Woo! Thread! XD

[the.crippled.dreamer]

Just imagine if I did wish to be minded, and exhausted to boot; I'd never shut up. 

[Woo]

Blah, I've not been here in forever. O_O

In answer to a long ago asked question, Scraps' leg is clunky because initially it was ill-fitting and too big, but also because it's outdated, and because over the years he's had to repair it himself with whatever refuse he can salvage.

Also, that was quite a wall of text. XD but that's pretty much what I do, I doodle or scribble some lines down and sometimes a project just forms itself. For instance, I have an idea for a webcomic based on Eros and Demmie. :3 which will be cute if I ever feel the enthusiasm to continue with it.

ALSO ALSO. A new poem, that I have just written. The verses are not in the order I wrote them, because I decided they would look better in the order they will appear in now. So, this is the first thing I thought ok enough to share for a while. Also the first thing that looks remotely finished that I've done for a while. Let me know what you think!

~~~

He doesn't think of me.
He doesn't think of me; when he drinks,
when he dances.
When he chances second glances
at the girl in fishnet tights,
with roaring red highlights and high-heel boots.
He doesn't move.
Still, he doesn't think of me.

But I don't think he loves me like he did
when we met, when we kissed.
When I fell, his bed of roses,
grasping thorns that drew my blood.
My white cotton shirt drank red,
and it went right to my head
like the whiskey and the moonlight;
and the scars run wrist to shoulder.
Silver lines are growing bolder
as they dance across my skin
in the frigid winter winds.

He doesn't think of me.
He doesn't think of me, when he sleeps at night.
When I lay beside the phone.
When we go to bed alone
at other ends of the world
and the night fills in the gaps between us.
He doesn't call.
And he doesn't think of me.

And I don't think he loves me like he did
when we sighed, when we slept.
When I held him as he wept,
left distraught and bereft,
before he left to find his fortune.
And we would kiss in smoke-filled stations,
make the most of the situations.
He held me close, softly whispered before
the train arrived, and bore me home.
Every day, every day the tracks extend,
they take me farther away.

And does he ever think of me?
Why would he ever think of me.



BLARGH.