Been working on my book of poetry diligently. I'm have around 200 that I am looking at to put into the book. Main issue right now is getting it formatted into a manuscript and copyrighted. I will upload some of ones that made the final cut.

On top of that, I have been working VERY hard on a novel for the past three or so weeks. I am five chapters in and generating a 1000 words a day. My goal is to have a rough draft finished before summer is out. I may upload the first chapter or so once it is done.

Secondly, I am entering in the current Monthly Writing Forum contest. I have just about finished my entry and will upload once the contest has officially ended.

My other uploads are in my previous news posts, here are the links (newest to oldest, poetry and short stories) to save some time:

Parricide: http://theinnerscience.newgrounds.com/news/post/
849979

Death of a Poet: http://theinnerscience.newgrounds.com/news/post/
844241

The Library: http://theinnerscience.newgrounds.com/news/post/
833090

Episode 1 (MWC entry): http://theinnerscience.newgrounds.com/news/post/
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Devil's Phallus: http://theinnerscience.newgrounds.com/news/post/
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Stay beautiful people, Science out.

Every shadow screaming at me,
Explaining how it should be done exactly.
They promise God is looking the other way,
That there has never been such a finer day.

Hidden in the drawer's folds is father's gun.
Slowly griping the black steel, my descent has begun.
Rapid eye movement beneath the sleeping veils,
Looking down at them in peace makes the demon flail.

I only want to make it end
So no longer will I pretend
That I am happy with how things are.
What was light in me is now black as tar.

I can feel the poetry leaving each shaking hand,
I am perplexed at how I am even able to stand.
There is no longer a purpose in my words.

My eyes are drifting to a far off place
Where the Cat plays his fiddle in space.
I was only here to just pass by.

Now peering out the front door,
Is there meaning to me anymore?
The ripcord has been cut and I am falling fast.

I still press these cold pages to my lips
And hope that I can capture just a glimpse
Of the poet that I use to be.

Description: This is a warm story I did about a month back (something I encourage all writers to do with writers block). I just thought of something and went with it. Took my about forty minutes and has 882 words. I cant ensure its quaility, but let me know what you think.

As the door swung inward, I found a massive throbbing abyss waiting on the other side. A black hole of pure decay and ignorance that reached out and threatened to drag in every ounce of logic I hold dear, along with myself. The darkness began to expand as the dogmatic hurricane thrashed even more violently.

Papers from my chamber desk began to fly by and vanish into the void. Not just any papers, but my life work. Stories that I put blood and ink into. Each piece seemed to dissolve into that nothingness. Why was this happening?

A dark voice erupted from within the depths the darkness before me.

"Stories? These pieces of shit arent even worthy to wipe the ass of my dog!"

"You are wrong!" I called back in vain. "You do not understand the quality of litur-" My voice was drowned out as the winds magnified tenfold. I could no longer hold my ground, and found myself hurtling into that endless abyss.

However, I did not fall forever as I thought I would. For the longest time, all I felt was a harsh coldness. But after the passing of an eternity, I felt myself find solid ground.

Once I summed up the courage to open my eyes, I beheld a magnificent dark hallway. The floors and walls seemed to be made of marble, while where the ceiling would have been was an endless sky of swirling thunderclouds. I have never seen the likes of this place before, and may never in my life.

I dared myself to explore, and it was several minutes before I came to a place on the wall that was made of what seemed to be a thin clear film. On the other side I saw a man hunched over a table that was littered with notebook paper and what looked to be quills and a dried up ink bottles. I looked closer to see what he was fiddling with and gasping in shock.

With his right hand, he held his index finger to the paper and was tracing some kind of letters. The other hand held a knife that was slicing deep into his right wrist. The blood flowed from the laceration like a small crimson stream and ran down to the point of the finger that was pressed to the paper.

He mumbled lightly to himself but never looked up. I could not make out what he was saying. I finally managed to pry myself from where I stood and continued down the hall.

I found many of these "cells", each with an occupant that was severally distressed. Each one worse than the last. What frightened me was when I started to recognize the faces of the prisoners.

I was shocked to find a favorite bizzaro writer of mine. Shane Cartledge sat in the corner of his cell curled into a ball and crying hysterically, "The shades are down! The shades are down!"

Horrified does not come close to describing the images that flashed before me. One after another, it only got worse. I think I have found the root of madness for all writers. Maybe a new circle of hell?

What saddens me, is that I have yet to reach the climax of my journey..

