Saturday, November 16, 2013

Requiem for a Remnant

A vacant vessel, void of hope or faith
A sundered soul, despairing, dying, lost
So it remains, a restless, roving wraith
Until it can collect for Charon's cost.

His life force flowing, going to the grave
It dries, he dies, though does not dread the dead
He fights his fear, but not because he's brave
He must escape the Hell that haunts his head

Descend through darkened doors and dire straits
Towards the destination of the damned.
He can't escape the human heart he hates
The devil's deal he's made has left him scammed.

If you write emo poems, check it, son
You best be taking notes; that's how it's done.

NOTE: "Charon" is the name of the ferryman at the River Styx. His name is pronounced with a hard "k" sound, to preserve alliteration.

Friday, August 2, 2013


This poem was written as an entry for a scholarship, where the prompt was essentially "Write a poem about why you write poetry". Since writing poetry about poetry is my specialty, I gave it a go. Unfortunately, the winner is to be selected randomly, so my superior skill and willingness to rhyme will not be a factor.

Wherefore do I write poetry, you ask?
I am afraid my answer won't be clear.
But nonetheless I must attempt this task.
I guess I write my poems out of fear.

I fear I'm doing nothing with my time.
I fear that all my life will be for naught.
To waste a life is surely quite a crime
And so I make the best of what I've got.

My poetry stands testament to time
That I have spent creating something great.
With each alliteration, foot, and rhyme,
My art emerges, beautiful, ornate

Of my own reasons, I am not quite sure

Perhaps that's part of poetry's allure.

Friday, June 14, 2013

Red (Not the Taylor Swift Album)

This one actually has a funny story to it. You see, one of my friends (The secondary content manager for my other blog, actually) posted a picture where some person asked for someone to describe the color red without using the word "red". Someone responded with some rather charming purple prose, as follows:

"When you dip her in the middle of the dance floor, it is the color of her dress. When she whispers in your ear, it is the color of her lips. When you make love, it is the trace you want her to leave all over your body. When she places her palm over your heart, it is the color that comes to the surface as her fingertips trail like a sentence that can never be finished. When you see her in your bedroom with another, it is the color of your breath. When you smash the vase in the hall, it is the color that threatens you to abandon the shattered pieces. When you scream at the top of your lungs, it is the color that pierces the atmosphere. When she hears you, it is the color of her pulse. When you look in her eyes for the last time, it is the fading color of your heart falling to your knees. It is not the color you see when she leaves."

It was posted by a chap by going by the screen name of "book-halfunread", and I admit that it's quite a beautiful piece of prose. Naturally, I responded to my friend's share of the picture with "625-750 nm electromagnetic radiation. Owned". Afterwards, she had the audacity to say that I, a genuine poet, was not as amazing with words! Needless to say, I was seeing red. In my anger, I whipped up a poem of my own about the color red. I cannot say for sure that it outshines book-halfunread, but I believe it to be perhaps some of my finer work.

Anyway, without further ado:

The color of a fiercely beating heart
The hue you grew when you first heard “I do”
The fire that rages, deep within my art.
It can combat its calmer brother, blue.

It is the color that provides us life
and yet it's that which signifies our death.
A cross that seeks to stop sickness and strife
A wounded warrior's gasped final breath

The budding tenderness of Valentines
The crimson radiance of setting suns
The flaming hope which in the darkness shines
The color of one's nipples when one runs.

And yet, all of the many things I've said
can be conveyed with just the color red.

If you're confused about that bit about nipples, here's an explanation.

Monday, April 29, 2013


I wonder if the world is just a dream
Elaborate illusions in my head
And all reality is as I deem
The weaver of the universe's thread

Then why is my world filled with all this pain?
Could I not simply wish the world was well?
I do not know what I could have to gain
In making people's lives a living hell.

Perhaps a deity can be as flawed
as any mortal, making my mistakes
A solipsist is just a Lonely God
who hit the gas but cannot reach the brakes.

Just like that boss from Star Fox Sixty Four
I'm sorry, I will show myself the door.

