hi, i very new to this but here is a few poems/storys/ect. hope you enjoy!
any comments, critism, questions, iam open to all!

So what is the meaning of life anyway? I thought. what is the meaning of life? Maybe the Buddhists have it right-the meaning of life is desire. Or have I got that wrong… what matters? I am here, I am healthy and happy. I look at my surroundings; I am in my history class.
“…and so 60,000 men where killed on the first day of the Somme…” so why is he being so boring about it? 60,000 men is a lot of families. He is just not tapping into the feelings of the time… and he calls himself a teacher. Teachers should inspire! I smile to myself.
“and what do you find so funny about men being killed at Cambri?”
I think fast. “I find it funny that they were dying for a lie.”
“what?”
“sir, I believe that the government propaganda lied to them to put them in between Britain and the German machine guns” I said calmly; much more calmly than I felt. I had to bluff my way out…
“that is an interesting theory. What is your evidence to back it up?”
“Ummm…” I was starting to panic. I needed an idea… there! On the wall! A poster!
“well?”
“well sir, there is your answer” I said pointing at the poster “that’s your evidence”
“huh?” by this time, I had the attention of the class. All eyes turned upon the poster. The poster said ‘your country needs you’ with lord Kitchener pointing at the reader.
“ok. Next time you lost concentration in my class, expect a after school detention!” what? How did he know? I opened my mouth to protest, but the bell saved me from that stupid battle.

iam not sure if this is a poem or a story... oh well, read and enjoy.



Staring into her eyes was like staring into an ocean, one of calm, but also one of turbulence.
Their faces drew nearer, and their lips met like a butterfly landing on a flower,
Suddenly she was torn away from his grasp,
“NO! wait… please!” he shouted to the guards,
They would not listen; and the swastika on their arms reminded he of where and who he was.
He was a Jew… they would never listen to him.
He was at the train station and with his love…
She was thrown onto a dirty carriage which was already filled beyond capacity,
Like a sheep going to slaughter.
He tears fell to the ground and immediately evaporated,
in the midday sun,
The carriage door was slammed shut.
He tried to run after it…
To set his love free,
But they caught him.
Those men in field gray,
And held him…
“no!” he screamed…
“what do we have here sergeant?” a captain said,
The sergeant snapped to attention,
“a runner sir”
“shoot him”
“yes sir!”
He lay in the dust, oblivious to what was going on,
All the time the sun beat down, heating the ground,
His mind went back to when he met her here,
At the train station.
Their eyes had met across the crowd,
He smiled, and she smiled back,
The crowd had been happy then,
He had been happy then;
And when they met and talked,
Walking home together,
An experience took place.
He looked into her eyes…
He knew he loved her,
And she knew she loved him,
But their love could never be,
As she was a German and he a pole;
and a Jew.
War broke out;
Would he go with his heart ,
Or would he go with his country?
He chose…
She chose…
They chose the same,
Their hearts.
But the nazis found them,
In the basement where they hid.
Condemned to a work camp,
They went to the station;
To catch a train they could not miss.
Hand in hand…
The sergeant loaded his Luger 9mm with a click,
Pointed it at the wreck on the ground,
And pulled the trigger.
The hammer fell.
He convulsed, the bullet cutting deep…
Hours went by,
His blood that trickled into the drain dried,
And his life slipped away,
His lung pierced.
His love for her held him,
And would not let him go.
Night fell,
And an old doctor checked his pulse with his son.
He was surprised to feel a weak one,
And they carried him to their house.
He made a full recovery,
And lived out the war in hiding,
And when the Russians came,
I knew.
She was long dead.
Never again would I look into her eyes.
Never again would we laugh and cry,
Because I too am dead,
It was not the kiss with the bullet,
But the last kiss with my love.

Futality of War was interesting. Its nice to see someone in a 'lower' class (Student) prove a decent point to a teacher. Surpasing them in a way. But I ghess the student was just trying to find something in his words, or get a rise.

i belive that the best way to learn something is to get out there and do it. thats why i grew wheat in my garden to learn about bread production. when it was ready, i harvested it, separted it, groung it, and baked it. now, i was faced with a conudrum: who to share it with?

well, i thought, my sister had helped with the grinding. she deserved a slice.

my dad had done nothing. he would get exacty that-nothing.

my grandparents had made the bread- they desevered some.

my frends had not contrubuted physicaly, but theoricaly. they shared important knowleagde. they deserved some.

wait! there is none for me! and i did the hard work!

i learnt something important today about bread production. one has to do it on a grand scale if one wants to beifit from it. also, one has to get everyone in on it because then there is much less effort involed.

i learnt something else. bread production is not about the survival of the fittest; its about survival of the majority.

why do i write on ats? is it because iam some old, loney person? is it because something is missing?

its not because iam stuck here, its not because i dont have any freinds, its not because iam afraid to get out there...

i do get out there, i live my life. i have a wide circle of freinds; whom i care for and they care about me.

why do i do this? why do i invest time in such a dead-end activity? people dont care about this. people dont care for my thoughts...

but thats it! i write here because something is missing. whats missing in my life is people like me; here there are people like me. people who question what goes on around them; devolop intrests based on what others have written about.

some people that i know like to question part time... whats the point? question to live is how i feel.

here, i can express my opinons and get a heated or polite answer; not the usal "stop getting political" or "get on with life" but this IS life! the internet community can be compared real world; backup; it is the real world. just because i commicate though a machince does not mean i dont communicate at all...

of course, there is the thing of too much of a good thing. but i would never exchange my life for my 'virtal' life. and vias versa.

this is life. thats why i do it.

