THIS TOOK SO LONG
Maker sees and crafts his things
They give the things they make design
and so as they finish, they start anew
Making things with no breaks
Weaver makes her strung things bright
She bobs the needle for colors true
Up and down again, vibrance, the yarn tying
For her picture is fully tight.
Creator watches his art run.
he ponders over what he's made
He's what?
Over pondering, he runs
Art his watches creation.
Tightly full, is picturesque
She’s for tying, yarn that’s vibrant again
Down and up, true colors for
Needle that bobs, her bright things strung, her making woven.
Broken, nothing, with things made,
New starts, they finish them as so
And design makings, their things that give
Their things, crafty and seeing, Made
When somebody asks if I'm feeling okay
I say that I'm tired, and that's all that I say
But tired is not what I actually feel
I cover those feelings, which are actually real.
T
The Trials that drive me insane
The Turmoil that always comes with disdain.
The Terrible Thoughts that I keep in my brain
The Trifles I suffer I just can't maintain
I
The Inevitable failure to which I abide
The Invisible feeling I feel deep inside.
The Internal thoughts that smother my pride.
The Impossible walls that make me want to hide.
R
The Ruining factors that make everything fall.
The Reputation I want, but the stairs are too tall.
The Ropes that tie me and make me feel small.
The Rewards That I never reach, never seen them at all.
E
The Emotions I try but can never confess
The Expressions I put on my face, the fake happiness
The Expectations they have that continue to press.
The Excuses I make to make sure they don't guess
D
The Downfalls I have when I want to succeed
The Different obstacles to which I must heed
The Defining traits that I don't want to need
The Draining places I go where I feel like a weed
So yes I am tired, but not as in sleep
I wish I could have those good feelings to keep
And yes, while I do have good times anew
Inside I feel like I'm stuck, nothing to do.
Finally had the guts to write this.
*sighs*
Uhhhhhh no title yet.
I used to think I had motives for good.
And yet I never see things through.
I always try, to do what I should.
But my failure always starts anew
I think myself righteous, a helping hand
But I end up taking more than I give
I've always tried to do what's planned
And yet, I feel like I always need them to forgive
I feel as if understanding is only a dream
I feel as if my success is only fake
I feel that they all don't feel as they seem
And I just can't seem to catch a break.
I ask things, but find out I shouldn't have asked
I do things, but it turns out it shouldn't be done
I need a way to know what's right, when I'm tasked.
But I feel like if I get that, I would think I had none.
I wish I was a better friend.
I don't know why I can't be like all of them.
I truly wish the means justified the end,
If I have all these problems- am I the stem?
Alright, I'm trying it out!
SHAPER-
Chapter 1
Whill breathed in the sawdust-heavy air of the workshop. It was an early morning, but then again, wasn't it always an early morning? He picked up his gloves from the desk- the desk he had finished with- with---- He shook his head, trying to block out those thoughts. Dangerous thoughts. He put on the gloves, turning towards the back of the shop.
Whill had always been a scrawny boy, and even at 17, he was still shorter than most kids his age. That didn’t matter though, because he didn’t know them all too well. He yanked the sheet off of his creation. The thing he had worked on for the last year. It was a complex structure of wood planks, nails, and joints, made for the purpose of… well, Whill wasn’t sure what it was supposed to do yet. It just felt right. He grabbed the saw and got to work.
The back door creaked open. The sound was so soft, so insignificant that anyone else would have just ignored it. But Whill wasn’t anyone else.
“Em, you could have knocked rather than sneaking in. It’s polite.” He rasped, turning towards the sound.
The girl, Em, stood in the doorway. She froze. “Again, Elias? How’d you hear me?” She had red hair, the color of burnt maple leaves, and had a lanky figure. She was in the rift below Whill, but she still was half a foot taller than him. “Why do you talk like that, anyways? It makes you sound old.”
“This is my normal voice.” He said, glaring, “Also, don’t call me by my Luxe. My name is Whill.” He turned to go back to his carpentry, but she spoke again.
“Oh, quit being so sour. You haven’t left the shop since Jax-” She stopped as Whill cut her off.
“This is not about my brother! I’m not here because he Snapped. I don’t care what it looks like!” Tears stung at Whill’s eyes, but Em couldn’t see them because he was turned away.
