Poetry, Writings, and other inspirations

[Warrior for Truth]

Fear the eye that shows no fear,

Proctect the ones that you hold dear.

Love the sinner, hate the sin,

When jealousy arises no one wins.



Hatred ties us to this mortal coil,

While satan's demons try to foil!

HOLDING STRONG IS ALL WE DO

it hurts so bad to look at you.



So much pain comes through your eyes,

It often makes me want to cry.

Why do you hurt when so many love,

Especially our God above.



I hate the fact that you can't trust,

Like all my love is thrown to dust.

Its hurts when you can't seem share,

Even though i really care.



As I cry you may never know,

Its like you put on some horrid show.

Faking a smile while inside you frown,

I can sense it deep deep down.



I feel your pain whether you know it or not,

If you can't trust me I'd rather be SHOT.

So just sit back and watch me die,

Just so you know, i'm dead inside.

[frankislivinginmyfoot]

wow, thats awesome!!

[JayPhreakThr3e9]

yall know Cody, Torrie's b/f? his stuff is really awesome. its very deep and imaginative. talk 2 him about it if u get the chance.

[frankislivinginmyfoot]

i don't doubt it. he's a pretty cool guy

[JayPhreakThr3e9]

So umm.......ya heres my 1st writting i ever wrote. theres a strange story behind how i first wrote it. ask me later. plez enjoy.........


The Flood of Life

Rain, rain, rain. It’s been raining on my life. It has now been raining for hours unknown to time. My world is drowning under the torment I have felt from the world. And society isn’t helping at all. Every time I close my eyes and hope it’s gone. But when I force my eyelids open, there I see it all. My tormentors aren’t grieving over the pain I feel that they have caused. No. They are laughing at me, calling me names beyond the pain inside. I start to sink to the bottom with all around me. I struggle for one last breath. When will I die? My life is almost over. How much longer till I die? I guess this is good for me. I won’t have to put up with the torment and pain this world has caused me. I want to hurry up drown so I will suffer no more. Down, down I fall to the bottom of this awful flooded land. I sink for what seems like forever. When will I die? When will this torment go away? All I want now is to escape from this tormented world and its torment. But then I feel a hand, something like that, almost supernatural it seems. It’s a hand grabbing me, pulling me to the surface. I reach the surface and there I see a figure, a man standing on the cold water. Then I realize. It’s my savior and, he has saved me from perishing. All the rain stops suddenly and the flood waters are receding at pace like none before. He tells me “It’s alright, I am here. Follow me and joy will follow. You see, the clouds are the devil, and the raindrops are bumps, to get you off course. The flood water is sin taking you under. But since the cross, the flood water may get high but this flood is no more. No flood will do this again. And if you start to drown, just call my name. I’m Jesus Christ, you’re loving savior. I will always be here for you, no mater how hard it rains. Just remember one thing. I love you my little child. That is why the cross was worth it all. ” So now I know that when I start to drown and I feel my life is over and not worth anything, the pain is only temporary. It has to end sometime. And if I think no one will care what will happen if I die, some one, somewhere will care.
What you do now will echo in eternity. How will eternity remember you?

[Brecia]

AWESOME.

[JayPhreakThr3e9]

gracias. that wasnt my best, but i havent been able 2 really write more. ive been in the mood, but i guess i have writters block?

[Brecia]

know what you mean

[Warrior for Truth]

Guys, this is me. I was extremely down tonight and Caitlyn (God bless her) Sent this to me. This is my life. (sept the girls i liked....... ew) ....... all i can say is wow.



In that place between wakefulness and dreams, I found myself in the room.
There were no distinguishing features except for the one wall covered with
small index card files. They were like the ones in libraries that list
titles by author or subject in alphabetical order. But these files, which
stretched from floor to ceiling and seemingly endless in either direction,
had very different headings.

As I drew near the wall of files, the first to catch my attention was
one that read "Girls I have liked".

I opened it and began flipping through the cards. I quickly shut it, shocked
to realize that I recognized the names written on each one.


And then without being told, I knew exactly where I was.
This lifeless room with its small files was a crude catalog system for
my life, in a detail my memory couldn't match. A sense of wonder and
curiosity, coupled with horror, stirred within me as I began randomly
opening files and exploring their content. Some brought joy and sweet
memories; others a sense of shame and regret so intense that I would
look over my shoulder to see if anyone was watching.

FILE NAMES

A file named Friends was next to one marked
"Friends I have betrayed".

