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This is a new thread y'all. It is not because it is almost christmas, no far from it. I want to welcome you all, members and staff of, to join in this one time event. It was said through out my life that the only way to look forward was to keep one foot in the past. Well guess what, It finally inspired me. So this thread, titled season, is about the season of yesterday. Write any form of poetry you like, just keep a nice underlying tone of history. Peace and have fun. Oh and as second thought, try to connect this poems in some wierd unobvious way.

The wordly affairs, so hard to see, the strain is finally hurting, a pain I ran from so long, my feet have been trailing in the sand beneath me, my body weary, my eyes teary, I can see the light no more. She is gone, travelled alone to Zion, her trail dissapearing before me, agony my blessed curse. I shall find you, i shall find you when the time has had enough. The scars can no longer relate, my fears a man castrate, i can see the line no more. To hide and curl, let my destiny unfurl, i wish so not, my yesterday was mine, my tomorrow shall be so too.

All not saved will be lost.

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The following comments are for "Poetry Thread: Season"
by Siah

To Quell the Hell
In the recesses of her fragmented mind
many threads of elusive memories
spiral through the darkness out of reach.
It leaves her only with silent inquiries...
Unable to fit the pieces together
she's tortured by a past that haunts her dreams
shrouding her soul in despair, pain, & misery
somehow-she knows that she is not who she seems...
No longer able to cope with this insanity
she prays forgivness from God in jest...
as she closes her eyes & raises her hand
and pulls the trigger of the gun at her chest.

( Posted by: Nosilla [Member] On: November 30, 2004 )

PT season
end of thread.. she's dead.


Wounded in life
suicidal in sleep
or not.
How dare I?
How dare I not?

( Posted by: drsoos [Member] On: November 30, 2004 )

PT: Season
Teary eyes of wetness,
Smile my lovely butterfly,
Tomorrow is near.

( Posted by: Siah [Member] On: December 1, 2004 )

PT Season
Grunts and smiles lap over each other wavelike, the sound of the ocean of kitchen workers grunt with buckets of soapy water washing away shrimp tails and crumpled leaves of paper tickets the leaves of the evening discarded and collected. Washed away from grey sterile floors in windowless pungent prep room. Seasonless interior room in a box that fills with faces and fat tourists this season empty soon for the next

( Posted by: joeyryan [Member] On: December 24, 2004 )

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