TokyoPlayer is now misspelled

I knew it!
And your poem for your child is lovely, evocative and sharp. Well done.

There’s something in my eye.

There’s something in my throat.

On bare rocks and wind swept sand carried by the sheltered sea, the young woman stood. Well, not so much stood as sat. Slouched, actually, and would’ve slumped off the chair altogether had she not been strapped in. Sent to die a solder’s death; to guard against thunderous cannons that could light the heavens and shake the earth. With nothing but a state-of-the-art mouth-operated motorized wheelchair, hers was to die if shooting began. Or if her wheel brake gave out and she rolled off the cliff, or her colostomy bag clogged… look, recruitment was at an all-time low, OK? Basically she was there to be a flagpole.

What is wrong with TokyoDad?

Oh, we’re going to write really bad verse now. OK, two of us can play that game.

With apologies to the memory of Ian Pough.

On bare rocks and wind swept sand carried by the sheltered sea, the young woman rolled. Sent to dry a solder’s tie; to guard against a gourd, whose cavernous innards were rotten with blight 'n compound. With nothing but feckless methods, her was to lie if typing began.

Do we ask if they are craven? Those who are decreed to connive? Those so young or perhaps so old. Blinded by their muck and smuck, are they valued less because they lie; our bane, silenced before they take flight?

Too gall; a freak, their prevarications impetent; they would be spotted from afar, failing in their betrayals.

Who will scold them, these fickle rodents? Where are these mother f*ckers with their smears?

Do they lie as girls, those who never post as women, their passing not marked, but scorned. Cut down by the sea, with the salty water which flows from distant shores.

More sympathy averted, a thread derailed, and the girl sent packing. The meme in time becomes a rhyme.

The verse and prose are stilted, the asses of the impotent are submerged in waves from the sheltered sea of waters from the distant shores.

**This post has been prosed by the prosist!

TokyoDad is sad.

It’s actually called depression and anxiety rather than sadness, and I’m being treated, but definitely get ups and downs. I try very hard to keep the downs away when the kids are around.

I’m over five months sober, and they say it gets worse first but then better.

People here have been incredibly supportive for me over the years. God knows how much harder it would have been without everyone.

My children thank you.

There’s something in my eye. :sniff:

Well, if the OP is getting older, why not TokyoGrayer? :slight_smile:

Well, I am glad to hear that.

Otherwise, though, it’s hard to tell, from your posts, what’s metaphor and what really happened to you. Is this how you talk to your therapist?

Now take up pottery and change it to TokyoClayer.

Or start a metal band and call it TokyoSlayer.

:smiley:

Take up canning and change it to TokyoMarmalader?

Hats off.

Someone with a join date of August, with a single post referring to something which happened several months ago?

Yes, I know that I write contrived shit.

Thanks for mocking me.

No.


I’m asking the Mod to lock this.

The things, you say… Your purple prose just gives you away.

The things, you say… You’re Unbelievable!

I so shouldn’t…but I laughed like hell.

It was not a real poster. It was a troll, an evil dark mockery. A selfish, insatiable longing for laughter which could never be filled until it was let go.

Fingers typed. Alone, twisted, a parody. A burning urge. which could only be slaked by the bitter dregs of woe.

Submit was hit. Thirst was slaked, the beast was sated. For now. Yet the urge, the compulsion to jest was only slumbering. In the dark hours it would rise. Cold, brutal.

It sleeps, restless, muttering. Craving.