Nov. 10th, 2003

timepiececlock: (cuts and the scratches)
Watched an Esca vid from a trailer of Romeo+Juliet. It's from the Escaflowne movie --::gag::--- but other than that, it's cool. Seeing Van shout "I AM FORTUNE'S FOOL!" is kind of ironic.
timepiececlock: (Default)
First, the new default icon above. Because he's that cute.

Second, this one:

I stopped to make that while I have a whole of unfinished Spuffy icons and TWO unfinished songsets... because I drew the fanart last night and it turned out good. I'll post the actual art later. Yep, I drew the little snitch and raddish earrings too. This one is ALL MINE, but I am going to put up a few bases on the [livejournal.com profile] loonieslions community in about 3 minutes.
timepiececlock: (UST defined by MSR)
I'm supposed to write a sonnet for homework.

Completely stumped.

It keeps turning into limmericks. Bad limmericks.
timepiececlock: (got the fire)
wriggle and tumble out into this sea
of damp scraggly grasses and faraway sky
of brown weeds and shoots that brush-kiss your knee
and drop earth down your ankles from wind passers-by.
watch out for brambles and roots that will trip
swat away ticks and admire the way

...about half-way-ish...
timepiececlock: (got the fire)
I can't believe I didn't think of this once in the entire time (years) I've had the internet...

http://www.rhymezone.com/r/rhyme.cgi?Word=trip&typeofrhyme=perfect&org1=syl&org2=l
timepiececlock: (Eowyn like wind)
I kinda cheated. It has 14 lines, the correct rhyme pattern, and is indeed written in iambic pentameter. However, the traditional order of ideas & follow-up content has been sadly neglected to make way for free-form imagination, if not meter.


Wriggle and tumble out into this sea
of damp scraggly grasses and faraway sky,
of brown weeds and shoots that brush-kiss your knee
and drop earth down your ankles from wind passers-by.
Watch out for brambles and roots that will trip,
swat back bold ticks and admire the way
light can fall through in a stream from a rip
in afternoon clouds of swallowing grey
to circle that tree atop a brown hill,
from beneath turn December to August
where an eight-summer girl stood and was thrilled.
How lonely children are nature's fondest,
moved sincere by a stroke in color of
each piece vein by vein that burned from above.

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timepiececlock: (Default)
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