Writing Game 6

Writing Game 8

Author: Poet

Notion: Hate

I wish to make it clear to thou, whom I hate.

I hope thou will suffer when thou enter Hell’s gate.

Doth thy mother even care for thee?

Thy cadaver put into the ground is what I wish to see.

But before thou shall feel the relief of death.

Thou must suffer whilst alive, until thy last breath.

I hopeth thy have some beautiful offspring, that deceases from cancer.

And whilst thou look to God for an answer,

on their graves I will act as a dancer.

Why doth I deserve this hate, thou may ask

For what thou did maketh not hating you an impossible task.

Thou stole the girl I loved, and took her as thy wife.

And for that intolerable action I wish to end thy life.

REFLECTION

If I had chosen another author function, for example scribbler, this poem might come off as a homicidal threat, but by using the notion, hate, in a poem it comes off as an angry poet that blows off some steam through art. Furthermore, I wanted to make it sound Victorian in order to make it less dark, although it is still a dark poem.

Writing Game 1, 5 Minute poem

5 minutes for poems

I can make haiku for you.

Thank you very much.

Writing games are fun

Do you know what else is fun?

I’m banging your mum.

Creativity

Can’t be forced right on the spot

This is all I got.

Writing Game 3

Help needs she, who thinks the wage gap is real.

If it was, I would agree, it would be a big deal.

But 77 cent to a dollar is nothing but a myth

If you feel triggered by my poem, here’s a picture of Will Smith

Writing Game 12

https://jepper937o.wixsite.com/writinggame12

A Mercenary of Unknown Origin and his First Day in Syria

At 5.30 am, Damascus International Airport looks like your typical, Mid-Eastern crater with its concrete rubble and dried-up human remains. The flight to Damascus is long and tedious at just about seven hours. Seven hours give you a lot of time to think about the sight that is going to meet you when you exit that godforsaken plane, and whatever you may have in mind it’s likely far more than you could ever anticipate. A few hours into the flight I heard two American gentlemen discuss the degree to which Damascus, and Syria in general, resembled a Hell on earth, and boy was I ever excited. Once I got off of the plane, the first thing I noticed was very much a Syrian specialty. The local birdlife is very rich, with American Drones hovering above once every few hours: within my first day in Damascus I had seen the MQ-1B Predator, the MQ-9 Reaper, and the much adored yet seldom seen RQ-4 Global Hawk. I tracked down some of my good friends at the nearest air base, and one of my favourite pieces of conversation included a small joke between tight friends: “What’s the difference between a syrian weapon factory and a school?” “I don’t know, I just fly the drone.” They were very delighted with themselves as they carried on in their daily routine, and I hurried myself on despite having a grand old time. Once I reached my own destination, dropping off my belongings at the barracks, I went to the cantina. A warm waft of mashed potatoes and such classics as Boyardee’s spaghetti and meatballs met my nose, and this brought me back instantly. It brought me back to my favourite times when the drill sergeant would drag us from the lunch table at the top of the day for us to take a ten mile hike. As I sat and ate my favourite canned Springfield’s green beans, I noticed a sign by the opposite end of the dining hall. The sign informed all soldiers not to enter into the centre of Damascus on their own, and that any and all trespasses after curfew would see punishment. I found myself grinning as I imagined what delightful scenes one might find in central Damascus at night, as it sure is a vibrant and lively city centre. Of course I went into town that first night, but as every place of social engagement had “No women allowed” signs plastered all over them, I quickly changed my mind. Middle-eastern women are true beauties, and I was sorely disappointed. I had been looking forward to having lipstick smears all over my scruffy neck. I passed a local bookstore that was nearly unburnt and I spotted a pristine copy of my favourite collection of tales, and I must recommend this to any and all who like a good bit of short form suspense: 1001 Nights is brilliant writing. This discovery inspired my curiosity and I decided on getting to know a bit more about the surroundings in which I now found myself. I had read of the prophet Muhammad and his political advances, and I found it all very intriguing. After a quick visit to the local, nearly unscathed hardware store, which appeared to be having a sale by the looks of the big yellow sign, I went to the tents that acted as the children’s hospital. When I arrived with the lighters, spoons, and tubes of glue, the children ran out to meet me - those with legs of course. I sat down to talk to a young boy named Rahim, and he kept asking me if I knew Cristiano Ronaldo. I grew tired of his questioning rather quickly and went inside to see the lazy children. I felt somewhat bad about this assumption as it turned out that most of these kids had no remaining limbs. A third child tugged on my shirt and asked me if I wanted some soup. I gladly said yes and took a bowl. However, after a spoonfull it occurred to me that the only ingredients in there were shallots, and spring onions, thus making me feel instant regret about eating any of it. I said my most polite farewells and shuffled back out of the tent, knocking over a one-legged kid by mistake. Luckily for me, it seemed he couldn’t talk and I hurried away. An unbroken street lamp highlighted my favourite painting of Assad. These were all over the city, but that did not make them any less beautiful. After having spent most of my first night in town, I was absolutely exhausted. I snuck back into the barracks and found my beloved, trustworthy L85 lying by my bed. I caressed her cool stock and went to bed, happy with knowing I was finally there, right in the middle of it all.