Your thoughts are who you are, right? What you say is your thoughts, and when you write it down you are writing down your thoughts, a piece of you.

When you make an idia and put it into music and record it, it is a part of who you are. Of cource, people allways build onto that idia, or ells life would become very dull.

I am in fact a very lonly person, as I lost all of my friends when I moved to Seattle, nice rambling blue_sky_9, I enjoy the imperfection and randome thoughts. Its what more people should be doing, slowing down to the speed of life, and watching before they step on an ant or a fly. And becomeing one with it.

[edit on 31/8/05 by The Surrealist]

Very good job guys, keep up the good work.

thanks very much, iam known for random thoughts!

i was running yeserday around 8oclock, and i notcied a strangde phemoniana. as i rounded the corner and started to climb the hill to home, i looked over to were the sun was setting in a red+blue glow. i didnt think nothing of it.

then i looked again. it was beauitful... stunning... the blue of the sky was agaist the blood red clouds. as i looked, the two were moving together like two enomous dragons fighting each other.where they met was the colour of purple...

i was amazed. i felt as if they looked into my soal, the ying and yang; good and evil, hot and cold... i was truly humbled.

the blue dragon started to win over the red dragon, and i wondered whos side i was on. then i relised, i was on no side, because they wouldnt need a puny human like me.

then i wondered if they were even fighting each other, and i relised that they were not. they were there. just there.

i wondered which one i was like. was i the cold hard person, or was i the red, angery, passionate person? i knew then. i was not ether. i was both.

the pasionate, but cold. the angery, but calm. the slavemaster, but also the slave. the fighter, but also the philosofer...

i looked again at the cloud. i looked again at the dragons. i thanked them, for they had allowed me to look into my soal.

here we go again. another old person remising about the "good old days"

that anonnys me. the "good old days" pah! they were not the good old days! me mum was saying to me about them, and how her and her freinds went out playing and how everyone went to church plus 'nower-days', the culture has broken down.

pah! pah! pah!

the church; well, every one used to go to church in yesteryear. you know, sunday afternoon suchlike. now, no one goes to church. the argument that i got from me mum was that every one is "too wrapped up in their own lifes". i dismiss this argument, because i think the reason that people have gone from the church is because people are starting to think for themsevles and have their own philosofies. and why shouldnt they? and who has there own lives more than the amercains? and look at their churches! loads of people!

alos i think one of the reasons that people dont go to church is the 'shirt and ties' culture there. and what do the christans teach? that everyone is equal? pah! if i were god i wouldn't care what you look like! this might seem a bit toddlerish but i think that its whats on the inside that matters.

i went to this christing yesterday (thats why i even had this conversation with my mum) and one of the lines was "we take this child to be a solger of christ; a solger agaist evil" is not killing wrong though? even though that person may be nasty, it does not mean that you kill them. the "solger of christ" is bollocks! and it would probably offend the 'holy sprit' to hear that it is being planted into the child.

cultrual breakdown... i like that one. in other words, the person that is saying this is basically saying that "i dont understand the culture" the culture is no way broke down! if one looks at the newspaper 'the express' one can see that ii is full of activist comments. i remember one of them pushed though the banning of hoodies in a mall.

anyway, the 'express' keeps going on about how bad the culture is, how people dont care; and one of there biggest hits is hoodies. i refuse to buy the express. and when i do read it, i laugh, because these people are feeding sheep fodder to get them angery so they will follow when the time comes...

the 'good old days' never existed. that period of time wasa made in peoples minds. a place they could escape to when the present times got tough. culture has not broken down. i do not need to remind you of the scenctific discoveries, breakthoughs that have hapened. i do not need to remind you that in 1990 this computer was deemed to be 50 years away... if anything, culture has grown onto the internet, allowing me to express myself by turning on a machine...

'the good old days'. are these the good old days? no longer do we think of things as in black and white film, with old men and women on the garden doing the light weeding of yesteryear, but now the good old days are not old. they are now! the good days are when people want to do what they want to do. when they can go out in the sun and not worry about the german bombs, or the coal strikes, or the nasty russians with their atomic weapons, or the finatal breakdown of high intrest rates!!!

now are the good old days! of course, we have our problems, like poverty in africa, like the love of a fellow human that is caste aside asif it never existed, like the worrys of tax, and peak oil; but we are strong enough to get though it!

we may cry. we may laugh. we may feel angery or frustrated. but we have each other. we have ourselves. and when we are angery, upset, frustrated, and we feel like crying; we can escape to our imagenary world of 'the good old days' where we can weed the garden in the july sun, or frollock in fields of gold.

and when we are high on the sun, or lying on soft grass and feel warm and compacent, we can say that these are 'the good old days'.

i walk alone.

i remember her walking beside me, our hands entwined.

i remember gazing at the stars and milky way, her head on my chest.

i remember holding her in the night, feeling the heat off of her body.

i remember her soft lips brushing my cheek

i remember her laugh as she smiled up at me

i remember her lying on the bed

i remember the driver crying

i remember crying, my tears hitting the tiled floor, mixing with her crinsom blood

i remember her scream

i remember the car; every detail.

i remember her love

i walk alone.