he changed, alas, now very cunning!


Bright as the moon over starlight

His people feared and fretted, stirred no quarrels or fights

They lit the flames of the night, the night!

Their union defaced by an infectious plight


With a retreat for all, she holds out her knife

Only to be defied by a king razed by strife

No promises, no lies could keep her from slaying

And so she’s deranged, alas, left for laying!


Lost like the widow in white

Her family begged and pleaded, prayed lost love’s might

They let their hearts fall alight, alight!

Their merger unlaced by a formidable height


Our battles are waged with smiles and sighs

No blades, no knives, no arrogance and lies

We, their people, have learned from before

And have grown to love one another at core


This is our tale

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i'm not very creative when it comes to poems...can we post our favorite published ones too?

That's no problem at all! Go ahead!


If that's the case, I'll post one of my favorites, too. c:


Do not go gentle into that good night

Dylan Thomas


Do not go gentle into that good night,

Old age should burn and rave at close of day;

Rage, rage against the dying of the light.


Though wise men at their end know dark is right,

Because their words had forked no lightning they

Do not go gentle into that good night.


Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright

Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay,

Rage, rage against the dying of the light.


Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight,

And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way,

Do not go gentle into that good night.


Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight

Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay,

Rage, rage against the dying of the light.


And you, my father, there on the sad height,

Curse, bless, me now with your fierce tears, I pray.

Do not go gentle into that good night.

Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

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The Highwayman

By Alfred Noyes



The wind was a torrent of darkness among the gusty trees.

The moon was a ghostly galleon tossed upon cloudy seas.

The road was a ribbon of moonlight over the purple moor,

And the highwayman came riding—


The highwayman came riding, up to the old inn-door.


He’d a French cocked-hat on his forehead, a bunch of lace at his chin,

A coat of the claret velvet, and breeches of brown doe-skin.

They fitted with never a wrinkle. His boots were up to the thigh.

And he rode with a jewelled twinkle,

His pistol butts a-twinkle,

His rapier hilt a-twinkle, under the jewelled sky.


Over the cobbles he clattered and clashed in the dark inn-yard.

He tapped with his whip on the shutters, but all was locked and barred.

He whistled a tune to the window, and who should be waiting there

But the landlord’s black-eyed daughter,

Bess, the landlord’s daughter,

Plaiting a dark red love-knot into her long black hair.


And dark in the dark old inn-yard a stable-wicket creaked

Where Tim the ostler listened. His face was white and peaked.

His eyes were hollows of madness, his hair like mouldy hay,

But he loved the landlord’s daughter,

The landlord’s red-lipped daughter.

Dumb as a dog he listened, and he heard the robber say—


“One kiss, my bonny sweetheart, I’m after a prize to-night,

But I shall be back with the yellow gold before the morning light;

Yet, if they press me sharply, and harry me through the day,

Then look for me by moonlight,

Watch for me by moonlight,

I’ll come to thee by moonlight, though hell should bar the way.”


He rose upright in the stirrups. He scarce could reach her hand,

But she loosened her hair in the casement. His face burnt like a brand

As the black cascade of perfume came tumbling over his breast;

And he kissed its waves in the moonlight,

(O, sweet black waves in the moonlight!)

Then he tugged at his rein in the moonlight, and galloped away to the west.




He did not come in the dawning. He did not come at noon;

And out of the tawny sunset, before the rise of the moon,

When the road was a gypsy’s ribbon, looping the purple moor,

A red-coat troop came marching—


King George’s men came marching, up to the old inn-door.


They said no word to the landlord. They drank his ale instead.

But they gagged his daughter, and bound her, to the foot of her narrow bed.

Two of them knelt at her casement, with muskets at their side!

There was death at every window;

And hell at one dark window;

For Bess could see, through her casement, the road that he would ride.


They had tied her up to attention, with many a sniggering jest.

They had bound a musket beside her, with the muzzle beneath her breast!

“Now, keep good watch!” and they kissed her. She heard the doomed man say—

Look for me by moonlight;

Watch for me by moonlight;

I’ll come to thee by moonlight, though hell should bar the way!


She twisted her hands behind her; but all the knots held good!