It wasn’t about Jax. He wasn’t grieving. He looked back at the desk that they had made, all those years ago. Whill wanted to make another desk. He wanted to throw that piece-- that piece of garbage out.
It wasn’t about Jax’s Snap.
"It's -n-not about- J-Jax" He stuttered, but the tears were already flowing.
Chapter 5
Whill sat back down on the plush mattress.
And waited for something to happen. Anything to happen.
Because Whill had no screwing idea what was happening to him.
He surveyed the room a third time, looking for a hint, a sign, anything that could identify where he was. There were no windows and the only door was locked from the outside.
If Shaped are so glorified, why am I being held prisoner?
Without anything else to do, he grabbed a book of the shelf and flipped it open.
An object fell out. It hit the floor with a clunk.
The book held a secret compartment.
What? Whill bent down and picked up the object.
It was a carved piece of wood. Anyone else would have thought it as nothing special, but Whill gasped.
It was a present he had made for Jax when Jax had turned 16. Whill had spent 3 nights carving each intricate line on the wood, trying to impress his older brother. He had never managed to finish the carving, but Jax said he'd treasure it anyways.
Why on Nolor is this in here? How did they get this? Whill then noticed a note on the back.
Whill.
If you find this, I’m still alive.
-Jax
Whill blinked once, twice, then fainted.
Chapter 4
Whill couldn’t hear. His best sense- gone.
But he knew he was a Shaped.
The only reason he knew this was the banners that now hung on the walls with squares imprinted on them- the emblem of the Shaped.
He staggered off the platform, and ducked into a corner.
Why? Why did I become deaf? A deaf Shaped- that’s a paradox. Shaped are supposed to gain enhanced senses, not lose them entirely! What happened to me?
His thoughts sped by, as he hid in the corner.
He sat down, his breathing turning quick and shallow. What is happening to me? Why me? I- he began to panic, curling up as the ever-present silence enveloped him, all sound gone. He couldn’t so much as remember what his own voice sounded like. All there was was silence.
He began to cry, curling tighter.
I wish I would have gotten something else. I don’t care that I got Shaped. I wish I was anything else. Dammit, I just want to hear again!
He cried in that eternal silence for a long time.
It wasn’t until after he fell asleep in that corner when he stopped crying.
____________________________________________________________________________
Whill awoke in a soft, large bed.
He shifted upright, and surveyed the room around him.
It was a luxury bedroom, the kind that only exceptionally rich Mused could afford. There were soft pillows, glass tables, bookshelves with limited edition books, and much more.
Was- was it all a dream? He wondered.
But the hope he had was short-lived. As he hopped out of the increasingly soft bed, he didn’t hear his feet hitting the hardwood floor. He didn’t hear his breathing.
Whill was still shrouded in empty, complete silence.
He surveyed the room again.
A finger tapped his right shoulder. He jumped, startled.
How did someone sneak up on me? That’s never- oh, yeah.
He swiveled around to see a tall, composed man standing in front of him. The man’s mouth was moving, and because Whill had no experience with lip-reading, it was complete nonsense to him.
“I… can’t.. hear you, sir. I…. suddenly… went deaf… at the… shaping.. ceremony…” He mouthed the words carefully, unsure of what he was actually saying. He felt his face blush.
The man looked confused, and seemed to excuse himself, dashing out of the room.
Where am I?
Jax had been like Whill’s parent for his entire life. Their mother and father had both disappeared a few days after Whill was born, and Jax had run away from the orphanage to take care of Whill himself.
And he had done a damn good job.
Whill remembered Jax sneaking out to grab food every morning for the two of them, trying to make sure that he didn’t wake up. Jax had taught him everything he knew, and when the day came that he had turned 18, Whill desperately tried to keep Jax from going to the Bureau of Shaping.
In Taring, all males, on the day they turned 18, were required to go to the Bureau of Shaping, to be assigned their roles. If one did not show up, they were assigned a death penalty. There were 5 roles.
The best role was Shaped- they were granted extrasensory abilities, and were of the highest social class.
After that, there was Mused- Mused became wealthy business owners and politicians.
