Forgotten Remembrance.I remember nothing, and I dunno why.
And as much as I scream, bellow and cry,
I still can't remember anything but one cartoon,
playing lemmings, and the certainty I wouldn't die.
I was told of your existence today,
of your presence in my life.
That like a few others, we met at that time,
Where we all suffered, trying to survive.
I was told most didn't make it, but nothing of you.
I was told one, like myself, made it, but he was not you.
I was told today about you
and now I'm ashamed I've forgotten you too.
I'm afraid to ask further, and find out you have died.
Afraid that I won't get a second chance, to see you with my eye.
I was told we held hands.
A needle was in one of mine,
your hand in the other.
I was told we were far from fine,
And we didn't look at our mother.
We held hands in pain,
In suffering, we held hands.
And looked at each other,
But I can't recall a thing, not one fuckin' thing.
I wonder what we were to each other,
In those olden days of innocence,
When it wasn't
I do it because I can't.Every now and again, I get this vibe.
My tongue turns in my mouth,
Words fiddle in my mind,
And suddenly I'm here, typing the inside-
-Of the sense of the words
That I write and try to rhyme,
For my reader, to entertain,
Even though the pleasure is all mine.
I have to be honest, I am damn sleepy,
Which is usually a trait,
of whenever I get cheeky,
And act like a poet, all deep and special-like
When in reality I can't focus, concentrate on this night.
But still I go on writing, and typing.
Letter joins letter, words are created,
They're joined up in a group, and thus it is stated,
The point of the matter of the fact of the latter,
The earlier and In between, all senses lost to the teen,
That is stuck deep inside me, shaming my intellect.
I feel stupid and silly, submissive to an insect,
That commands my whims whenever I'm tired.
Sleepy eyes sleepy senses, silly heart silly mind,
Why am I still writing? because I can't.
Hugo aka Kuzcopia
Age of the Hunt: The SoldierBy now, you know what kind of a world Age of the Hunt is. A world made completely of hunters, or so most people would have you believe.
A world shaped around the honor of a kill, and the meaning behind how many trophies you carry.
But this will be, yet again, not a tale of a hunter. Indeed, it won't even take part during the Age of the Hunt, per say, but rather during its end.
If you witnessed, or heard, of my first tale, then you know that the Age of Hunters has been a long one, extending for a few centuries, always under the heel of a king, the greatest hunter of all.
But King Jileo the Wise had an epiphany when hunting a humming bird, and decided to end it.
It is when this attempt is at its most violent and decisive peak, that we will find the central character of this tale... Maku Gaeus, the Soldier.
During one of the most important battles, Maku lead Jileo's forces. And as always, he was in the thick of it.
He was wearing an old samurai helmet, dressed in chainmail with a brown ov
Age of the Hunt - The BardBy now, you know what kind of a world Age of the Hunt is. A world made completely of hunters, or so most people would have you believe.
A world shaped around the honor of a kill and the meaning on how many trophies you carry.
But this will be, yet again, not a tale of a hunter, as was our first one, but the tale of one belonging to another kind of profession. This is the story of Bakio Pitko, the Bard.
"Beware the honorable deeds perpetuated by the great hunters, for they might just include your demise! Beware the fine size of their achievements, for they can mean the end of your liiives..."
He had long blue hair, was skinny and short, and carried along a wooden guitar, two small hand drums, a flute, and a tiny harp. He dressed in white rags which were composed by a sleeveless shirt and trunks. That is the description of the famous bard. He was famous mostly due to one line he sang, very often:
"Alas, few know my name, for many know my skill at running away... they don't even ask me my