She writhed her hands till her fingers were wet with sweat or blood!

They stretched and strained in the darkness, and the hours crawled by like years

Till, now, on the stroke of midnight,

Cold, on the stroke of midnight,

The tip of one finger touched it! The trigger at least was hers!


The tip of one finger touched it. She strove no more for the rest.

Up, she stood up to attention, with the muzzle beneath her breast.

She would not risk their hearing; she would not strive again;

For the road lay bare in the moonlight;

Blank and bare in the moonlight;

And the blood of her veins, in the moonlight, throbbed to her love’s refrain.


Tlot-tlot; tlot-tlot! Had they heard it? The horsehoofs ringing clear;

Tlot-tlot; tlot-tlot, in the distance? Were they deaf that they did not hear?

Down the ribbon of moonlight, over the brow of the hill,

The highwayman came riding—


The red coats looked to their priming! She stood up, straight and still.


Tlot-tlot, in the frosty silence! Tlot-tlot, in the echoing night!

Nearer he came and nearer. Her face was like a light.

Her eyes grew wide for a moment; she drew one last deep breath,

Then her finger moved in the moonlight,

Her musket shattered the moonlight,

Shattered her breast in the moonlight and warned him—with her death.


He turned. He spurred to the west; he did not know who stood

Bowed, with her head o’er the musket, drenched with her own blood!

Not till the dawn he heard it, and his face grew grey to hear

How Bess, the landlord’s daughter,

The landlord’s black-eyed daughter,

Had watched for her love in the moonlight, and died in the darkness there.


Back, he spurred like a madman, shouting a curse to the sky,

With the white road smoking behind him and his rapier brandished high.

Blood red were his spurs in the golden noon; wine-red was his velvet coat;

When they shot him down on the highway,

Down like a dog on the highway,

And he lay in his blood on the highway, with a bunch of lace at his throat.


. . .


And still of a winter’s night, they say, when the wind is in the trees,

When the moon is a ghostly galleon tossed upon cloudy seas,

When the road is a ribbon of moonlight over the purple moor,

A highwayman comes riding—


A highwayman comes riding, up to the old inn-door.


Over the cobbles he clatters and clangs in the dark inn-yard.

He taps with his whip on the shutters, but all is locked and barred.

He whistles a tune to the window, and who should be waiting there

But the landlord’s black-eyed daughter,

Bess, the landlord’s daughter,

Plaiting a dark red love-knot into her long black hair.

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My favourite piece of spoken word poetry:


followed shortly by this:



Shane Koyczan could inspire an entire mountain to move.


I always get goosebumps  near the end of each poem. xD




The Mechanics of Men



I have never been the most mechanically inclined of men.

                Wrenches, screwdrivers, or shovels

have never made nice with me. In the shipyard,


I worked alone, in the dark, deep in

               the bilges of frigates. For two months,

I hooked a torch to an oxygen tank with a green line and pulled a red


hose through bulkheads to gas. The brass tool

              hissed like an ostrich

when it fed on metal. That day, my flame cut


permanent deck fittings; the loops fell like bright oranges;

              I ripened the rusty metal. I knew

that this was a job to baby-sit me, a job they gave to bad burners,


beginners playing with their tools: who pretended their brass torches

             were trumpets, and that gulls in the bay were tables

of distracted diners. When my father was a boy, his father loaded him


and his siblings in the car and dropped them off downtown

               so my grandfather could get drunk and my

grandmother could pretend he wasn't drinking again. When I was a boy,


I enjoyed watching my father dig; with dirt between his palms, he spun

              the shovel before he dug. As I grew, I tried

to stay away from work, even when he paid me. I stayed away from him too.


I never understood how he could work around so much grass. For him,

                life was work. For him, everything was hard. For me,

it was not hard. He stalked my mother a long time after their divorce.


He never understood she was not sod to be laid, or a sprinkler to be

             attached to a pvc pipe seven inches in the ground.

That pregnant at fifteen was too soon. Neither of us is the most


mechanical of men, yet we still pride ourselves on how we fashion our tools.

