Old Stuff

Ok. I've been rifling through a bunch of my old drawings/writings/incomprehensible scribbles. I just decided to post a few of the things I found...

What's long division, again?

For some reason, I want to make it clear, no, I did not write this poem. No idea why, though.

However, this poem I DID write. It's probably from less than two years ago. If I thought really hard and looked at surrounding writings/drawings, I'd probably conclude it was within a year from now. Anywho...

There Is A Writer

There is a writer, who is so great
that there's not a thing his pen not touched
There's not a valley, hill nor mount
which his great ink hasn't wet

His long pen, wet with ink
reached beyond our flesh and bones,
Reached so far, t'was but a wonder
when he stopped to observe our woe

When he looked, he looked with pity, love and grace
on we, but rebellious, worthless waste
And he, on paper so blotched with ill,
penned a turn in his great tale

This turn, this change, in his great yarn
is


HAH! *merciless cackle*

Yeah, I don't have any more, actually.

This is just about the only poem I've written to any long extent, except for that awful bunch of woes.

*EDIT* CLARIFICATION! I did not WRITE the former poem, I PENNED it. Almost assuredly. *grins, imagining how happy he must have been...*

*EDIT2!* A few errors cleared up in the text, and the bit in the poem written. Hopefully I'll get down to writing the rest eventually...

!Noah!