The titles ranged from the mundane to the outright weird.
Books I Have Read
Lies I Have Told
Comfort I have Given
Jokes I Have Laughed at

Some were almost hilarious in their exactness:
Things I've yelled at my brothers


Others I couldn't laugh at:
Things I Have Done in My Anger
Things I Have Muttered Under My Breath at My Parents

I never ceased to be surprised by the contents. Often there were many more
cards than I expected. Sometimes fewer than I hoped. I was overwhelmed by the
sheer volume of the life I had lived. Could it be possible that I had the time
in my years to each of these thousands or even millions of cards?
But each card confirmed this truth. Each was written in my own handwriting.
Each signed with my signature. When I pulled out the file marked
"TV Shows I have watched" I realized the files grew to contain their contents.

The cards were packed tightly, and yet after 2 or 3 yards, I hadn't found
the end of the file. I shut it, shamed, not so much by the quality of
shows but more by the vast time I knew that file represented.

When I came to a file marked "Lustful Thoughts"
I felt a chill run through my body. I pulled the file out
only an inch, not willing to test its size, and drew out a
card. I shuddered at its detailed content. I felt sick to
think that such a moment had been recorded.

An almost animal rage broke on me. One thought dominated my mind:
No one must ever see these cards! No one must ever see this room! I have to
destroy them! In insane frenzy I yanked the file out. Its size didn't
matter now. I had to empty it and burn the cards. But as I took it at one
end and began pounding it on the floor, I could not dislodge a single card.

I became desperate and pulled out a card, only to find it as strong as steel
when I tried to tear it. Defeated and utterly helpless, I returned the file
to its slot. Leaning my forehead against the wall, I let out a long,
self-pitying sigh. And then I saw it. The title bore

"People I Have Shared the Gospel With"

The handle was brighter than those around it, newer, almost unused.
I pulled on its handle and a small box not more than 3 inches long fell
into my hands. I could count the cards it contained on one hand. Then the
tears came. I began to weep. Sobs so deep that they hurt. They started in
my stomach and shook through me.

I fell on my knees and cried. I cried out of shame, from the
overwhelming shame of it all. The rows of file shelves
swirled in my tear-filled eyes. No one must ever, ever know
of this room. I must lock it up and hide the key.

But then as I pushed away the tears, I saw Him. No, please not Him! Not here!
Oh, anyone but Jesus! I watched helplessly as He began to open the files and read
the cards. I couldn't bear to watch His response. And in the moments I could
bring myself to look at His face, I saw a sorrow deeper than my own. He seemed
to intuitively go to the worst boxes. Why did He have to read every one?
Finally He turned and looked at me from across the room. He looked at me with
pity in His eyes. But this was a pity that didn't anger me. I dropped my head,
covered my face with my hands and began to cry again. He walked over and put His
arm around me. He could have said so many things. But He didn't say a word.
He just cried with me. Then He got up and walked back to the wall of files.

Starting at one end of the room, He took out a file and,
one by one, began to sign His name over mine on each card.
NO! I shouted rushing to Him. All I could find to say was

NO! NO! as I pulled the card from Him. His name shouldn't
be on these cards! But there it was, written in red so rich,
so dark, so alive. The name of Jesus covered mine. It was
written with His blood. He gently took the card back.
He smiled a sad smile and began to sign the cards.

I don't think I'll ever understand how He did it so quickly,
but the next instant it seemed I heard Him close the last
file and walk back to my side. He placed His hand on my
shoulder and said, "It is finished." I stood up, and He
led me out of the room. There was no lock on its door.

There were still cards to be written

[JayPhreakThr3e9]

i find humor in Poe


The Conqueror Worm by Edgar Allen Poe

Lo! 'tis a gala night
Within the lonesome latter years!
An angel throng, bewinged, bedight
In veils, and drowned in tears,
Sit in a theatre, to see
A play of hopes and fears,
While the orchestra breathes fitfully
The music of the spheres.
Mimes, in the form of God on high,
Mutter and mumble low,
And hither and thither fly-
Mere puppets they, who come and go
At bidding of vast formless things
That shift the scenery to and fro,
Flapping from out their Condor wings
Invisible Woe!

That motley drama- oh, be sure
It shall not be forgot!
With its Phantom chased for evermore,
By a crowd that seize it not,
Through a circle that ever returneth in
To the self-same spot,
And much of Madness, and more of Sin,
And Horror the soul of the plot.