Wednesday, April 17, 2013

Crown of Chaos - Explanatory Prose

I'd highly recommend that you read this post before you start reading all the posts that come after it. Specifically, the ones that begin with "Crown of Chaos". You see, a crown of sonnets is a special kind of sonnet cycle. (A cycle is more or less just the collective noun for sonnets. A pack of dogs, a murder of crows, a fondle of unicorns, ect.) A crown of sonnets is defined as a cycle of sonnets such that the last line of each sonnet is the first line of the next one. This chains them all together, until the final sonnet, which ends with the first line of the first sonnet. This brings them all together in a sort of circle. A "crown", if you will. A special case of the crown of sonnets is a heroic crown of sonnets. This is a special kind of crown, consisting of 14 sonnets. A 15th sonnet is then formed from the first line of each sonnet. Actually, I should probably just let Wikipedia explain it.

This requires incredible skill with words, as the first line of each poem not only has to follow the correct rhyme scheme, but it should hopefully make some kind of sense. Despite this, I wrote one, and it follows this explanation. Each sonnet in the crown is posted in order, starting with the "crown jewel", the one constructed from the first lines of the previous 14. The title "Crown of Chaos", was chosen because it sounds cool. Also, "chaos" and "havoc" are basically the same thing, right? Right.

(The first sonnet can be found here)

Crown of Chaos - Crown Jewel

A crown of sonnets: quite a daunting feat
Perhaps I should give something else a try
But I can't let this crown go incomplete
I do not want to be that kind of guy

Unless that guy is Batman; that'd be sweet
From my own pit I shall attempt to rise.
I shall become a scholarly elite.
And if you disagree, then damn your eyes.

I'm really, really, very super tired.
These sonnets must continue, nonetheless.
Until I make the effort that's required
At my potential I can only guess

I hope to end these sonnets with a smile
If I must leave, I'd like to leave in style.

(The first sonnet can be found here

Crown of Chaos 1 - Introduction

A crown of sonnets: quite a daunting feat
To even try would label me a fool.
And while success would make me seem elite,
A topic won't be given, like in school

So far, I've always written on one thing.
My poems always had a “meta” feel.
I fear that if I step outside my ring,
I'll fail to find the words to “keep it real”.

Perhaps for this I'll take a lighter heart.
Apply the wit I often use in prose
Although it may be true that all true art
is angsty, just as the old saying goes

Perhaps “true art's” not where my talents lie
Perhaps I should give something else a try.

(The next sonnet can be found here)

Crown of Chaos 2 - Why I Fight

Perhaps I should give something else a try.
If I gave up, no one would ever know.
Alas! I cannot trust this easy lie.
The reason for these sonnets is to show

That I can change, that I can choose to work.
I do not mean to prove myself to peers,
It is in my own mind that judgments lurk.
I write this so that I might face my fears.

But you, the reader, do not care about
the reason that I wrote this sonnet crown.
And I did say that I would write without
me saying things that might cause you to frown.

I know this project may not end up neat
But I can't let this crown go incomplete.

(The next sonnet can be found here)

Crown of Chaos 3 - Picking a Topic

But I can't let this crown go incomplete
So I must choose its contents rather quick
Each sonnet's topic cannot be discrete
Uniting all the poems is the trick.

So what shall be my unifying theme?
It must be something that I know quite well.
It would not do if I ran out of steam
Before I finished all I had to tell.

Perhaps I'll write these poems about me
(reflexive pronouns are a bitch to rhyme)
If that is what my topic is to be
I feel that I should stop wasting your time.

I said I'll do this, and that is no lie
I do not want to be that kind of guy

Notes: Reflexive pronouns are pronouns used when the subject and object are the same thing, e.g. He pooped himself (interestingly enough, this seems to be the only context in which the verb "to poop" is transitive). They are indeed a bitch to rhyme.

There are a couple discrepancies when it comes to syllable stress. Deal with it.

(The next sonnet can be found here)

Crown of Chaos 4 - Actual Introduction

I do not want to be that kind of guy
Who never makes the point he wants to make
From this point on I shall sincerely try
to write about myself, for space's sake.

