Nightly I draft in my journal an entry to summarize my day and its events along with documenting my emotions.
This helps me sleep I think and lays to rest the ebb and flow of my mind, sleeping in calm mental foundations.

Tonight I have decided to inscribe here other than the regular pages by which I relieve my days anguish upon.

and so the drabble begins.

This day began a late morn, troubled by yet another sleepless night, burdened by the curse of the toss and turn. Though my mind and body are replenished, the day beckons for me to close my eye's, as if I would command it's light and control it's breeze.

I am in command.
I am in control.

The beauty of life is not in it's opprotunity but more over in it's ability to allow the creation there-of opprotunity. By this I pave the days walkway which will serve yet again as the path of hard work and dis-satisfaction. So do I stand and so do I scratch the morning wood that man was so cursed with. A comfortable scratch, yet an uncomfortable postion to awake in. The floor is warm, craddled by the light scapped through the shades. It's plush yet warn pendages surround and welcome the soft of my feet, and the light of my step. Only to bid farewell as my feet then meet the cold, unforgiving, and un-welcoming arms of the frozen tiled walkway.

The water is warm.
It so does embrace me,
and so does it awake me,
fresh and clean, awake and amist.

Today is the day I will command and I will control.

The sun sits high it's throne of blue infinitie, gifting the pipping sandbox of desert with heat only comparable to the flames of hell themselves. So do I walk in this heat, the sun abusing the leather of my rine, tanning more on my hide.
Sweat though do I not, as like a virus grows immune to it's vaccine does my machine grow immune to the heat. So more on I plod, walking proud to be alive and in command of this day. Of this day do I command the light and so much power there of.

I turn the key.

Forth from the mouth of my raging bronco comes a howl so powerful and so imposing, other horses pale in it's presence. Three Hundred-fifty cubic inches of all american steal rips through the ears ans minds of so many people victim to the system, and more on ruins the o-zone. Truley a monster in beastial proportion so does it lay to waste the rubber of it's wheels, as it does the gas in it's tank, and the opponent in it's wake.

Work was horrid.
Boredom struck like wicked heat thunder, strong and impatient.
Eight hours of absence.

So do I return to my hole to return to my mind and refuse to lay rest that which declared me to command and to control that which was and will continue to be more on and more on lacking within value and substance, and more on and more on gaining that which so does lack in value and substance which regresses oneself into a spirling vortex of depreciation. So on does life spiral, will it ever untwine?



Aaahhh.

Much better. Please feel free to say whatever the hell you like.
It's really bad I know lol just dont tear me up to bad over it.

Actually it was written rather well...just a fraction...erm...well depressing. Whilst poetic in its own sense this doesn't seem to go anywhere, just another page in an otherwise mundane life right?
Either find something exciting in your life or...lie lol. Other than that it is creative on the words yes! Positive criticism dude, don't take it to heart cus i'd like to see more - just with more purpose.

It was great but yet flawed. Great in the way it was written, I really enjoyed your style, despite the dispirited mood it kept me intrigued. A change of pace would have been good though, just a litle something to make it brighter. Nice work though, keep em coming

Ok...despirted and gloomy is the topic.
I will drabble my thoughts into a write about your responses to my first piece.


A drabble.

Perhaps in this life, gloomy and depressed is everyday's way to greet you. Is it not a success that I imposed unto your heart and your mind that which was so desperatly imposed on mine. For this feeling or these feelings, of depression, un-realized succession, and superseeding compassions; are they not the feelings I felt on that day?

For that eve I scrobe a new chapter agrove to grow and mature into something so abscure.
A mere drabble that I drought, a quick fain that emotion wrought,
perhaps pain so I sought, to relieve through out thought.

For I took from me all of this; the days bottomless, blisslessness,
to impose upon you this; life's depressing cancerous siyst.
A mere glimpse into my eye's, perhaps to much for your minds,
or to pure a pain to hold, so from all this you scold.
Far to gloomy,
far to dry,
figure out something
try to lie?
Far to depressing
far to impure
a change of paceing
could perhaps lure

IM sorry people, Im sorry friends but I am the victor as the drabble says:

I did command
I did control

or did not you feel my depressions toll?
I am sure you did, or so now do?
Did I not impose it upon you?
Your soul my canvis, your pain my art,
your love a tool, for a painting part.
And so do I, retire now
Allowing you to once more explain to me how,
to make you feel, the way you want,
not the way that my life still haunts.

(for all future references I write completely impromtu - there are now pre writes or any of the sort, its all as it hits me as it comes.)

and on the note that the drabble was finished I am sorry dont take this the wrong way I am just a gothic writer I have come to learn and all my writings are depressing and kind-of bottomless. I like to emphasize reality at it finest and by that I often times me shi-tty est. lol.

anyway feel free to comment. Also please feel free to write some of your own gothis or any type of literature about your day. Make us feel what you felt and make us dream what you dream. That is the power of poetry, make an imposition on your oppossistion : P

Ha! I loved this one, same mood (if not more so) then the last one, but because you chose to use it as a retort to the responses, I found it clever and well humourous as well. This is all from a reader's point of view, I have no writer's critique to contribute sorry.

please do critique and contribute though I find it lovely. Plus it helps me to correct and improve my writing.

Ok I'll try I tried to pick it apart, but the only thing that I found that could be improved is the theme. It goes on about depression being so 'desperately imposed' on you, so it made me wonder why? What happened to make you feel this way? A drabble based on sorrow is good, it would just be better if I could relate to it. (Hmm that was still a reader's critique wasn't it? Ah well...)

