I thought it a good thing
a place to put good words
It is empty
As is my head often
But like the sky
Clouds will come
then the rain
Also here the clouds
Soon to come the rain

Despair

Despise poetry, and you'll be named to office.
But to love poetry is like clinging to a
mountain:

frozen, holding tight, facing death,
days of sorrow followed by sorrow.

The burgeoise are jealous of those
who love poetry: they flash their teeth like
knives.

All the old sages are long since dead,
but bureaucrats still gnaw their bones.

Now I'm frail, dying like a frond.
All my life I sought a noble calm,
but a calm I never could acheive.
And the noisy rabble mocked me.

-Meng Chiao, Midnight Flute

Get your poetic
ass to the tandemic thread
where it does belong

My turn
It was not
Also it must needs be mentioned
This ass o' mine can be in both
So there

I ought to kick your ass till you desist
a pentametric style destroyathon.
I doubt you could, for long, my skills, resit.
But what could rhyme with a destroyathon?

Mock me not
Rearing up fools
Ne'er twere me mother's forte
Not to be one
to just praddle on
but in rhyme I run the marathon
and if still your challenge persists
even till the morrow
with slanderous verb
I'll fill your bleeding heart
with endless oceans of sorrow

Nice.

+1

(For those unfamiliar with +1, it simply means that the one posting +1 has made a useless post, and added one to their post count. Thank you, you may now resume your reguraly scheduled posting.)

most of the people I see posting +1 use it as a shortened version of "You win +1 internets!"

Hail to the GM

Behold one who can conjure whole worlds
Whose every course makes imagination to soar
The merest of their whims can raise one to glory
Or down to the bottom of the black abyss

Ever a suprise in wait
Always a spin in store

What will happen next you never really know
Both excited and nervous with every die rolled
How can one move to the left or the right
When every step could be the last you take

Do you even dare to look at it
The cunning tapestry mere words have woven

All the threads are drawn together
The knot tied over three fold
Just when you begin to reach the top of it
The knot is quickly severed loose

To save the world is only the beginning
Finding the treasure just a distraction
Halting the horde is but rising in the morning
Curing the plauge a small walk in the afternoon
Manage to close inter-dimensional rift created by a god
And you have only made it as far as the evening
Before the night is through your own soul may be the warground
For even the immortal may have to give up his life

So find your cause amidst the chaos
Destroy the old order choking man's soul
Embrace your passions
Become your destiny
Give rise to a new power
Ascend to the very stars
Claim your birthright
Save the innocent
With your truth inspire all existence

There are no boundaries
Limitations are not known
Endless are the seeds from which new worlds are sown

But look past all these things
See beyond all the struggles
Peer through the veil of events
Look and see the doorway
Knock upon the door and enter
For you have just become a part of
The greatest escape to ever be known

Hail the GMs and the masterful works of role-play that are their art and craft! Hail the GMs, who let us be something other than ourself! To the last, hail the GMs, who use a gift given of God. That gift, is to, CREATE!

Living well makes the death good.
One life.
One breath.
One soul.
One chance.

Fate and fortune will both come.
Many paths are laid open.
Before you the roads of destiny.
Do not think that even your life is mediocre.
Even the wisest do not see all things.
The part you play is greater than you know.
By both your wrong or your right, you teach, you lead all others.
In the end, we are beholden only to ourselves.
In the end, as in the beginning, the breath goes back whence it came.
All you take with you is yourself.
Therefore learn much.
For in you the breath of heaven dwells.
In your heart is a piece of God.
All creation grows in you, and you in it.
So love all, both good and bad.
The real battle is truth and error.
Good and evil are only tools.
To learn truth is wise.
To love error is the wisdom of fools.

If thoughts exist, then they are real, if only in a certain fashion.
For if they are not real, how could they ever inspire a passion?
A hope, a desire, for well, or for ire, is but the vague conclusion
which only sleeping eyes contrive.
It is for an illusion ever in passing that all men seem to toil and strive.
Only in death does the dreamer awake, yet rare is the one who desires it without first receiving some tragic motivation or constant ailiment of a body soon to wither.
Only in that same death do the wise say all answers are given, and yet many still seek it upon the mountains, finding only empty sky and cold rock, and within the caves, only to find darkness, and still within the hearts of those who are asleep even as they. It is ever he who claims to know the answer who also, because the answer he provides is said to be precious, cannot live as normal people must, and so, is become an eagle trying to teach a fish, the one looking forward, and the other to the side, so that neither can ever truly-

understand the other, until finally the eagle flies away onto the next perch, and the fish to swim as he ever has upon his fishy way.
If all is illusion, and nothing real, why then through a dream are we made to feel, made to think, made to love, made to consider below and above?
It is all a dream that we must share, and the same poor raiment, all are made to wear. Whether rich or poor, we all knock upon the same door. No matter how wise, the future remains a suprise, and the coming of which turns today's truth into lies.