If I were asked what word describes me best
Then “Gentleman”'s the answer I would say.
Although I feel that it must be confessed
That I can be a boor on my best day.

In all pursuits I strive to be a dude
who's pretty cool and doesn't do bad things
I do refrain from being loud or rude.
Avoiding awkwardness such actions bring.

I am myself, there's none I'd rather be.
Unless that guy is Batman; that'd be sweet.
(The next sonnet can be found here)

Crown of Chaos 5 - References

Unless that guy is Batman; that'd be sweet.
That did not start this sonnet very well.
The lack of flow is quite far from discreet,
But legibility can go to hell.

I've never even read a comic book,
except a half-read manga teaching math.
Perhaps some day I'll go and have a look,
But I don't think I'll take that risky path.

Pop culture references are my life
Especially ones I don't understand.
For ev'ry joke I say or write is rife
with cleverest allusions, just as planned

And just as surely as The Doctor lies,
From my own pit I shall attempt to rise

(The next sonnet can be found here).

Crown of Chaos 6 - Self Doubt

From my own pit I shall attempt to rise
And make myself a wholly greater bloke
For being excellent is its own prize.
My wish to serve the greater good's no joke.

Sometimes I want to be the very best
like no one else can say they ever were.
I wish that I could say that I'll not rest
until my full potential has been stirred.

But all too often I am filled with doubt.
My psyche feeling fragile as a glass
To these ill thoughts, I say just this: “get out”
I came to write these sonnets and kick ass

These inner demons shall taste their defeat
I shall become a scholarly elite.

(The next sonnet can be found here).

Crown of Chaos 7 - It's Good to be The King

I shall become a scholarly elite
When I am coronated king of math
And all will awe when I lay pen to sheet
subjecting numbers to my righteous wrath.

In courts of physics I'll be crowned a duke
I'll master economics on a whim
My algebra will be beyond rebuke
To reach my dreams I would risk life and limb

What's that you say? That's not how science works?
There are no academic thrones to claim?
They must not tell the big fat stupid jerks.
You shouldn't hate the player, hate the game.

My school supremacy should not surprise
And if you disagree, then damn your eyes

(The next sonnet can be found here).

Crown of Chaos 8 - Beta

And if you disagree, then damn your eyes.
I'm sorry, that came out a little rude
For ev'ry slight I do apologize
I'd like my wit to be a bit subdued.

I'm not the type that purposely offends
Though I'm not sure I'd say that I'm polite
It's not that I'm averse to making friends
It's just that smalltalk never is alright

I feel I should apologize once more
This sonnet's flow is really rather weak
Transitioning is noticeably poor.
I guess I tried to say that I am meek?

Whoever wrote this mess is getting fired
I'm really, really, very super tired.

(The next sonnet can be found here).

Crown of Chaos 9 - Music

I'm really, really, very super tired
But as they say, the show, it must go on
I'll simply make the least effort required,
So now I guess I'll talk about some songs.

I'd say my fav'rite art, without a doubt
Is music, far surpassing poetry
For all we poets ever do is pout
Musicians master complex harmony.

My song collection's mostly soundtrack based
From games I've watched and anime I've played
Like ev'ryone, I think that my own taste
Is great enough that it should be conveyed.

Perhaps this use of time is not the best.
These sonnets must continue, nonetheless.

NOTE: The lack of rigor in the second half of the first quatrain (“effort” is incorrectly accented, “songs” only half-rhymes) is intentional, indicative of my lack of effort. Because I'm 3 meta.

(The next sonnet can be found here).

Crown of Chaos 10 - Commitment

These Sonnets must continue, nonetheless
I cannot let my efforts be for naught
If I write up an illegible mess
At least I'll say I gave it all I got.

I rarely stick with just one thing too long
I lack commitment; it's my greatest flaw.
Although I doubt that I would think it wrong
to say that I inspire too much awe.

But laying jest aside for just a bit,
There's something that I feel I must admit
So brace yourself, and find a place to sit.
I wrote this quatrain for the sound of it.

My hopes and dreams will be forever mired.
Until I make the effort that's required.

