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It's over!! Mostly. I have to present tomorrow, but other than that, it's over!! Now my only concerns are WAIT vector calculus and organic chemistry... *dies*
*revives from bout of necrolepsy (which is a favorite word)* here are three poems, one of which is currently just a collection of rhymes and needs to be given shape, one which I wrote in ten seconds just now, and the other which might be slam poetry. Enjoy. Oh, four-- one is just really, really short.


Genetics

Prions are proteinaceous they're tenacious, try to erase us.
You know I'm runnin' from this neural disease, this
Bovine spongiform encephalopathy.
Y and X are sex, but not for the birds and the bees
It's so complex, it brings me to my knees.

We've got a fertile factor and now there's actors
Playin' the game under a different name,
But that's not lame, it's the Red Queen's claim to fame
'cause you gotta keep runnin' just to stand the same.


The Gone

Be prepared for pink elephants on parade.
Did we trade our innocence for bloody fists?
The gone has come with the dawn of ignorance following
an Arabian night.
Hot sands dance with uranium plants and what was
under the sea cracks on dry ground
to the lack of sound from beauty and beast.
The colors of the wind have faded due to jading
the courts of miracles.
Can't make a man of anyone now, 'cause
only dust and roaches will be our guests.
We've transfected this planet's disease;
The circle of life has ceased.


Writers and Spiders

I am the one who wrote you
Who spoke the rote words that coat
Like bird feathers
Whether you've weathered the tethers that tie
Or (k)not you to the plot- it was begun on page one

I am the writer, the spider whose spinneret lead
Draws a letter web around the figurehead's name
Your fame is dependent on my claim in the pages of you
I paint for you.

I wait for you, you're late. Do you
Create a fate that's slated new? No.
But I will skew for you (or skewer you) in lieu
Of the time-card-punching daily review.

But why do I write just to lie, to
Light the white of a colorless sky?
Because however shy may be the "I"
The writers "we" are lighting these sparks of fires.
We are the ones who put pitch to the pyre.
We are the silent, scribing choirs, our
Mission is endless for moving this mire. We've
Been called thieves and fools and liars
But we would die under crowns of briars
Because of our one desire--we could still light the fire!


Sacrifice

The playwright who set down his pen.
The player who sold his guitar.
As much the Christian who dropped his cross.

We artists - we are the sacrifice for human rights.

---

Well, I think that's a pretty good spread. Nerdy, childish, triumphant, and some weird form of depressing that's not really depressing but I can't put my finger on the right word.