11-27-2017, 08:09 PM | #1 |
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Week I: DVS vs Objective[objective wins]
Season 8 Verses are due FRIDAY at 11:59 Voting ends SUNDAY at 11:59 Verses may not exceed 48 lines or 650 words Voting on 3 battles is required. Topic: http://www.netcees.org/showthread.php?t=126253 @DVS vs @Objective Goodluck! Last edited by Inno; 12-04-2017 at 09:45 PM. |
11-30-2017, 01:05 AM | #2 |
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every burnt bridge truth gone hungry pangs of regret every burnt bridge is a guide light to my friends and the silence speaks volume dialled up to ten, facing denial in trial by pen vomiting denial on a bitumen catwalk living in the skin of the kid who is at fault asphalt diary, find me, hunched over regret and I won’t move on until the moment has left I never act on thoughts but choose to move past them never saids bloom into my scar garden too few that’s shared, that I loose to regret when all i choose to do is keep them from you instead if you’re the sum of my thoughts and the maths is correct the amount that I amounted to, won't pass that mountain of debt a series of uncommitted half truths from this bar stool disguised behind sarcasm, laughs, and some fast food lips stitched, but only lipstick could part it our skin swims and lives in the margins their carved in you’re a part of this apartment, my mind’s an attic where the ghosts of my youth grow lonesome and manic and slowly ratchet the roaming facets of a home that fractured into the broken throne of a lone mattress I’m throwing matches, to stoke the ashes every word I spoke in stanzas dances hopelessly hoping it matters a moment of madness, a lifetime of pain clawing at the embers unsure if the fire remains I still see the smoke glide along the top of the place that I broke where my confidence was shot and this is the hole point i’m getting to, when people leave; the sum of the whole forms exit wounds left with a choir of thoughts to grow destitute that harmonise every single thing I never said to you never saids - they bloom, unless you act on a thought but a thought is all that it eventuates to and I gotta lot of thoughts Last edited by DVS; 12-01-2017 at 01:49 AM. |
12-01-2017, 04:44 AM | #3 |
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The 20th installment: Pollock Manson Alien invasions doesn't bother me when I'm armed fatherly, barred hard with visciousness and guns that keeps our issues less. Mission success' done quarterly, orderly put we're top secret assassins picked from soldiers missing in action caught in passin' that fought their ass in willing to do the drilling of killing top villains or millions of civilians if the big mans askin'. Back then I said to my officials friend: 'Sounds thrilling, send the task in.' Six years later and it seem like ages since insanity hit, I'm proficient in readjusting my aim for gravity shifts on three planets n shit. On the badassery bit I'm cold and callous for this. The ''masked bandits'' won't miss. Oh, you thought humanity's it? That we're angels on sight blessed with greek warriors might? That our galaxy won't be contested to fight when in their mind we're honored with spite? False, and it sucks to be right... Living on a space station severed from life to the point it feels like playstation, the beckoning echoing of tiptoe conversations mentoring loneliness and frustration. Basically living the vivid image inside of a game and our planet's to blame, but who cares when our talents are paid so they can control the source of savage & pain. The forced damage of vain intellect is righteous if it ain't reaching the net, we're unknown to why they'd fight us, but it's enough of them being a threat. As time went on it became evident that we're ignored by the president, we need reinforcements sent but the secrecy made it irrelevant, so to Hell it went... Along with other machines that excel in violence and known to stay silent, honed to defeat masses of bastards as hired tyrants we attack the rebel alliance. Our force called The Black Lions are ready for the course of bathing in alien gore, watch em fade to the core as scotch blessed the taste of my friend Damien's sword. Limbs caught in the wind don't drop to the martian atmosphere that we're in, bottled with sin the battles stop and begins, too bad Martin wasn't destined to win. Off to my left Harlots neck are met with razor sharp claws making a mess, I state my regret as I realize my friends are dead and my head's aching with stress. The corpse of a spider works as a grinder as foes come close and enforce exposure to fire, I'm the lone wolf; a survivor, versus opposers composed with a deadly desire. Guns go click and my knees fall like bricks to the dirt, screaming: 'shit, what was it worth?' I witness my intestines devoured as they're leaving in ships aimed for the earth...
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12-04-2017, 07:37 PM | #4 | ||
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Vote1:
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12-04-2017, 09:44 PM | #5 |
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my vote goes to objective. breakdown in the mag
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