But see, amid the mimic rout
A crawling shape intrude!
A blood-red thing that writhes from out
The scenic solitude!
It writhes!- it writhes!- with mortal pangs
The mimes become its food,
And seraphs sob at vermin fangs
In human gore imbued.

Out- out are the lights- out all!
And, over each quivering form,
The curtain, a funeral pall,
Comes down with the rush of a storm,
While the angels, all pallid and wan,
Uprising, unveiling, affirm
That the play is the tragedy, "Man,"
And its hero the Conqueror Worm.


-- THE END --

HEHEHE no matter what, the worms will have the last laugh in life. i know its a lil demented, but it is true.

[Warrior for Truth]

Poe was an insane Genius!

The Tell-Tale Heart
Edgar Allan Poe

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

TRUE! nervous, very, very dreadfully nervous I had been and am; but why WILL you say that I am mad? The disease had sharpened my senses, not destroyed, not dulled them. Above all was the sense of hearing acute. I heard all things in the heaven and in the earth. I heard many things in hell. How then am I mad? Hearken! and observe how healthily, how calmly, I can tell you the whole story.

It is impossible to say how first the idea entered my brain, but, once conceived, it haunted me day and night. Object there was none. Passion there was none. I loved the old man. He had never wronged me. He had never given me insult. For his gold I had no desire. I think it was his eye! Yes, it was this! One of his eyes resembled that of a vulture -- a pale blue eye with a film over it. Whenever it fell upon me my blood ran cold, and so by degrees, very gradually, I made up my mind to take the life of the old man, and thus rid myself of the eye for ever.

Now this is the point. You fancy me mad. Madmen know nothing. But you should have seen me. You should have seen how wisely I proceeded -- with what caution -- with what foresight, with what dissimulation, I went to work! I was never kinder to the old man than during the whole week before I killed him. And every night about midnight I turned the latch of his door and opened it oh, so gently! And then, when I had made an opening sufficient for my head, I put in a dark lantern all closed, closed so that no light shone out, and then I thrust in my head. Oh, you would have laughed to see how cunningly I thrust it in! I moved it slowly, very, very slowly, so that I might not disturb the old man's sleep. It took me an hour to place my whole head within the opening so far that I could see him as he lay upon his bed. Ha! would a madman have been so wise as this? And then when my head was well in the room I undid the lantern cautiously -- oh, so cautiously -- cautiously (for the hinges creaked), I undid it just so much that a single thin ray fell upon the vulture eye. And this I did for seven long nights, every night just at midnight, but I found the eye always closed, and so it was impossible to do the work, for it was not the old man who vexed me but his Evil Eye. And every morning, when the day broke, I went boldly into the chamber and spoke courageously to him, calling him by name in a hearty tone, and inquiring how he had passed the night. So you see he would have been a very profound old man, indeed , to suspect that every night, just at twelve, I looked in upon him while he slept.

Upon the eighth night I was more than usually cautious in opening the door. A watch's minute hand moves more quickly than did mine. Never before that night had I felt the extent of my own powers, of my sagacity. I could scarcely contain my feelings of triumph. To think that there I was opening the door little by little, and he not even to dream of my secret deeds or thoughts. I fairly chuckled at the idea, and perhaps he heard me, for he moved on the bed suddenly as if startled. Now you may think that I drew back -- but no. His room was as black as pitch with the thick darkness (for the shutters were close fastened through fear of robbers), and so I knew that he could not see the opening of the door, and I kept pushing it on steadily, steadily.

I had my head in, and was about to open the lantern, when my thumb slipped upon the tin fastening , and the old man sprang up in the bed, crying out, "Who's there?"

I kept quite still and said nothing. For a whole hour I did not move a muscle, and in the meantime I did not hear him lie down. He was still sitting up in the bed, listening; just as I have done night after night hearkening to the death watches in the wall.

Presently, I heard a slight groan, and I knew it was the groan of mortal terror. It was not a groan of pain or of grief -- oh, no! It was the low stifled sound that arises from the bottom of the soul when overcharged with awe. I knew the sound well. Many a night, just at midnight, when all the world slept, it has welled up from my own bosom, deepening, with its dreadful echo, the terrors that distracted me. I say I knew it well. I knew what the old man felt, and pitied him although I chuckled at heart. I knew that he had been lying awake ever since the first slight noise when he had turned in the bed. His fears had been ever since growing upon him. He had been trying to fancy them causeless, but could not. He had been saying to himself, "It is nothing but the wind in the chimney, it is only a mouse crossing the floor," or, "It is merely a cricket which has made a single chirp." Yes he has been trying to comfort himself with these suppositions ; but he had found all in vain. ALL IN VAIN, because Death in approaching him had stalked with his black shadow before him and enveloped the victim. And it was the mournful influence of the unperceived shadow that caused him to feel, although he neither saw nor heard, to feel the presence of my head within the room.