              I wake up shivering and crying in an empty bed,

the afternoon light entering and leaving an empty bottle of wine near


an emptier glass—or roll over and try, and fail, to remember a woman's

                name, which never really gets old, just uncouth

to say so, and feel fixed. To feel fixed is to feel a mechanical spirit, to feel love,


or at least to play at paste for an evening, to make believe she will never leave me,

                as life almost did when I cut the green hose, and was

lonely and shaking that day on the deck of the destroyer, looking into the


green water, and wondered what would be written on my tomb:

               "Killed by oxygen was this unmechanical man."

In that moment close to death, I only wanted my own lungs. I didn't regret


returning home and sleeping on my father's couch. And that summer, I returned

               to each of the women of my past and bedded

them all, trying to reheat our want. I don't regret that—drinking wine


and making love, or writing poems and making love, of wanting to stay

               but nonetheless leaving. I don't regret returning

with Said and Spivak, with Weil and Augustine, of telling my father


"All sins are an attempt to fill voids" or rebuilding my grandfather's

              house with Hopkins in my head

as I ripped the tar and shingles off the old roof with a shovel.


And I am not mad for being the second favorite son,

              Esau turned inside out. Can't regret saying

that summer, I was, in fact, already, a bigger and better man


than my father because I understood more. I didn't mind he

               favored my younger brother, who knew less

than him. I favored my brother's way of living, of skating


in the park and smoking weed while I studied and wondered for us all.

              How ridiculous I was that summer for us all;

for not attempting to rebuild any of his love that summer, at all.

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*casually pretending I didn't just make a poetry thread and post these 2 days ago* Feel free to have a look at some very unskilled but self indulgent babby poems. I'm probably going to make a verse for each of the 12 but I also don't write poetry often. And these are all my character's patron deities which makes them a bit more special to me.


Oschon the wanderer

Patron of rogues and vagrants

The aimless fool with his walking crutch

Passing through fields, rivers, mountains, valleys

Guardian of the invisible


Llymlaen the navigator

Lady of the compass, master of the four winds

The pirate's patron

Holding hands with the sea

Leader of the stray


Nymeia the spinner

Weaver of fate, watcher of stars

Binding free will with lengths of thread

Overseer of pain and fortune

The gagged observer

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*casually pretending I didn't just make a poetry thread and post these 2 days ago* Feel free to have a look at some very unskilled but self indulgent babby poems. I'm probably going to make a verse for each of the 12 but I also don't write poetry often. And these are all my character's patron deities which makes them a bit more special to me.


Oschon the wanderer

Patron of rogues and vagrants

The aimless fool with his walking crutch

Passing through fields, rivers, mountains, valleys

Guardian of the invisible


Llymlaen the navigator

Lady of the compass, master of the four winds

The pirate's patron

Holding hands with the sea

Leader of the stray


Nymeia the spinner

Weaver of fate, watcher of stars

Binding free will with lengths of thread

Overseer of pain and fortune

The gagged observer


-Hugs- I'm sorry. :c I checked to make sure I wasn't making a repeat post here in the Off Topic area, but...


These are good! I feel like you'll be able to expand them pretty well. xD

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I'm not one for poetry, but..my fiance is.


His most popular is... too embarrassing for me to post here.  >////<


But here's another one that his friends/readers on his site really liked.


Feet clench when meeting the cool tile, Cold feet make way

to the trying wooden floor boards with subdued creeks

On a level so high up, there are two sets of thick glass

and a city just beyond my reach


This is where I rise and ponder at all hours of ever

aimless to the point of seeking something further

Than what my eyes have always sought


Waking searching heart beat ripples

grating fear dark moans my questions spiral on

Into tunnels where the Gods play life or death

and the air about them is so unapologetic

the sterile resistance of the catacomb becomes



Can you hear it?


Chaos till the calm, the still

adrenaline on the breeze, the pulse

The hand grasping the arm in an attempt to relax


Me me me


Oh' you see me but do you empathize?


My defiance is as aimless as existence itself

meaning from something closer

Than what my mind has fought


The cure is liquid clear and precise

the instrument holds the sharpest alleviation

Potent in my veins I can feel sleep puncturing


Pure sedation,  and now I grow quiet, still again

what's that word? "Indifferent"


Indentured to the sterile glow of the catacomb  


I'm sure the needle would at least apologize

for all  of these misunderstandings


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  • 2 months later...