Third was Tried- they were the middle class of Taring, having enough money to feed their families, with some spending money left over.
Then there was Burdened- the factory workers, always struggling to get by.
Finally there was Snapped. The mysterious role. Deemed the worst possible.
But Whill knew what had happened to Jax.
He saw it with his own eyes.
As soon as Jax had stepped onto the platform, Whill was forced to watch as his brother, his mentor, was subjected to the worst role that could be assigned.
Snapped.
Jax had been taken to a room, and while no one knew exactly what happened to Snapped, it was obvious. They went into the room, and they never came out.
Whill had been living alone ever since.
He had been given the name Elias at birth, but Jax had always nicknamed him Whill, and since that fateful day, he had refused to be called anything else.
Because that name was the last thing, besides the desk, that he had left of Jax.
Chapter 3
The dreaded day came.
Whill, having stayed awake all night long, stumbled into the towering dome of the Bureau. Today would decide the rest of his life.
Whill joined the line of jittering, nervous boys, his mind too nulled to panic. Staying awake all night had dulled his brain, which he would have wondered if that was good or bad.
No one knew how roles were assigned, let alone who assigned them. Whill didn’t care. He knew that there was nothing he could do to prevent his role, and he just hoped for something more than Burdened.
The Shaping began.
______________________________________________________________________________
As the line of boys grew shorter and shorter, Whill watched some react ecstatically to getting Mused or Tried, and others sulk after receiving Burdened. Nobody got Shaped, and there were only two boys who were Snapped. Both fought but failed to escape.
After a long time, it was Whill’s turn.
As he stepped onto the platform, he suddenly became hyperaware of all the sounds around him. Frantic conversations, hurried mumbling- he heard every word at the same time. He looked up, like Jax had done so long ago.
“Name?” some unseen voice probed.
“Whi- uh… Elias,” He stuttered, the voices of tens of people thundering in his ears.
A few minutes passed.
After the longest moment of his life, Whill heard the voice again. “You have received the role of-” Whill didn’t hear anything else. All the sounds around him stopped. He opened his mouth, and asked “What?” but he didn’t hear himself talk.
There were no more sounds. People’s mouths moved, but there were no more sounds.
He couldn’t hear anything. His brilliant sense of hearing was gone.
Whill was deaf.
When one opens a notebook.
To a fresh, blank sheet.
When they have a sole outlook
Of what they plan to complete.
Each new line, each new page.
Is a creation, an endeavor.
It can wither, It can age,
But the intent is forever.
A writing, a drawing
Or just a reminder.
Is the maker's new calling.
That is left to the finder.
And though the page may rip,
And though the ink may smudge
And though the book may be lost.
And though the marks may fade...
When one opens a notebook,
It'll be there, what was made.
So
Umm..
If I
Had to count
In a simple way
Like “one two three” and up by one
I’d look for another version, an upwards fashion.
I would sacrifice my rhyme patterns, it would all clash and burn, a disaster of words
One more step in the Fibonacci sequence would not fit on one line, but yet I go on, to twenty one plus thirteen, but now I will descend.
Now back down to seven times three, and falling down the sequence fast, I count down again
A prime number, two digits, and still going lower
Now two to the power of three
Last five syllables
I proclaim
It is
The
End
This
Poem
Gets longer
With each new line
Syllables increase
Like the taste of old wine
And yet it still follows pace
As if the words are in a race
And though the rhyme scheme is quite broken
We have now made it to line number ten
And yet I am still going, again and then-
Until I must go -wait- back down again?
The second time we have gone with nine
Now it’s eight- and we still decline
Lucky number seven’s mine
Six is here- as a line
Five is with new rhyme
Four- ending time
going ‘til
Poem’s
Out.
THE WALK (title making in progress)
I walked until the sun did rise.
I walked until the dawn.
I walked with lows, I walked with highs.
I walked with the brains and brawn.
I walked to the beat the birds’ morning tune
I walked to the beat of the wind
I walked along the path with no set boon.
I walked along the road now thinned
I walked around, ‘til noon was high
I walked around, waiting
I walked for no reason why
I walked for nothing sating.
I walked about- the sun was low
I walked about- too long
I walked far past- nowhere to go
I walked far past- quite wrong.
