NinjaKraken

Drinking Memories By Michael Louie ------ The bar is made of a fine oak, but its finish is worn with many rings and stains from messy patrons. The pub is warm. A bit too warm, and stuffy besides, but these place always are. I lift my glass, and stare at the dark brown poison within it. I begin to wonder if I have the strength to lift it. And so I swirl the whisky around, and put another drink between me and the real world. It's an odd sensation as it curls down my throat, the cold clashing with the soggy air. It's bitter and it burns a little, but it's not without the underlying twinge of sweet respite usually left by life for those who b

This is a reflective analysis of my poem  Winter Storm, which can be found here: http://fav.me/d4o8z00 (read the desctiption there) My poem, though it may be confusing due to shortage of time for revising, is intended as a metaphor of sorts, to do with friendship and loneliness. It starts with the image, partly abstract but largely specific, of a man screaming and taunting at a winter storm. By saying that he tauntingly "bellow[s] at the sky," I intend to give both a concrete auditory image via onomatopoeia of the man doing exactly that, and indicate via that image and the diction used in it that he feels a great sort

Winter Storm "Strike at me, O Winter's storm! Have you nothing more for me?" I bellow out against the sky, I laugh, and I cry As madness sweeps like wind Ever stronger, all around me I know not how long I have walked on this path It seems it is all that I know. It is long, and winding, and painful And I have walked it long. My clothing, thick and heavy, I pull tighter, and tighter still I fall in the snow, On hard ice, and soft mud But to rise up, my own arms do fail But a light, just one light, A beacon, shines through Orange in the cold of the night A figure, clad in black, Approaches, torch in hand A lone friend, Th

If My Mind Were A Room By NinjaKraken on Deviantart The room is of a moderate size, and is rather cluttered overall. The walls are brightly coloured, and there are notes stuck on almost every available surface. The floor is split into several sections by white lines not two inches thick, which are blurred in places. Though the materials of the floors differ, they all blend seamlessly into their borders. The walls, while different colours, lack clear separation. On the left side of the room, which hosts a bright red wall and a dark and worn hardwood floor, a man in old fashioned robes sits at a large, round oak desk with fine curvature. He

My Fair Maiden By Michael Louie Have you seen my fair maiden? I should think it no surprise That you too know her anywhere By the richness of her gem-lain eyes Had you seen my fair maiden You would know her gleaming smile And the way she's always friendly And makes you want to stay a while Have you seen my fair maiden? For I do seek her every day She always makes me feel much better She always takes my gloom away I know I've seen my fair maiden I know she's run off with my heart By the way I still must see her For from her side I'd never part Has my fair maiden seen of me? Has she seen that I would give Most anything I do

 The Modern Sage By Michael Louie An old man Sits in a dusty old book room And reads each day By the light of a candle All alone With his gathered knowledge And watches people with no time walk by With ridiculous gadgets Outside his window

-Michael In- His body was tired, and his spirits were getting low. The path seemed to ware on forever - at least in that moment. He thought briefly of what might happen if he did not complete his task - and it was not a thing to be considered even briefly. Still, he needed rest. It was not night, but the break could be afforded. He walked off the road and onto a field that lay beside it, sitting in the shade of a great oak. He had always loved trees, and for a moment, he could almost imagine that he had no burden to bear, that he had no journey to finish. Just for a moment, there was only only the sun, the sky, and the leaves. For a moment,

Amid a great and shadowed place He stands, and stands alone Below his cloak and hood his face Juts out, but skin and bone He used to be a gentle man Was kind in all his ways But now he stalks, alone and cold Throughout his ancient days On an on, like a walking corpse, He has no bonds with man Though always a part of him hopes To return where he began Within each merry heart, you see, There is a place where joy lasts In many shrunken hearts of hate The same was true days past People ran and skipped and leaped about They did not know of tears But with each passing day of hate, And scorn and lies and fears The merry place gro