i hate these colours. they make me feel naseous :P.

This is for the contest of week 92: The scene.

It's hard to paint Victorian Wallpaper,, So i made it up in my head.

I hope its okay.

>.>

Entry for Contest Week 92: The Scene

October

O hushed October morning mild,
Thy leaves have ripened to the fall;
Tomorrow's wind, if it be wild,
Should waste them all.
The crows above the forest call;
Tomorrow they may form and go.
O hushed October morning mild,
Begin the hours of this day slow.
Make the day seem to us less brief.
Hearts not averse to being beguiled,
Beguile us in the way you know.
Release one leaf at break of day;
At noon release another leaf;
one from our trees, one far away.
Retard the sun with gentle mist;
Enchant the land with amethyst.
Slow, slow!
For the grapes' sake, if the were all,
Whose leaves already are burnt with frost,
Whose clustered fruit must else be lost--
For the grapes' sake along the all.
By Robert Frost.

Its not done but I must go to bed.

Painted Face

Grin
they said,
demanding
I hide feelings,
and show the false me.
Put on that happy face.
Repress the sadness and hurt,
for no one likes the lonely child;
or so they told me and I believed.
Swallow all that you know about yourself,
and lose your precious identity too.
So I painted my lips big and bright,
for all to see the cheerful me;
my soul sinister with time.
Now grown and on my own,
I fear being lost.
I am consumed,
but the paint
does come
off.

by Kim Schilling

Ill start this tomorrow ive got to go sleep now.The raven

http://cc002.k12.sd.us/soaring%20eagle.jpg

The Dalliance of The Eagles
Walt Whitman

Skirting the river road, (my forenoon walk, my rest)
Skyward in air a sudden muffled sound, the dalliance of the eagles,
The rushing amorous contact high in space together,
The clinching interlocking claws, a living, fierce gyrating wheel,
Four beating wings, two beaks, a swirling mass tight grappling,
In tumbling turning clustering loops, straight downward falling,
"Till o'er the river pois'd, the twain yet one, a moments lull,
A motionless still balance in the air, then parting, talons loosing,
Upward again on slow-firm pinions slanting, their separate diverse flight,
She hers, he his, pursuing.

There once was a man from Nantass
Who's balls were made out of brass
One night in stormy weather he clanged em together
And lightning shot out of his ass!