(The next sonnet can be found here).

Crown of Chaos 11 - Self-esteem

Until I make the effort that's required
I'll waste away my days upon the 'net
From dawn's first light to when I have retired
Instead of working I will merely fret.

Sometimes it seems I spend more time concerned
about the future than is good for me.
You'd think that after all these years, I'd learn
But I don't learn so easily, you see.

My humbleness should not be given heed
In truth I know that I am quite the best
I math gooder than all you ever see'd
I'm glad I got that burden off my chest.

While I am confident I can impress
At my potential I can only guess.

(The next sonnet can be found here).

Crown of Chaos 12 - Feelings

At my potential I can only guess.
But all my doubts have been expressed before.
It does no good to document distress
So of unpleasant things I'll speak no more.

But they are not so easily dismissed
Emotions Die Hard like they're John McClane
Despite all your desires that they desist
They do persist and put you through much pain

But feelings are not singularly bad
They give us hope and joy and Schadenfreude
Although it sucks that sometimes we are sad
Emotions are a fact we can't avoid.

But that's enough of that for quite awhile.
I hope to end these sonnets with a smile.

(The next sonnet can be found here).

Crown of Chaos 13 - Humor

I hope to end these sonnets with a smile.
To work some wonders with my wacky wit.
So that all nonbelievers are beguiled,
and see the truth of these mad rhymes I spit.

To fit a joke in meter's no mean feat.
The words and syllables must be just so.
But even if the joke falls flat, it's neat
If all else fails, I've still got wicked flow.

Now that I'm under pressure to perform,
It seems my humor process has been stopped.
That “John McClane” bit was the perfect storm
I don't imagine it will soon be topped.

A failed attempt at humor's downright vile.
If I must leave, I'd like to leave in style.

(The last sonnet can be found here).

Crown of Chaos 14 - Concluding remarks

If I must leave, I'd like to leave in style.
The one that I have always written in
A message from a major metaphile
So that this poem ends as it begins.

I'd like to thank you all for reading this
I hope it's half as fun to read as write.
I do suspect this structure will be missed.
I started this line with “I” out of spite.

Wherefore did that last line sound wrong aloud?
(Wherefore means “why”, in case you didn't know)
Despite some faults, of this work I am proud.
I probably could be a poem pro.

Although it might be silly and offbeat,
A crown of sonnets: quite a daunting feat.

(The first sonnet can be found here)

(The meta-sonnet can be found here)

Monday, April 1, 2013


Sorry the formatting's in such a mess. The fonts are wonky in a couple of places, and the poems are in chronological order (kind of) from bottom to top, despite the fact that they're read top to bottom, which makes things kind of lame. I may try to fix this in the future. That is all.

An Introduction

I welcome you, dear reader, to my blog
A place displaying poetry with pride
A shelter from the Internet's dark smog
So why not come and have a look inside?

If you're averse to sonnets, I'd advise
That you depart this page ASAP
But if you read this post, then that implies
That you are willing to put up with me

And all the silly sonnets that I write
As well as those that cover darker themes.
I find too often I rhyme “write” with “trite”.
At least it's better than reposting memes.

This sonnet's not the best, I will admit
Perhaps I just don't really give a shit.

Well met! If you know of my from my sister blog, Shenanigans with Havoc Mantis, then prepare for a new side of me. If that is also news to you, you might want to check that out first. There's a reason I wasn't called "The most thought-provoking person on Facebook" by respectable gentleman and all-around dreamboat Payton Knobeloch. Anywhere, this is where I will share poetry that I write. Therefore, this introductory bit here may be the only prose that ever graces this blog. You would do well to treasure it. As I implied above, my output consists mostly, if not entirely, of sonnets. Much of my poetry is also written about poetry itself, because I am just meta like that. While my other blog is singularly silly and humorous, much of my poetry is somewhat more sober. That's not to say that it's all depressing imagery of crying and ravens, but there are some actual serious things, so that may be something for which you want to prepare. It is also worth noting that some of my poetry is indeed meant to be funny, so not all of it is a waste of time. Poems will be posted in the order they were written, but the order is largely arbitrary, except in a few cases. These cases will probably be noted. In some cases, explanatory notes may be found at the bottom of a post, in case I feel like making something clearer. Such notes will be italicized.