As I approach a wide wooden table in the middle of the hall, a new sense of dread is installed into me. On the table was piles and piles of manuscripts that have began to yellow with age, and on top of those was an open laptop. The light from the screen revealed the most gruesome creation I have ever witnessed.

It had the body of a man, but the skin was a pasty gray and seemed as if it could peel by only scraping your finger nails against it. Where its head would be, was three. All of them were bald and serpent-like. Where its eyes should be were only empty sockets, and its mouths were caked in dried saliva while fresh spittle dripped from the corners to the keyboard below. The smell that radiated from this beast hinted that it has been wallowing in its own filth for some time.

It is not the root of madness I have found, but of ignorance. This is the creature that has spread to the hearts of the closed minded and jealous. It damns art, or anything, that it cannot understand and berates the artist until they reach a point of breaking and fall into this pit of absence.

It all makes sense now. I have let myself tumble into the hatefulness of those who will not understand what it is that I try to create by lowering my self respect to accommodate what they think is good. Maybe it is best not to seek gratification from the masses, but from the fact that we are proud of our own works.

As long as we alone are proud of what we create, we will rise above the tide of ignorance that has swelled in the last years of modern media.

Once we can rise from this pit, it will only by a matter of time until we are able to see the morning once more; and then we can chase the horizons that once inspired us so greatly.

Here is something I put together for the fight to get a Lit Portal. I dont know if it is a legit movement, but I am creating stuff for it either way. I love being a rebel, just pray it doesnt get me in trouble lol.
I have been working hard, in my own way, and will start posting some script ideas and poems soon. Im writing a debat paper that is kicking my ass. Peace, love, war and all that.

Edit: cant upload pic, so here is link: http://www.newgrounds.com/art/view/theinnerscien ce/writing-portal-movement
Please recommend for art portal! I am really hoping this movement can get some momentum.

Since there is no Lit Portal, I might try and make my profile my own portal with all my post with poems of stories being a submition. Then I will post a link to the forum with a description. Give me some feed if there is anyone reading.

I want to post something tonight, but I dont think that is happening. As well as last friday when my car was totaled, some mother fucker decided to break into my house today. They stole my tablet, my moms jewlery, and our fucking dogs. Plus I think I broke my foot. *sigh*. Never kick a wall in rage. Anyway, stay safe and peace out.

Dont know if anyone reads my post, but gonna update blog anyway. Like a boss.

I was in my first wreck last week, which was pretty fucked up. Both cars were totalled and it turned out you cant have four other passengers with you if your under 18. And dammit, I only had four more months. So no DnD for me for a while.
Keep a look out for the MWC results on the forum, and wish us luck. Especially yours truly.

Every know and then I take a break from my novel projects and return to my poetic roots. So heres a poem I made yesterday. LikeIt/HateIt/LoveIt/ReviewIt or all of the above.

Tempting Fates:

From the secrete illuminati and the ignorant youth,
To the worlds horrible parenting, which I use as proof,
That creates an all mighty illiterate flood
Which turns the children into a raging brood.

From the gods playing martyr to junkie subjects
Who are once again getting ready to inject
Themselves with another dose of daily life.
How it dulls the passion and lessens the strife.

If decay is measured by every lie told,
And if damnation is determined by every virtue sold,
Then self-sacrifice will bring us that closer to hell
As pretenders pollute the air with every promise they tell.

The Gravekeeper

Night hugged the graveyard like a winter blanket. Though it was nearing midnight, that didnt mean that the night brought total darkness. A couple miles away, neon lights shown dimly like a fading memory while casting small shadows over weathered headstones. The City always slept with its eyes open.

The graveyard was voided of life, save for a sliver of light that seemed molecular next to the City. It scanned across the surface of each gravesite, searching along every inch of grass. With the lights from the City, the flashlight was probably not even needed. There were no trees, bushes, or even a fence, so hiding would be difficult. The only place would be the shack that sat on the edge of the property like a sore thumb. But that would be a stupid place to use.

The lanky figure brandishing the light crept along a little further. Never pausing to look, but pivoted in all directions.
Finally as the light reached the other end of the graveyard, it stopped. And as it paused, we can see the features of the man holding the flashlight. He is the Gravekeeper. Long black hair hung down to his shoulders in dreadlocks. His face was haggard from many sleepless nights, and his clothes seemed a little loose on him. Bleak eyes rotated in their sockets as he gritted his teeth, revealing a pair of pearly yellows. After two minutes of looking around in a fixed position, he spoke. His voice was gravelly, and his words came out in the rhythm that almost matched the beating of wings from a raven that was passing above:

"A silent chill crawls up my spine,
I am told that this is a supposed sign.
Maybe I can feel you, a ghost of vengeance,
Here searching for blood and penitence.