I've remembered this thread.




Here's something i've written today, not been a very good past couple of days, and it needs some revisioning and editing.





Your clenched teeth - Makyn


Let the air suck in through your clenched teeth, your hands away from your eyes. Let the tears dry in the air and straighten back up. Stand tall. Let it out. Breathe.


Let the upwelling bring the cold to the surface, to be warmed, but let it stay at the surface, warm. 


Know that it is still there, always. Until the cold ground is uplifted, it's always there. Make of it what you can even if it wasn't what it was before, know that, sometimes, you did what you could. But it didn't work.


Do not stay where you are, for there is a road always ahead for you. More faces ahead, watching and waiting the same road for you, always ready to join you. Will it to let them help, even if it is only in silence next to you. There.


Accept the rope they offer if you fall in the mud.


Many say there are many fish in the sea, but we all know we need to find the colors that stand out to us.


Let the air suck in through your clenched teeth, your hands away from your eyes. Let the tears dry in the air and straighten back up. Stand tall. Let it out. Breathe.

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I've remembered this thread.




Here's something i've written today, not been a very good past couple of days, and it needs some revisioning and editing.

Reminds me of the immortal poem, Invictus, written by Henley (who faced more than his share of travails).  Stiff Upper Lip, wot? 




In the fell clutch of circumstance

I have not winced nor cried aloud

Under the bludgeonings of chance

My head is bloody, but unbowed




It matters not how strait the gates,

How charged with punishments the scroll,

I am the master of my fate

I am the captain of my soul

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I fancy myself a bit of a songwriter. I've been working on a song for a while, and have some lyrics I wrote.


Of Aluminum


These tiny fragile feet too tired to climb your burning mountain tops

These hands too wild and weary to harvest all your dirty crops

No energy but too much in these batteries of copper drops

There's seven of us leaving, only six of us will go

I wonder where the last one is,

But I'm certain I already know.


Rain on down,

In your silent, stirring anger,

Follow me and just observe,

I'll show you where I'm going to.

Rain on down,

There's no weapon we can use,

Just a path that we can travel,

Maybe you can take the one we're on.


These feet just want to kick you,

Knock you over, make the crazy stop.

These hands just want to kiss you,

Make the world look at us when you pop.

No energy to give you,

Just recount your lies in photoshop.

There's seven of us bleeding, only six of us to go

I wonder how the last one is,

But I'm certain you already know.

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So, this was an IC poem that I wrote, but I'm still fond of it.



It parts the waters

Sending her waves crashing down

The tempest swarm

Quelled easily

Simple supplication

Singing songs to the Sirens.

Her mercy lies in

Carrying you away

The swiftest deaths

Are often ones most pleasant.

La petit mort.

The beautiful death.

Waves upon waves

The shoreline meets the sea.

His hardened presence

Seeking to calm her fury.

And so we crash.

And so I drown.

And so we go.

You are my tidal lord.

And I the nymph.

Before long

We will have lost control.

So let the waves rise up.

Let the tsunami fall.

In the wonderful

The water

The blue of your

Cerulean oceans.

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I found a good one recently.  Bit longish though. Link to the source and authors at the end of it here:




said the dragon,

don’t tell anybody, but

I don’t think I believe in stories.



Yesterday I clipped down my wings.

I didn’t like them, they hurt,

the way they scraped against the cave;

I was too wide for its walls

or else there was too much treasure lining its floor—

goblets and gems, coins and coronets—

so I said

either the gold goes, or I do.

I think I went.



All right, Sir Knight, I know you’ve come to kill me.

When are you going to get it over with?

My lungs are full of fire

and my heart is acid and bone. Tell me

that’s all. Tell me I’m fine.

Tell me I’m supposed to feel this way.



I’m not young

but not that old, surely; I’ve got years left of destruction,

pillaging, rampages, a princess or two.

I think the fields of England

are still green.

Yesterday, when my wings were clipped

against my sides, I thought:

I could live like this.



Come on, Sir Knight, what are you waiting for?



I suppose the princess must be pretty;

they always are.

