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Bloodbath Chapter One Abraham didn't sleep, he hadn't for days, the young boy sat in his bed, exhausted and frustrated but most of all terrified. In mere hours he'd be forced into town square, in front of a stage and huge screens, probably televised and watch some poor sap being sent to his death. But the worst part is that poor sap could be him..
The Hunger Games, simply thinking about them sent a shudder through Abraham. There where few in Panem who didn't feel the same way, but they whereby the ones who could do a thing about it. Since Panem had been established the entire country was controlled by the Capitol hidden in the mountains, the Capitol ruled over thirteen districts. Each district specializing in one thing, and getting poorer and poorer the further away from the Capitol they where. Sixty seven years ago the districts rebelled against the abuses of the Capitol...and lost. District thirteen was completely destroyed and as retribution for their defiance each of the remain
Caspian's ReapingTwo months ago the Capitol came out with its bogus anniversary twist, parents pick the kids that they want to ship off to the Games. Sure it’s cruel, maybe it got the point across . . . maybe.
If you ask me it just makes the Capitol look sadistic to its precious districts. I could care less . . . This came out of nowhere and dumped all the hard ass training I’ve been doing for the last six years and it’s bullshit. Pure. Unsaturated. Buuuuullshit . . . My one hope is my mom and most people in our district know my father and I don’t see eye to eye, to put it mildly. So mom is my only hope to get into the goddamned Games so I didn’t waste the last six years of training for nothing. But, she of course sees the Game change as a sign from “God” that I can be weaseled out, that I don’t need to go . . . but she’s wrong . . . this is my birthright and “God” doesn’t want me there to fuck Him.
You're Not A PoetYou’re not a poet because of strung words
Together on row upon row again
Of blank verse or perhaps liberal rhyme.
‘Slam’ all you want, other poets wonder;
Your ignorance of couplets a blunder?
Yes! I speak harshly, but it’s no gross crime,
To point with honesty failed verse of thine.
No real poet discards upper case words;
Lets prose crawl on paper like listless worms.
You seek to free verse of those stern letters,
Sever away bleak capital fetters,
But it doesn’t sing of great speech sublime,
Rather, it sneaks of writing in spare time.
Wait! before you throw me in the icy Rhine;
It’s hard to put verse together in rhyme,
To make our dull words sound great all the time,
Hear them ring out loud, like a clear clock’s chime,
Heralding a poet’s summer prime.
Yet the sacred muses weep at your crime;
Your pentameter mangled thick like slime,
The subject not gilded in raiment fine;
Your bold ink font, crystal waters divine
Tastes bitter to the ton
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Lilyas has dedicated herself to making our community a brighter place with her vibrant artwork and infectious enthusiasm for interacting with others in our community. It has certainly paid off, as many deviants flock to her page on a daily basis to let her know how much of an inspiration she is. We absolutely agree, and couldn't let all that hard work go without recognition, so it's with great pride that we bestow the Deviousness Award for March 2014, to ... Read More