#1
my next piece will be about what a bastard wesley snipes is. c4c. ots. etc.

vampire planet
the watercolor of the picturesque
purple night hangs across
the streets, yielding gently so
the gold of the lamps may feign to keep
the world alight. it sets trees as silhouettes,
creeping without climbing, each branch, a vine
bursting with stars hanging flush as fruit
and though its flowers are reluctant to bloom,
i expect when they do, they will
be my absolute everything.
and the swallow croons in mandarin,
the hummingbird in cantonese,
the owl calls out in broken french
and my mother sings in perfect peace,
to form an aching harmony that's built around
a simple melody, in a ghostly key, but oh, what a tune.
and the yellow moon taunts the clouds,
when i ask her, "please, golden sister, lay me down,
tell me a story of fiddle and spoon, so that i may
learn myself and one day jump too.
i don't ever want to wake.
the sun is my enemy. the sun is my enemy.
the sun is my enemy and he will surely be the end of me."
#2
"the sun is my enemy and he will surely be the end of me."

It takes true talent to manipulate language enough to create something as beautiful as that sentence. I commend you for that my friend. Sick of my useless comments yet?
#3
Quote by NGD1313
my next piece will be about what a bastard wesley snipes is. c4c. ots. etc.

vampire planet
the watercolor of the picturesque
the line break makes this make less sense
purple night hangs across
the streets, yielding gently so
the gold of the lamps may feign to keep
the world alight. it sets trees as silhouettes,
you've had an end of line-ish assonance until here and the full stop in the middle of the line feels odd because of that
creeping without climbing, each branch, a vine
punctuation is confusing
bursting with stars hanging flush as fruit
did you mean 'flush' or did you mean 'fresh' or 'flesh' or any of many more suitable words?
and though its flowers are reluctant to bloom,
i expect when they do, they will
be my absolute everything.
and the swallow croons in mandarin,
the hummingbird in cantonese,
the owl calls out in broken french
and my mother sings in perfect peace,
to form an aching harmony that's built around
a simple melody, in a ghostly key, but oh, what a tune.
and the yellow moon taunts the clouds,
when i ask her, "please, golden sister, lay me down,
tell me a story of fiddle and spoon, so that i may
learn myself and one day jump too.
i don't ever want to wake.
the sun is my enemy. the sun is my enemy.
the sun is my enemy and he will surely be the end of me."
you see, I've been trying to write a piece that bases itself off pretty much that last line for the last month damn that's good though


it's nice. it's nice.
that last line blows the rest of it away though. if that last line was in something as good as that last line my mind would be blown.
There's only one thing we can do to thwart the plot of these albino shape-shifting lizard BITCHES!