Thats a really nice little piece of verse, and I can sometimes empathize with the lazy, apathetic form of depression its talking about. The only verse I don't get is "the lust and powers" but the line following it is my favorite one.

Here's another similarly melodramatic story written for the same class:

Peter biked out to the lake, legs thick with fatigue, and sat down. He saw movement through the depths, indifferent shadows, careless homogenous figures. The lake had lost all of its former sparkle; it simply sunk and sunk, it was learning its personality too late, as soon as it caught on the edges of significance it became shocked and let go again. So this lake had continued for so long. Peter vaguely remembered it when it was growing and untroubled, but whenever a lake gets too big it gets caught up in all of its purpose. Still memories of its former glory were splayed across its sides, boats with yellow algae stains, hundreds of notices, greedy signs of the coveting neighborhood. But no earnest memories could add any warmth to the decrepit pool. Fishes pickled in their waste, trails of oil in the surface could not reflect any beauty because of the sheer polluted horror of the place.
None of these things could be fixed, however, as the lake had always been this way. The pump had broken before peter was born, and the lake had displeased its visitors even before that. Peter could not enjoy the lake because he could not think anymore. He could not see any longer the caricatures of the wavering diffractions in the shallows because he simply could not care. Any care was swallowed by bleary realism, oppressive flickering taunting melodramatic lack of purpose. What use had those childhood forays been to him if they left him here, sore and dry, wasted, with nothing but a mediocre afterimage?
Some breeze moved through the air, causing some change in the monotony, and suddenly Peter was inspired, fresh, whole. He sprang up with his characteristic confident smile and daydreamed on his brilliant future for a full minute before he recognized all too well the familiar surge he had experienced, brief and vacant as an orgasm, cheap and fake as the rush of cocaine. What hyperbole. How embarrassing to be tricked again by that wave of optimism desperately issued by the subconscious. Peter sat down again, smug in his solid, palpable depression.
Casual suicide. Nothing so calm, laid back, respectable, the only way to go. By shooting up on drano, banging the head against the concrete, something either cool or crazy.
The lake was the only thing near, however. The lake was a compromise, but Peter had to do it now, now, or he would forget about it. How they would respect the vigilance with which he held his head under, they would remember the rigor with which he let go, they would say that Peter was too superhuman to exist, too buried in too much, too great a boy to tolerate his life. For his legacy was all that mattered now. He had to do it in a way which would, in one expression, one posture signifying his last moment of life, convey all of the things he had been trying to show. The posture could not be separated from perfection by one inch, or all of those things he had tried to communicate, all of those arrogant unique truths he had single handedly uncovered, would be wastefully dissolved in the lake.
He dunked his head in the water and waited. Thirty seconds in he felt a rush of adrenaline. He would die successfully; he would exceed all levels of human perseverance and conquer all of his instincts. Only ten seconds later he heard a voice. “What are you doing?” said Mr. Wade. “Soaking my head!” replied Peter stupidly, now too embarrassed to put his head back under. He pedaled back, the top half of his shirt wet and stinky, hating the way it stuck to his awkwardly bent back, hating the way he panted and swerved as his bike crawled up the steep hill.
In his bedroom Peter lay on his face, not tired, but so thoroughly apathetic that he could do nothing else without being shattered by panic. With unreal patience he fermented this apathy for hours, until, guided by a sudden surge of energy, he slid off of his bed, out of his house, and to the lake once more. Sitting on the decaying bench he took out a nalgene full of antifreeze, cheap, dangerous ethanol substitute, but the last way, the only way, to perfectly replicate those blissful middle school years, crashing on the shore of the lake, out of control, caught all on videotape by a fat, bumming friend. The characteristic sweet taste ran across his tongue and he sat, buoyant and bloated, sneering at the polluted lake.