I guess I should explain what a sonnet is, in case you don't know. It's a poem with 14 lines: 3 quatrains, each consisting of four lines, and a rhyming couplet at the end. Each quatrain has a rhyme scheme of ABAB. All lines are in iambic pentameter (10 syllables, alternating between unstressed and stressed). I stick to these rules pretty strictly, and hate bending the rules to allow half-rhymes or additional syllables, but it will occasionally happen if I believe it allows for something else cool. I find I'm fond of alliteration as well, so keep your eyes peeled for that. If you see it, it's probably on purpose, and if it's not, I'll say that it was. Also, some words may have apostrophes to denote different pronunciation. For example, "favorite" has 3 syllables, but if I need 2 syllables to fit, I'll write "fav'rite", which is how most people pronounce it anyway.

The titles of my sonnets are often rather nonsensical and "deep" sounding. Pay them no heed.


This one has a funny story. One of my friends made a post on Facebook about how he hated having to write an assignment in iambic pentameter. The post itself was written in iambic pentameter. It was a challenge I could not refuse, so I wrote this in response.

This challenge is one that I must accept.
At poetry I think myself quite skilled.
With words and syllables I'm quite adept.
I cannot let this chance go unfulfilled.

The only poetry that I can write
Is that which does refer to poetry.
The theme is starting to feel rather trite.
I guess that's just a curse of being me.

There really are things that I should go do.
I do not have the time to make these rhymes.
And, judging by your status, so do you.
Perhaps we could do this again sometime.

If you have homework, you should get right on it
Instead of wasting time and reading sonnets.

Sorry about the font. I might fix it some day.


I'm very tired, I want to go to sleep
And yet, it seems that as I lie in bed
The fruits of rest I cannot seem to reap
I guess I'll write myself some stuff instead

I wonder if it's wise to spend this time
On writing sonnets in the dead of night.
Just iterating uninspired rhymes
I guess that one might even call them “trite”

This time would be much better spent on rest 
Yet I'm afraid that may not be a choice.
While this scenario is not the best,
If I can find a rhyme, I will rejoice.

If I complete this couplet, I may keep
my sanity intact, if I can sleep.

Why, yes, this was written on the same night that I wrote one of my blog posts about sleep deprivation. The second one, if I remember correctly.


Sometimes I fear that ev'ry thought's been thought.
That no more new ideas can ever be.
That all creative writing is for naught.
That we have simply seen all we can see.

But I do not believe this to be true
To make new art is not to waste one's time.
For even when the concept isn't new,
A fresher take is not always a crime.

For there's a finite number of Aesops
To base a work of poetry around.
While having new ideas would be tops,
The premise is not logically sound.

While stories new compare to stories old,
That does not mean they're not worth being told.

I really like how I had "ideas" pronounced with 2 syllables in the 2nd line, and 3 syllables in the 11th line. Pretty funny, actually

Wednesday, March 13, 2013


A question I quite often contemplate:
Could I create a perfect poem form?
Regardless, I have too much on my plate
Old-timey styles are the established norm.

So what if I cannot carve my own niche?
To be original is not so great.
If coming up with something new's a bitch
Could I be blamed if I procrastinate?

Sometimes our dreams just lie beyond our reach
Our pride outpaces talents we possess
Nevertheless, our dreams can often teach
No person without dreams has been the best.

Ev'ry line's first letter should be read
Too meta, it just might explode your head

It spells "Acrostic Sonnet", for those who have difficulty reading such things. I almost cried when I realized it had 14 letters.

I Wonder Why

I wonder why it is that artists choose
to pour their heart and soul into their art.
I wonder why it is that they refuse
to realize that their work has no part

In bettering the state of humankind.
Their dedication almost breaks my heart.
I wonder why it is that they've declined
abandoning their work so they could start

Productive work in scientific fields.
For that is where we humans shine most bright.
I wonder why the artist never yields
It's evident that scientists are right.

