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Thread: MUD Poems by Dahlia

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    MUD Poems by Dahlia

    For about two years I've been relatively active over on the AB MUD, which, if you've never been, is a pretty cool ABDL-themed textual roleplay platform. Check it out!

    Anyway, a couple of months ago, I created a new character, and I decided that this character loved writing poetry. So I write poetry as this character, using the MUD's note system. In other words, if it sounds like the pretentious ramblings of a precocious and possibly dysthymic fifteen year old girl, that's exactly what I'm going for.

    I just figured I'd post them so that more than a handful of people might see them. If you do ever meet Dahlia in the MUD, please keep in mind that this is not in-character communication; she is very private about her writing.

    Oh, and one last thing: the constraints of the less-than-perfect note system mean that none of these really have titles. Every time you see "The note reads:", that is a new poem.

    The note reads:
    Cultural reclamation cascading over me chocolate waves in a dead man wonderland
    Splash splash I'm drying myself off now
    Sticky Sickly Sweet
    Providing nutrition to ants
    Infesting the foundations of your image

    Patience young grasshopper
    The world is not as it should be
    But it's still good enough to take a breath
    Or on every other Saturday
    A look in the mirror

    But Father, what about FGM?
    Shush hush huff puff
    Who let you in here?
    I love you, honey, but
    Pay no attention to the man behind the curtain

    The note reads:
    Wrapping my brains around your brands
    Apprentice to an architect of weathervanes
    Fearing the confrontation between ideas and callow feigns
    Bragging on my resistance to some iocaines

    Superstrings and sillystrings
    Are my most beloved easy-peasy things
    Developed just to let me flap my wings
    Destined to envelop the world in rings

    Catching the light with luck on my wrist
    Watching the world turn reorient and twist
    Taking all my showers in Lavender Mist
    Who can say how the dead fish makes a fist

    Epictetus was once one of us
    Fact checking the natural omnibus
    Never erring stumbling or pausing to cuss
    Makes me wonder how one is to go plus

    Universal needles directed into infinitesimal grooves
    Decisions made only by those it behooves
    Showing it in some glass pyramidal Louvres
    Reversing to emulate all the mirror's moves

    The note reads:
    Dusty leaves swirling through hollow streets
    Population: eighteen thousand shopping carts
    Meaning is defined only by what we leave behind
    So I keep on searching for the person I forgot
    Head just almost kind of barely above the water's surface
    That someday I might see the stars again
    And be the real person that my mother told me I could be

    Flying perpendicular to conifer cones
    Nestled in soft pale grass
    Too young to understand my place in the world
    Yet already too old to care
    It is only by releasing my consequences and corporate sponsorships
    That I can find wholeness in the wonder of daylight
    And be the real person that my mother told me I could be

    The note reads:
    I have no time for morphology.
    What the world needs is etiology.
    But on performing the first autopsy,
    invisible teratogenic glyphs proliferate.

    In the future I see episiotomy.
    If you can't get your head out of the gutter we'll cut you out.
    Happy to be of service to designated platitude packages.
    Please donate to my reelection campaign.

    Roles choosing neither society's nor mine.
    Ascending a mountain yet too steep to climb.
    Flailing about in an expanse of brine.
    One day I'll catch a glimpse of divine.

    The note reads:
    Eschewing obligation listening to squeak machines.
    Observing comings and goings of Goethe and cummings.
    Barely barbecuing with Barbarossa and Barbarella.
    Mentioning Mencius minus manipulations of Men.
    Ken Burnsing over burns kinda beyond my ken.
    Tolkien the Ringmaster and technician of tongues.
    Le Corbusier's lilac monolithic Liliths loom over lungs.
    Do I dare disturb the
    Vroomiverse? Doomiverse? Roomiverse?
    These are my Versiverses.

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    Toddler kerry's Avatar
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    Re: MUD Poems by Dahlia

    No matter how precocious, I don't see the last one coming from a fifteen-year-old. I'm iffy on the penultimate one as well. If she were in my class, though, I'd definitely have told her to keep working on this one:

    Dusty leaves swirling through hollow streets
    Population: eighteen thousand shopping carts
    Meaning is defined only by what we leave behind
    So I keep on searching for the person I forgot
    Head just almost kind of barely above the water's surface
    That someday I might see the stars again
    And be the real person that my mother told me I could be

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