When I had waited a long time very patiently without hearing him lie down, I resolved to open a little -- a very, very little crevice in the lantern. So I opened it -- you cannot imagine how stealthily, stealthily -- until at length a single dim ray like the thread of the spider shot out from the crevice and fell upon the vulture eye.

It was open, wide, wide open, and I grew furious as I gazed upon it. I saw it with perfect distinctness -- all a dull blue with a hideous veil over it that chilled the very marrow in my bones, but I could see nothing else of the old man's face or person, for I had directed the ray as if by instinct precisely upon the ****ed spot.

And now have I not told you that what you mistake for madness is but over-acuteness of the senses? now, I say, there came to my ears a low, dull, quick sound, such as a watch makes when enveloped in cotton. I knew that sound well too. It was the beating of the old man's heart. It increased my fury as the beating of a drum stimulates the soldier into courage.

But even yet I refrained and kept still. I scarcely breathed. I held the lantern motionless. I tried how steadily I could maintain the ray upon the eye. Meantime the hellish tattoo of the heart increased. It grew quicker and quicker, and louder and louder, every instant. The old man's terror must have been extreme! It grew louder, I say, louder every moment! -- do you mark me well? I have told you that I am nervous: so I am. And now at the dead hour of the night, amid the dreadful silence of that old house, so strange a noise as this excited me to uncontrollable terror. Yet, for some minutes longer I refrained and stood still. But the beating grew louder, louder! I thought the heart must burst. And now a new anxiety seized me -- the sound would be heard by a neighbour! The old man's hour had come! With a loud yell, I threw open the lantern and leaped into the room. He shrieked once -- once only. In an instant I dragged him to the floor, and pulled the heavy bed over him. I then smiled gaily, to find the deed so far done. But for many minutes the heart beat on with a muffled sound. This, however, did not vex me; it would not be heard through the wall. At length it ceased. The old man was dead. I removed the bed and examined the corpse. Yes, he was stone, stone dead. I placed my hand upon the heart and held it there many minutes. There was no pulsation. He was stone dead. His eye would trouble me no more.

If still you think me mad, you will think so no longer when I describe the wise precautions I took for the concealment of the body. The night waned, and I worked hastily, but in silence.

I took up three planks from the flooring of the chamber, and deposited all between the scantlings. I then replaced the boards so cleverly so cunningly, that no human eye -- not even his -- could have detected anything wrong. There was nothing to wash out -- no stain of any kind -- no blood-spot whatever. I had been too wary for that.

When I had made an end of these labours, it was four o'clock -- still dark as midnight. As the bell sounded the hour, there came a knocking at the street door. I went down to open it with a light heart, -- for what had I now to fear? There entered three men, who introduced themselves, with perfect suavity, as officers of the police. A shriek had been heard by a neighbour during the night; suspicion of foul play had been aroused; information had been lodged at the police office, and they (the officers) had been deputed to search the premises.

I smiled, -- for what had I to fear? I bade the gentlemen welcome. The shriek, I said, was my own in a dream. The old man, I mentioned, was absent in the country. I took my visitors all over the house. I bade them search -- search well. I led them, at length, to his chamber. I showed them his treasures, secure, undisturbed. In the enthusiasm of my confidence, I brought chairs into the room, and desired them here to rest from their fatigues, while I myself, in the wild audacity of my perfect triumph, placed my own seat upon the very spot beneath which reposed the corpse of the victim.

The officers were satisfied. My MANNER had convinced them. I was singularly at ease. They sat and while I answered cheerily, they chatted of familiar things. But, ere long, I felt myself getting pale and wished them gone. My head ached, and I fancied a ringing in my ears; but still they sat, and still chatted. The ringing became more distinct : I talked more freely to get rid of the feeling: but it continued and gained definitiveness -- until, at length, I found that the noise was NOT within my ears.