Well my girlfriend left for florida 3 days ago lol. And ever since Ive been in this funk. Like she rolls my sleeves for work and now I am at work and they wont stay up cause she didnt roll them.
I just really miss her I wish she was here with me, and as a result my writing like my life at the moment lacks light and meaning. Without her here I have nothing to look on to or anything to brighten me up. lol.

it just sucks I want her back here with me.

Damn, I feel for you BD I really do You could look forward to her return right? I would say more but I don't want to stray from the topic. I understand your writings better so thanks for sharing your reason, it must be really hard to deal with. It's great that you're venting that emotion into this. What the heck I'll add a bit more - friends (BUT STAY AWAY FROM COUPLES, trust me on this ) , hobbies, exercise and spoiling yourself are awesome mood amplifiers. Anyway, MORE DRABBLE PLEASE

A drabble on her return -

A mere glimpse into the future, holds true to my distress.
The queen, my love, my mainden, the breeze within my breathe.
The drakness so has stricken, the light has so gone.
Life so has no reason, but it's darkest before dawn.

A few days left until distress packs his bags and leaves,
and once again my very bestfriend in my arms indeed.
It's coldest now and still somehow,
I warm to thoughts of you.
I morn so still, in the bitter chill
of darkest before dawn.


(this kinda says shes almost back, and regardless if that its still hard without her. BUT I am putting my nose to the grind stone and pushing it out : P )

A new drabble...perhaps on an emotion.

The topic here is rage...

Deep within, from origins vast and unseen. It wells and wallops, a supremity of feriosity. Something so unconfineable, or unmanagable. A deep, dark entity, more enviting than even the breathe to your lung. So does life feed this beast, this cerebrus of the gateway to oblivian. A feared hound known as rage. Anger, manifest and demonstrated in and through-out a man's daily work. That this hound, this rage, could take from a man sanity and replace with it an intinct of uncanny, unforgiving and implosive measure. This man, with sanity at requim and rage in center stage could take a life without thought and claim the flames of hell his harborer without even a consideration there of. What does a man do when RAGE implodes and destroys the very barriers he confines his own mind and sanity within? How should a man respond to such a destructive mental holocaust such as this? I, indeed suffer from such a condition. Have I lost myself in this rage's haven, known as oblivion and abuse?

No, I shield my lifeblood and well-being within the walls of refuge. Love, that which sustains the universe and all of it's refugee's. Pointless in this rage, do I so retreat to the arms of a maiden marked by that symbol which love so does leave upon it's bare-er. In these arm's, that of a maiden, marked by love, do I bid a fond farewell to the mental anguish known as rage. That hound which at once had three heads now with one. Untamed at once, but now leashed. Uncaged at once, now barred. Unmanaged at once, now structured. From the ashes of this wake, known as rage, do the seeds of a new foundation germinate. Pollenation takes place here in a maidens arms, and hence forth the rage has been quelled, and silienced. Until once more rage rears three wicked heads.

When this time comes, so will I retreat a man, to my women. To take refuge in her arms, my cathedral, her love.

Drabble drabble drabble...

Boredom haunts me still so I will once again revert to writing to kill not only time, but my sub-consious.
but what to write...or more accuratly type?

I will just go with what ever comes out...the regular method I assume.

Drabble drabble drabble...




Dear Who-ever may allow my words rest in thier minds,

It is an eve like thousands of others. A nostalgic eve, cluttered so but things and events both meaning less and boring. What should a man do who works to survive, when work is not present. My hands desire attention and my mind requires stimulas. My heart beats slower than the turtle and my mind moves quicker than even the hair. A poem? What does my mind yield as of creativity at this very moment? What meaningfiull emotion stabs me in the mind at this moment. Enlightenment evades me even now, and the boredom of the evening has even stripped from me a piosed yoking for poetry. A poet stricken of poetry is natrually unheard of. But alas I am not a poet but an artist. A mastermind. Sick and twisted by the ability to read, write, and bend the human mind. Is it not a talent to project emotion, or persuade the human tear? Then why by life's ethics or the ethics of people is it not?

That I will with dreams persuade that life's ethic is unethical in it's own ethics. The words of a idealogist, or perhaps a realist. A realist, or idealogists that states in his own words that life is contradictory to it's own rules hence making life ethically unethical according to it's own ethic. But why is life so boreing, unethical, hypocritical and ironic? What is that which is in life's ethics that would make life ethicly ironic according to life's own ethics? And in the case that life was to abide by it's ethics making it ethically ironic then life's hypocracy and ignorance would banish making life verbatim "Never boring." But alas, life is as stated before ethically unethical by it's own ethics making life hypocritical and ignorant, but where on does irony piece into the puzzle? And why does one man, alone on a night stricken by boredom elaborate on ideals and theories that in a lifetime will never change for better ethic? It is that which fuels life to be ironic I do believe, and that is boredom. Life simply is boring and as a result life has to, well, ##### something up for someone to give himself, or herself, that which life is, something to laugh at. At this moment, I am life's pawn and instrument of humor, pondering pointless nothing to accomplish nothing but the unappreactiation of my own time spent on this earth. Which simply implies I am speeding my own death sub-consiuosly to avoid being bored. Life is rather, well in lamance terms, ##### up. As is the magority of this post, but I can assure you all that these thoughts are that of my mind fresher than the dino-##### in Jurasic Park, or even more fresh than the produce of an apple tree (more appropriatly.) In any case, I will now retire to a padded room and shave my pewbs with a long sword.

Many Blessings,

BD.