Hair like gold, I hope,

and eyes like the ocean. You’ll have to watch out for her.

Girls who are sold in exchange for a murder,

they know their own worth. They don’t tame.

We’re alike that way.



Your armor is old, Sir Knight, and rusty.

You didn’t come better prepared?

It’s no matter. Don’t worry; I won’t bite.

Docile as a lamb, me. Come closer.



When you slide the sword in

make it quick, don’t linger.

You’re the hero triumphant

and I’m giving you a happy ending

but after all this time, even you should know

nothing in this world comes free. Here’s your end of the bargain:

have mercy.



After all, what’s the difference between this

and a love story?



Once, not long after I was hatched,

I got it into my head to fly as high as I could.

The day was warm—

it must have been summer—

and the sky was made of nothing but sunlight.

Below me, your island

was emerald and brown. There were rivers.

I don’t think I’ve ever been so alone

or so unlonely.

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POETRY! :moogle: So, I wrote this many years ago, but it's still a favorite as I prefer darker poetry. ♥ So passionate.


A glorious heart, so full, so happy,

Will once so soon go down so gory

Beating fast with blacked chains,

To me it is much more then games.

A happy heart is red and pumping,

A saddened heart is black and pounding.

Many ideas and thoughts race through me,

Scaring me for all eternity,

You ask me what; I tell you why, oh how I wish to get by. 

I want to put my fears to ease,

However, they are as cold as a frosty breeze. 

A single shiver runs right through me, as the darkness closes around me,

I want to know just how, just why, but I will do my best to get by.


Sometimes I sit and wonder o' the pressure I go under,

I sometimes wish for darkened days because that is the only way,

I stand so shocked at the rumble of thunder, which is my heart so fill of bother. 

So many ideas and thoughts in my head, keep me awoken whilst lying in bed,

I want to sleep, to ease my mind, but sleep escape's me at this time.

Three o' clock, the sun is still hidden, 

The dark clouds fill the sky and ridden, me of the so full bright moon.

The birds are sleeping sound and peaceful, 

Their singing not ringing so dim and delightful.

The sky is not a dark, deep blue but instead black through and through. 

My heart and the sky share a similar thing, 

The color and emptiness it does bring. 


Again, my hearts rumbles, the echoes do mumble, 

Through my body as I lay so humble.

Not knowing what or where I am, I feel so lost and so I am.

A spark within me is all I have, of what I used to be. 

Blackness and troubles all about are now all that consumes me. 

I wonder all night of where I had lost, that joyful feeling I had brought,

The time I cannot remember, the feeling must be lost forever. 

I know now as I lay in bed, all these thoughts running through my head,

One day I will be found and saved, I shall no longer feel so grave. 

However, until then, I dream of when, the feeling of joy shall return,

I know that when I finally feel, the sunlight upon my skin, it will burn.

I am used to the darkness, the empty skies; I am used to sitting and wondering why.

However, my life will soon turn over again, 

I will be lost and so confused, but my soul will no longer bruise. 

I do not know just how, or just right when, but I will feel joyful once again. 


Here's a poem I wrote for Jen and I a few years ago, about the Red String of Fate. ♥ 


[align=center][align=left]We walk together,  hand-in-hand

through the deepest boughs of hell.

But we smile together, as we face the

hate, because this we know so well.


We've been through hell and back again, a team

of two and one. For we are two people, two hearts,

two souls - but together we are one. We've faced

demons of lies and minions of greed, soul-biting

torture and words that bleed, but together, through

it all, the lies, the hurts and sorrow - together we have

faced hell and laughed, at the thought of a new tomorrow.


Together we are in paradise, no matter where we are.

In you I find my comfort and truth and the love that I hold dear.

In you I find my strength and words, that others cannot hear.

We're bound by invisible string, a bright red around our wrists 

and fingers,our souls are united in a way of forever, 

so no matter where we are - it is bliss.


Do not fear those who harm you, my dear, for they do not

have the key, to the place that's deep inside of you, that

place that's only for me. Do not worry about tomorrow,

because we're here today - do not worry about their words,

their pain, for I'll defend you every day.