No doubt I now grew VERY pale; but I talked more fluently, and with a heightened voice. Yet the sound increased -- and what could I do? It was A LOW, DULL, QUICK SOUND -- MUCH SUCH A SOUND AS A WATCH MAKES WHEN ENVELOPED IN COTTON. I gasped for breath, and yet the officers heard it not. I talked more quickly, more vehemently but the noise steadily increased. I arose and argued about trifles, in a high key and with violent gesticulations; but the noise steadily increased. Why WOULD they not be gone? I paced the floor to and fro with heavy strides, as if excited to fury by the observations of the men, but the noise steadily increased. O God! what COULD I do? I foamed -- I raved -- I swore! I swung the chair upon which I had been sitting, and grated it upon the boards, but the noise arose over all and continually increased. It grew louder -- louder -- louder! And still the men chatted pleasantly , and smiled. Was it possible they heard not? Almighty God! -- no, no? They heard! -- they suspected! -- they KNEW! -- they were making a mockery of my horror! -- this I thought, and this I think. But anything was better than this agony! Anything was more tolerable than this derision! I could bear those hypocritical smiles no longer! I felt that I must scream or die! -- and now -- again -- hark! louder! louder! louder! LOUDER! --

"Villains!" I shrieked, "dissemble no more! I admit the deed! -- tear up the planks! -- here, here! -- it is the beating of his hideous heart!"

[Warrior for Truth]

The Haunted Palace

By Edgar Allan Poe

The Haunted Palace
In the greenest of our valleys
By good angels tenanted,
Once a fair and stately palace-
Radiant palace- reared its head.
In the monarch Thought's dominion-
It stood there!
Never seraph spread a pinion
Over fabric half so fair!

Banners yellow, glorious, golden,
On its roof did float and flow,
(This- all this- was in the olden
Time long ago,)
And every gentle air that dallied,
In that sweet day,
Along the ramparts plumed and pallid,
A winged odor went away.

Wanderers in that happy valley,
Through two luminous windows, saw
Spirits moving musically,
To a lute's well-tuned law,
Round about a throne where, sitting
(Porphyrogene!)
In state his glory well-befitting,
The ruler of the realm was seen.

And all with pearl and ruby glowing
Was the fair palace door,
Through which came flowing, flowing, flowing,
And sparkling evermore,
A troop of Echoes, whose sweet duty
Was but to sing,
In voices of surpassing beauty,
The wit and wisdom of their king.

But evil things, in robes of sorrow,
Assailed the monarch's high estate.
(Ah, let us mourn!- for never morrow
Shall dawn upon him desolate!)
And round about his home the glory
That blushed and bloomed,
Is but a dim-remembered story
Of the old time entombed.

And travellers, now, within that valley,
Through the red-litten windows see
Vast forms, that move fantastically
To a discordant melody,
While, like a ghastly rapid river,
Through the pale door
A hideous throng rush out forever
And laugh- but smile no more.

[Brecia]

Oh! snatched away in beauty's bloom,
On thee shall press no ponderous tomb;
But on thy turf shall roses rear
Their leaves, the earliest of the year;
And the wild cypress wave in tender gloom:

And oft by yon blue gushing stream
Shall Sorrow lean her drooping head,
And feed deep thought with many a dream,
And lingering pause and lightly tread;
Fond wretch! as if her step disturbed the dead!

Away! ye know that tears are vain,
That death nor heeds nor hears distress:
Will this unteach us to complain?
Or make one mourner weep the less?
And thou -who tell'st me to forget,
Thy looks are wan, thine eyes are wet.

Lord Byron- Oh!Snatched away in Beauty's bloom

[notetoself]

"How quickly lust can pretend it's Love..."

We've produced an awful kind of Love song. A sonnet for the souless where we proclaim our Love lie by lie.

A halfhearted embrace to cover up a deceitful smile.

"Lie to me." She murmured.

"I Love you." He smirked.

We accept the fake laughter and the all too real heartbreak.

There must be more than this.

"Designing words to help us believe. It's so much more than just tonight, so we have got to get this right. How quickly words can become our hands, resigning everything we believe. You wanted, you wanted more..."

<3 Kimmie

[Brecia]

I once believed that I could fly
Far away into the sky
I could soar I'd be free
with my hopes plans and all my dreams
But now the hunter has arrived
with his gun close by his side
And whenever I try to take flight
A shot goes off into the night
A bullet tears into my wing
I dive through the air with a loud scream
Crippled now, I try and mend
But my wound is infected
The infection spreads through my body
And I become even more weak
To the point of which nothing can heal
nothing gets better and blood continues to spill
I once believed that I could fly
Far away in to the sky
But now I have a crippled wing
And an infection coursing all through me