Across the lake was a tattered rope tied to a sickly, skeletal chestnut tree, beginning to wither with blight, a dissolving record of ancient rural recreation. The rope had never been torn down because of the sacred patriotic image it invoked: Colonial children, bright, curios, swinging one by one off the rope, spun to last by the town tailor, swinging one by one, enriching themselves for the bright future of the country, gaining some small, useful personal benefit with each swing. So they swung on, until it was no longer necessary, and the progress the gained from this wholesome exercise replaced it in the form of inventions, the enclosed distilled enrichment of suburbia, happiness so incredibly safe and concentrated that movement was no longer needed. Peter stumbled towards the tree and stared at the rope. Something significant. Something outstanding and unusual. He would climb the rope and swing, swing like the used to swing until they stopped swinging. Access a universal, multigenerational nostalgia and make some sort of statement in the doing.
So Peter groped up the trunk, tilting his head to offset his swaying vision, clicking his tongue to synchronize his limbs, flexing his wrists to keep his fingers tight on the rungs in the tree. Peter knew exactly what he would do: he would swing from the rope like the youngsters so many years before, he would relive the past and set an example to the stupid self-absorbed fools around him. It would be an intrapersonal experience. No need for some humungous cataclysmic demonstration, this would simply be a potent memory which he could constantly reference and draw inspiration from, his moment of realization and release.
Twenty feet above the lake Peter reached for the rope and swung suddenly from the tree, one arm and leg bobbing drunkenly, floating in the chilling midair oblivion, one clammy hand steadily losing grip of the rung it held. Peter felt the thin, mossy rope creak beneath the weight of his hand, ready to snap, but could not go back on the tree, balanced between these two supports above the air. Peter released his hand from the rung and trusted the rope with all of his weight. He clung on the rope, trapped in the sky, and saw before him the smoky, nauseous glow of the paper mill. He heard the fibers of the rope beneath his fingers individually crack and felt his stomach metabolize the anti-freeze into chloroform. His freezing fingers faltered and he slowly slid down the rope, which steadily ground deep, long bleeding grooves across his hands. He limply slid down into the water, chilled below freezing but so polluted that it was still liquid. He crashed in slow motion like an anchor on the bottom, pleased with the irony of his simultaneous suicide and baptism, but his brief revelation passed quickly, gone like his bursts of confidence, as his curled body unfurled and he resurfaced, dripping and alive, from the shallow water. The lake, hardly three feet, had long ago ceased to be deep enough to swing in. Its memories were over, its time was past.
Peter, unhappily lucid from the chilling water which had soaked him, walked up the road which stood there with intense familiarity that merely emphasized the mediocrity of his current state. He walked to the train track and the coal train suddenly appeared before him, a huge rolling god exploding out of the darkness, breaking the silence, on its endless journey across the tattered dissembling southern wasteland. His parents would never find him, he would disappear, shift his entire personality, get a second chance at childhood, reincarnate. Peter hoisted himself up into a bed of coals and sailed away.

Death brushes your shoulder.
Encouraging to feel older.
As you build a mental fort.
Time pressures you to abort.
Health fades away.
Causing illness today.
Over comes a friend.
Mourning over your end.
Everyone says good bye.
So no one hears your cry.
New to die.
Overwhelmed you fly.
Why?

DEM HAIKU

The warm spring winds
Awaken the sleeping forest
Trees thrive once again

Hooves stamp their mark
For the king of races rides
Soul burning bright

Knockout blow flying
stamped return to sender
Fever pitch-

(PS Haiku is the plural of Haiku)

A Dead Piggy
He was healthy like a pig
Healthier than all of you
What a shame that he died
Of swine flu.

Starlight
I'm starlight;
Ahead of my time
Trying to touch the toes
Of my sun.

05/06/2009

♥♥♥♥ da system da man is gay
smoke 5 blunts n watch anime

Say this whenever you win and they make excuses.

I wrote a haiku:

Please get out of here
I hope you die a horrible death
You're a terrible person.

I also wrote a haiku.

Idiots posting
No originality
I am not laughing

No need to read them.
They go away by themselves.
Keep it cool, brothers.