I walked when the sun had set
I walked when the wild woke.
I walked while there was nothing to get
I walked while the creature spoke
I walked too late, while nature slept
I walked too late for man
I walked and walked, memories kept
I walked and walked, no plan.
The crossroad
A crossroad seems to have two ways
Left or right, a yes or nays
And yet there are quite a few more
Left or right, that’s two of four.
Because you could go backwards too
Turn around, and start anew
That bumps up the choice to three
One way, two way, and third to flee.
But I told you there was a fourth-
If you can go south, you can go north,
Stray off the path, walk off the bricks.
Feet on the grass, but wait- there’s six.
The fifth choice is to stay right there.
Not to move, breathe in the air.
And also you could catch a ride.
They’ll make the choice while you’re inside.
But there is a seventh, before this choice- shocking.
It is to never even have started walking.
A poem with a 10-word vocabulary:
That jumble of words, in a sense, for my minding.
Of minding my words, in a jumble, that for sense.
For sense my jumble, that. In words: a minding of.
Sense of my words? In that, for a minding jumble.
For jumble my words of a minding, in that sense.
….
….
A wordy mind. In the jumble. For senses of myself.
A poem with a 7 word vocabulary:
People used small terms, with a cost.
Terms: used. With a small cost. A people.
Small people used terms with a cost.
Used with a people, small terms cost.
Used people. A cost with small terms.
…..
…..
People use costly terms with a smallness.
A poem with a 5- word vocabulary
Long phrases are too much,
Phrases are much too long.
Are too! Much long phrases.
Much long? Are phrases too.
Too much are long! Phrases.
….
….
Many are longing. To phrases!
Bitter, caffeinated drinks,
You’re pretending to love pouring it,
Waking from eyeing dark drinks,
Darkened eyes from awaking.
It’s poured love - to pretenders,
You’re drinking caffeinated bitterness.
Risky choices. Death the punishment
Deserving, not doing, wondrous things
Wonder does not deserve punishment
The dead choose risks.
Documenting history is important,
We cannot repeat mistakes.
If we don’t remember, it will happen again and again.
War, slavery, lies, wooden stakes.
Wooden lies, enslaved war, again and again.
Happenings, will it remember?
Don’t we?
If mistakes repeat, can’t we?
Important is historical documentation.
Untitled. Blank. Unknown.
We don’t label things we don’t care about.
We shrug it off, for it doesn’t matter.
Doesn’t it? For off, it shrugs us about.
Caring, not doing, we’re things labeled.
Don’t we?
Unknown, Blank, Untitled.
It isn’t fire, it isn’t storm,
No sharp, dramatic break.
Just static where it once was warm,
A dull and silent ache.
Your ghost is just a sigh,
A blank spot of the room,
No tears to offer, no more why,
Just gray, quiet doom.
Love was a loud and frantic song,
But this is better, so I say:
The peace of knowing you are gone,
And feeling nothing every day.
Everything, nothing, feelings.
And gone are you.
Knowledge of peace,
That said, I’m so better
Is this but singing frantically?
And “loud” was a lovely doom.
Quiet, gray, justified.
Why?
Moreover, no offerings,
To tears, no room.
That of spotless, blankness.
A sigh, a justification is ghost yours.
Aching silently and dully.
A warmth was once.
It’s where static just broke.
Dramatic, sharp nothings.
Storms: isn’t it
Fire: isn’t it.
People have feelings
Passion, anticipation, happiness
We all have emotions.
They define us.
Truly owned by who?
The feeler.
But is it?
No.
It is but the feeler who’s owned by true emotions.
We’re defined.
They have all our happiness.
Anticipating passionately.
Feelings have people.
Push yourself.
Feeling tired?
Continue; you will get there.
Almost there.
Only success comes to those for trying
For awards will come.
I promise.
I come willingly.
Awards for trying, for those to come.
Success only there.
Almost there.
Go, will yourself.
Continue, tired.
Feel yourself push.
You see them above, rising more.
You envy.
Then they show flaws, flawlessly exploited by you.
Elated, you now rise.
Now you.
Elated you, by exploitation flawlessly.
Flaws shown.
They then envy your aboveness more.
Rise, they see you.