For you show me love and care, support and understanding

The only one who has heard my thoughts, felt my love,

tasted my kiss and known me. Together we're unstoppable,

no matter the time or price. So take my hand and together we

shall walk away from this burning place.[/align]




[align=left]Now for rap! I'll  censor a LOT of this, but...




In the mood for sake, kanpai

Bitches like me, hard to come by

Nicki’s an idol, call her senpai

I’ll go up against anyone, an eye

for an eye, better try your hardest

‘cause I’m so fly


My heart’s on my sleeve, ya don’t

gotta pry, I speak my mind 'cause

I ain’t shy, playin’ with words like I’m

Bandai, hope they don’t mind me usin’

their name, oh my





I'm a horrorcore wh*re, yeah I love gore, I want more. 

My favorite killer's Jack the Ripper, yeah I'm a fan of 

the sinners, wanna get into their heads, find out why the 

dead are dead. What did you do with the liver? How did you

seduce her? What poison did you slip in her booze?

What did you do with her ****s?


Pain's insane, which is sane in my head, can't explain. 

F**k flowers, give me blood; f**k romance, r**e in the mud. 

Baby girl, you know what my luv is, let's be psycho together, 

watch horror, twenty-four seven, this is heaven.


I have a list, that's just the jist, won't say more than this. 

People who f**k me over, wanna see them go under, my heart 

is beating louder than thunder. It's natural. It's ancient. 

Revenge, the best payment. F**k yeah, I'm even

a mental health patient.


Nothin' to hide, psychotic pride, a knife in each hand, bitches beware. 

Do you hear that? No? Silent and deadly, like Michael and Freddy. 

Jason and Hannibal. Maybe become a cannibal.


This is the truth, I'm f**ked in the head, stories before bed of 

decapitated heads; mysterious unsolved, killers involved, you won't 

know from my look but don't judge a book by the cover, 'cause I 

keep my insanity straight under covers unless I'm in the middle of a 

rage, than I rip out a page and if you f**k with me, it's a mistake, 

'cause I have tools to use and skills to abuse and don't you know 


that horror's a helluva muse?




Yo, I'm Jhu'lie, spittin' coolly, 

helpin' my girls get a little unruly 

Now listen up, lemme mention 

that y'all have been under an

illusion, I know there's some confusion, 

but I'm tellin' you truly 

There's an intrusion, invasion, a pink haired 

bitch from another dimension! 


Rappin' hardcore, from Outer Space, 

watchin' y'all scramble, there goes the master race! 

Hittin' your cities, so you'll be displaced, 

sittin' with my girls while we lay waste, ruin this place, 

it's your disgrace, but it's just our taste


Yo, if you're still alive, you'll wish you were dead, 

'cause I told my honeys to grab their holographic minis, 

strap on their *******s and start f**kin' yo heads! 

We're buildin' this place like a Playboy 

Palace, feelin' a little light-headed like Alice, 

maybe it's the Absinthe, workin' on a callous as I knock 

back another shot, actin' so careless. I'm the Queen of 

my people, the baddest Bitch, leader of my ladies and 


f**ker of Martian Bunnies! 


[align=left]Finally, for now... My wife has a big blue dinosaur stuffed animal I bought her and she asked for a rap about him!



Yo, his name is Richard, he's blue, a GM for Blizzard, don't you dare 

think he's a motherf**kin' lizard, he's a Ravasaur, got that - wh*re? 

Don't like Richard? There's the door. He doesn't care 'bout other bitches,

don't want more, he's got all he needs right through this door door door.  


My baby girl, she wanted a rap, 'bout this Ravasaur who don't take no

crap, so I promised I would and I knew that I could, so I'm doing, I'm here

so hear this, it's about Richard, he's rare like an epic, but his quality's 

pale gold, like that of an Artifact.


We got him from Hogle, that's a zoo near here, yeah, he's fiercer than

a motherf**kin' momma bear. She knew she wanted him, soon as she

saw him sittin' there. So of course, cha-ching, baby girl didn't want no

bling the only thing she wanted was Richard - and I ain't gonna make

a dick joke - and all I could picture was her smile, knew adoptin' this


Ravasaur would be so worthwhile. 


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