Moist Happenings
10-18-2008, 03:29 AM
I guess this belongs in this folder. Doesn't seem to fit anywhere else. Journal of a Priestess reminded me of a terrible poem I wrote long before I ever became a writer. I dug it up on an old hard drive and figured I'd post it here. Might be good for a laugh.
Romance of a Youthful Addict
Into darkness we charged without regret, with dreams of fame and glory.
Dank sewers we braved as thus began the woe of all our stories.
Neither rat, nor hob, nor lack of deeds would stay our hands from battle.
But first foray outside the gates the foundation of our souls would rattle.
We knew that sticks and stones had kings dethroned, and names would live in infamy,
but to what extent would Warclaidhm persist in his mindless infancy?
Broken and beaten our corpses became, as we longed for better gear,
but "I want a broadsword!!!!!!" just didn't work, no matter how loud it was in their ears.
At merchant's tents we laid in wait, our tales wrought with tribulation,
with lingering hopes that sleepless nights would win that first alteration.
Our weekends were gone, and our evenings busy, for we rarely left our station,
and it was a laughable thought to be anywhere else for the whole of our spring vacation.
Mothers would worry that we were always alone, and that our eyes were always bloodshot,
but we weren't on drugs, we just needed that box. Our brains, they had lost a wing-nut.
It wasn't our faults that we traded our time, it's simu's. Go blame them.
Our wasted youths would come to a close with the search for a stone of gem.
There it is.
Flame on.
Romance of a Youthful Addict
Into darkness we charged without regret, with dreams of fame and glory.
Dank sewers we braved as thus began the woe of all our stories.
Neither rat, nor hob, nor lack of deeds would stay our hands from battle.
But first foray outside the gates the foundation of our souls would rattle.
We knew that sticks and stones had kings dethroned, and names would live in infamy,
but to what extent would Warclaidhm persist in his mindless infancy?
Broken and beaten our corpses became, as we longed for better gear,
but "I want a broadsword!!!!!!" just didn't work, no matter how loud it was in their ears.
At merchant's tents we laid in wait, our tales wrought with tribulation,
with lingering hopes that sleepless nights would win that first alteration.
Our weekends were gone, and our evenings busy, for we rarely left our station,
and it was a laughable thought to be anywhere else for the whole of our spring vacation.
Mothers would worry that we were always alone, and that our eyes were always bloodshot,
but we weren't on drugs, we just needed that box. Our brains, they had lost a wing-nut.
It wasn't our faults that we traded our time, it's simu's. Go blame them.
Our wasted youths would come to a close with the search for a stone of gem.
There it is.
Flame on.