If you have read this poem and agree
Then you've lost touch with your humanity.


It has been long since I've sat down to write
I fear that I've forgotten how to rhyme
So I apologize if this seems trite
This merely is a way to pass the time

But why not read a book or play a game?
What motivates me to make words instead?
When time is passed, it passes all the same.
Why should I really choose to strain my head?

I shall elucidate the answers to
these questions, so that my intent is clear.
As I make yet another trip to SLU
I'd rather not waste time, for it is dear.

The joy of reading what I've wrote will last
long after all these other joys have passed.

Man, I am just a sucker for including personal information in my rhymes. 


This poem is a continuation of Identity

So I am not a single entity.
I'm a conglomerate of diff'rent states.
Like Patrick Bateman, I'm illusory.
I merely am the sum of all my traits.

But people always change as they grow old
What once they loved may cease to be so dear.
The things they cherished thoughtlessly are sold,
Without the shedding of a single tear.

If we have many personalities
which, over time, can ebb and fade away,
then are these persons not fatalities?
And is their passing from this world okay?

I die as time goes by, but do not cry.
Sometimes I think that I might be the sky.

References galore. Patrick Bateman is the titular character of "American Psycho". The bit about the sky, and in some sense the poem as a whole, was inspired by Rin, of Katawa Shoujo. Again


When is it that I'm at my “Thomasest”?
When is it that I feel that I'm most “me”?
This question: in my mind it does persist.
Inspired by a certain amputee.

But I believe this question does mislead.
No person is defined by just one act.
There is no single trait that supersedes.
One can't reduce a person to a fact.

No person acts the same way all the time.
We all adapt our personality.
The “me” that maths is not the me that rhymes.
All people share this commonality.

Sometimes I do not think myself to be
A single, undivided entity.

The "amputee" mentioned is Emi, from Katawa Shoujo, which I've mentioned in my other blog, if you care to know more. It should be the post about video games of 2012. Also, congratulations on learning my name, internet stalkers.

State of Mind

I feel as if my mind has just struck gold.
(If you'll excuse that tired metaphor)
My mind is tired, and my fingers cold,
It seems that these conditions let me soar.

You see, I wrote a poem with great haste,
The words, they came to me with little thought.
To not write more would surely be a waste,
This state of clarity is what I've sought.

I'm clearly on a roll, and that is why
This sonnet must be finished rather soon.
Before my well of inspiration dries
And I am left a chattering buffoon.

I can't sustain this poem-writing trend.
It seems my knack for words is at its end.


This poem is a continuation of "Muse"

But sometimes just a rhythm's not enough;
A proper poem needs to have a theme.
One cannot simply throw together “stuff”.
For even if the words flow like a stream,

The reader will not care unless you give
your poem meaning deep and quite profound.
For only poems with such depth outlive
The mortal coil of poets far renowned.

But I do not expect my work to last.
(Although few authors did while they still wrote)
My skill is rather easily surpassed,
But let's not end this on a bitter note.

If ever I gain praise or lasting fame,
I hope my other exploits are to blame.


They say that all great artists have a muse
A person or ideal that they admire.
Therefore at great art I must always lose
By nothing in my life am I inspired.

But I do not write poetry for tears;
I do not want your pity or your grief.
My interest is in the sounds one hears;
The words themselves are my fav'rite motif

I write my poems just to hear the sound
That words make when they're perfectly arranged.
For I believe there's power to be found
In words: an influence unique and strange.

While other poets try to use their hearts,
I use my mind when I create my arts.


Haiku are an affront to poetry
I find them far too short to be enjoyed.
But free verse is what really sickens me
All poems in this style should be destroyed.

My thoughts on blank verse are not half as bad.
Although I think that rhyming is a boon.
And writing lim'ricks always leaves me mad,
Because they make me sound like a buffoon.

A mono-rhyming poem's quite a feat,
But I don't think that I could pull it off.
I think acrostic poems are quite neat,
Although such thoughts might cause my peers to scoff.

We all agree these poems are quite droll
As sonnets are the greatest of them all.