With all victory there may come great shame
If you predict to be the one king in the game
Because sooner or later at the cease and the fall
A band of noble farmers may before you build a wall

And no matter how you push your luck, or try to push them back
All these noble farmers will do is just keep striving to attack
They will not leave an opening, not even the slightest small crack
And even when there is no way, they will just stop and there they'll stay

If one of the farmers falter, another will pick up the pace
All of them building a pattern, peacefully reaping your grace
And when the dawn is nearing it's end they will without remorse
Reach the destination which they had when they took course

And bury you in a mound of sand
Never giving in to your highest demands
They will not take your throne, or the crown you possessed
Nor will they take great treasures or bury you undressed

They will remain who they were, and be known wide and far
As noble farmers spur, the break of a new day
And as you lie in the ground ajar and so tendery decay
They will reach the stars, and never seize to play

He rose
From the shadows
And they didn't know
His name

Instantly
He climbed up!
Towards great fortune
And fame

He rose
From the shadows
And into the bright
Light

He was Poe
And he fought battles
All which he won
With much delight

He was brave
He was no coward
Over many graves
His figure towered

Weather it was day
Or darkest of nights
He let his sword down
With all his might

The great power
Was on his way
And his respect devoured
All he did not slay

He built an army
And his soldiers fought
All the riches
That big Poe sought

They were enriched
By the knowledge he bought
And they grew greedy
Big Poe thought

He held them trapped
In a cage by mind
But slowly he left
All this strength behind

And in due time
Big Brave Poe aged
He no longer fought
With the same grim rage

And when his soldiers saw this
They stormed his fort
His reign had been long
And theirs would be short

On a blood-drenched battle field
Big Brave Poe still stood
That his soldiers would deceive him
He had long understood

Now it was time to retire
And settle down for good
So big Poe wandered
Down to the wonderful woods

Leaving all traces
Of slaughter, of vengeance, of void
Behind him

I read books, many books, but I can't keep in all the knowledge. All it took, was a few books, and then I was on my way down the road to college. And now I'm here, so view my despair! When I have to order ten more, and all the pages in them clear! There's gotta be two thousand or so, pages I have to read yo, and they were supposed to be read last week, seems like I just got to keep, my head down and away, from my computer, for a few days. As soon as they arrive, strive to survive, just dive, down, in piles of paper

When it comes to flash, I don't evolve, I just occasionally replenish my knowledges. Overtime I learn a little more, of things I should have learned back when I first started using the program, and my creativity shifts, sometimes grows, regulates, adapts to life around me, but I never move on to the next level. I love flashing around, animating, programming, throwing together both random and well planned pieces of creativity, so why don't I get moving on? Answer, flash isn't my vibe in life, it's a hobby and hobby only, NG is a hobby and hobby only, despite my tendencies of sometimes getting sidetracked from the real situation. I worked intensely with flash January this year, made a minimum of two each day, same for the start of February, but things have slowed down to a halt now, no interest at the moment. This post may seem a bit irrelevant as I really haven't posted any flash to this site earlier, so I'll do so now! Introducing a new section to the site, put together in all haste, here. And if you don't know what flash is, you can read on about it on it's official website. Even if you don't know what it is, you have probably seen some already during your visit online, the dynamicality in this form exists everywhere, it has become as coherent as regular HTML. Flashing away...

Sometimes I feel like writing
Even though I have nothing to write
But don't worry I won't be biting
Because Cyberdevils don't bite

I've been spending this week allnighting
Yes I've been staying up all night
Watching serial scary movies
Rearing in the air with fright

I know all the tales they told me
But this world revolves so slowly
I just wish that my goddess would hold me
Safe, far away from harm

But it seems that I cannot reach further
Than the governments dreadful arm
So I hope I'll be swift like the shadows
And calm, like the sea

Like the universe - I'd like to be.

Seems to me authors are - out of the common occupations around the world - those most exposed to disease, depression and death. It's not strange, really, since they constantly find new ways to describe these scenarios and are always through their writing traumatically toying with placidly possible ends of life and chaotic conviction. You can't commonly be mentally disarranged without being a genius, and most geniuses apparently chose to portray their ideals and stories through works with words. Authors have a much shorter lifespan than the average hardworking regularian, those dedicated to any stable occupation complying regular mental/physical stimulus in a naturally routinized environment. Authors are the ones who work on the most irregular of basis, the ones who always are subject to the sometimes nonexistent and sometimes unbearable workloads, fatigued by their own senses of emotional devotion, sentenced to a lifetime of bad habits and irregularity

Then again, literature is the only true form of limitless portrail available, a one where all senses can be recorded and kept, in which there are guidelines as how to describe things so people understand you but yet no walls to keep out the sunlight when it does shine or hinder you from throwing new concepts to the crowds. For some there are no crowds, some writers phrase their thoughts in silence, some shine never seeps out of it's cavular dome, but authors still have freedom, the more the lesser they live. They can write when inspiration comes running, whenever the concept strikes them, they describe only what they chose, they can keep what is important to them, they throw away all irrelevant matter, they can live and support themselves solely by thinking, and by learning how to best convey those thoughts. They can research, if they like, they can read, they can listen, they can paint, they can convey what comes to mind. Through verses, pages, paragraphs, scripts and empty voids, trash bins filled with paper. I know I won't quit writing, not even if it kills me, it all comes eventually, on a siden-ote I wonder why I blog only under dreadfully cloudy visionless skies.