04-16-2018, 10:00 AM
valo-kas was not accustomed to terror. this was an animal that thought that slogging into a radioactive swamp in search of a gator to woo was, like, an okay idea. maybe dying too often in the dumbest of ways had taken that feeling from them and stomped it into an easy-to-ignore paste regardless of memory loss, if that made any remote sense (though nothing about their circumstances at any given time really did) or maybe that was just how they were. right now, though? right now, valo-kas was on the verge of some kind of real, bona fide breakdown and it was all the stupid, no good, god damned weather’s fault.
how’s it get so fucking blustery in a swamp? how’s that happen? they didn’t know jack about swamps so they figured maybe their shock was misguided but whatever. the mutant slunk through the ghost town as carefully as they could manage, quietly fishing scraps of papers out of puddles and bushes and keeping them stuffed sloppily in their mouth so they wouldn’t get the chance to fly away again. damn near every work of theirs now decorated the joint, putting their innermost musings on blast. valo-kas wanted to crawl into a hole and die. just act regular. last thing anyone’s gonna accuse you of is writing poetry. they couldn’t remember their own mother’s name, who would dare accuse them of remembering the rhyme scheme for a sonnet? c’mere Sonnet No. 8: The One About Girls (Again), said sonnet was taken gingerly into their mouth by the part of the page that would suffer the least were it to be stained by mouth goo.
So far they had collected that, Dumbest Motherfucker Still Kicking, Swamp Cinquain, This Would Be a Song if I Could Sing, and Worms the Squirmening, leaving an approximate dozens still scattered about, which they tottered after while trying to keep a level head.
just be cool. you’re just picking up because it needs to get picked up. valo-kas nervously snatched up an poem that had gone unnamed because of how embarrassingly sappy it had gotten. in fact i think i oughta let you go. they shredded the unnamed abomination, face warm. this isn’t fair, i don’t even remember how many there are! just that there were poems. several poems. they had been a somewhat useful tool to help get oriented after the Thing. valo-kas trudged onward, getting their mouth around another scrap of paper. just keep makin’ progress.
how’s it get so fucking blustery in a swamp? how’s that happen? they didn’t know jack about swamps so they figured maybe their shock was misguided but whatever. the mutant slunk through the ghost town as carefully as they could manage, quietly fishing scraps of papers out of puddles and bushes and keeping them stuffed sloppily in their mouth so they wouldn’t get the chance to fly away again. damn near every work of theirs now decorated the joint, putting their innermost musings on blast. valo-kas wanted to crawl into a hole and die. just act regular. last thing anyone’s gonna accuse you of is writing poetry. they couldn’t remember their own mother’s name, who would dare accuse them of remembering the rhyme scheme for a sonnet? c’mere Sonnet No. 8: The One About Girls (Again), said sonnet was taken gingerly into their mouth by the part of the page that would suffer the least were it to be stained by mouth goo.
So far they had collected that, Dumbest Motherfucker Still Kicking, Swamp Cinquain, This Would Be a Song if I Could Sing, and Worms the Squirmening, leaving an approximate dozens still scattered about, which they tottered after while trying to keep a level head.
just be cool. you’re just picking up because it needs to get picked up. valo-kas nervously snatched up an poem that had gone unnamed because of how embarrassingly sappy it had gotten. in fact i think i oughta let you go. they shredded the unnamed abomination, face warm. this isn’t fair, i don’t even remember how many there are! just that there were poems. several poems. they had been a somewhat useful tool to help get oriented after the Thing. valo-kas trudged onward, getting their mouth around another scrap of paper. just keep makin’ progress.
[align=center][b]IF GOD DOESN’T LIKE UGLY
THEN GOD DOESN’T LIKE ANYBODY
THEN GOD DOESN’T LIKE ANYBODY