Maybe you are stalking me like the prey
You stalked so well in the old days.
Oh, the old days were your love was still alive.
Horrible pain like that must be so hard to survive.

I cannot even imagine, nor do I want to.
Still silent? I have to be getting to you!"

The last word lingered in the surroundings as an echo until it faded away completely. He perked up his ears and looked side to side, as if to receive some kind of response to his taunts. But there was none. Of course.

"The dead are dead," he said at last, as if to reassure himself. "I of all people should know this." He paused again before rearing around.

"That bastard is gone!" The raven above head squawked loudly, as if offended by his sudden outburst. Gravekeeper looked up sharply with just enough time to see the raven heading for the abyssal horizon that faced the City.

"The fuck you know?!" He yelled after the bird.

The inside of the shack was actually very well kept. Of course that is always the case when you have as little belongings as the Gravekeeper. All that was in there was a stiff bed, rusty fridge, rickety dinner table, and an umbrella rack filled with shovels. And one umbrella.

The door slammed as the Gravekeeper entered but he could not sum up the effort to care. He went straight for the fridge door. Glasses clinked as he rummaged around inside.

"Got lunch meat, but no bread. That cup of yogurt has gone bad. Damn, no more string cheese." Suddenly he froze.

"WHO ATE MY STRING CHEESE!" He roared as he spun around. Directly in front of him now was the northwest corner of the shack. Every bit of the shack was well let. Every bit but that corner. A shadow covered the corner. A shadow so deep that the wall was not even visible.

A deep, rich voice flowed from the darkness:

"The enemy slumped into his cave,
Unaware that no one can save
Him from his long forgotten foe.
And yes, the years have been hard and slow.

Penitence is not what I have come for,
But I will take all blood you have to offer.
Now behold your soon coming death.
I will not blame you to use your last breath

To scream once the pain begins."

The Gravekeeper remained stupefied until, with the last word, the visitor came forth from the darkness. The man was dressed in a three piece suit that was a deep, dark color of purple. His hair was as black and long as the Gravekeeper, except his appeared clean and neatly flowed behind him.

The young man had a sinister beauty about him. Like looking at a demon brought forward to deceive and mislead you. A demon in a purple suit, and a pair of shades that hid his eyes from the world. A handsome devil of chaos.

Gravekeeper was flabbergasted. His mouth hung ajar while the rest of his face had a vacant expression.

"Y-you cant be alive... Angelo destroyed you!"

"No," the stranger interjected, "Angelo tore my soul apart, but didnt destroy me." Gravekeeper still seemed confused. Then he lifter an accusing finger to the man.

"It was Weaver! That treacherous bastard brought you back!" The visitor gave a condescending smile.

"The Weaver has nothing to do with my sudden return, Gravekeeper. As I said, what I want is blood. That "want" in itself is enough to defy the laws of the grave once in a while."

Now it was the Gravekeeper who smiled. He always had a trick or two. And know was not the time him to lose his cool.

"You always thought you were so great, didnt you? You sadistic bastard. Well Mr. Spook, You are gonna have to work for this piece of ass because I aint a cheap broad!"

As the Spook stepped forward, there was flurry of movement as Gravekeeper brought out his ace in hole. Inches from the face of the Spook was a shovel. Not just any shovel. The shovel was five feet of blessed steel, forged from Chinese Hell fire and had old scriptures in angelic script etched along the shaft. A weapon of sure death to any demon. And also cut through soil like butter.

The Spook winced as his skin started to sting where the tip of the shovel had barely nicked his cheek. This gave the Gravekeeper much pleasure indeed. He was going to enjoy the next part. But maybe it was not the killing he was looking forward to. Maybe it was that he would be able to say that he finally put on end to the Spook! Something the great Angelo Cherry Popper has had much trouble with for a long time.

"Not such a badass now, staring down the end of my spade!" Though the Spook seemingly remained calm, there was indeed anger and impatience beginning to boil and bubble beneath the still surface.

"Rest assured, I will finish what Angelo could not!"

(The Peacekeepers)

"Ok, so let me see if I got this straight. The Gravekeeper is dead?"
"Yep."
"And they found him with his specially made demon slaying shovel crammed up his butt like a lesbian sex toy?"
"Pretty much."
"What the hell? I thought he was on the Citys top deadliest list!"
"To be honest, that list is kind of bullshit. Only the cops and lower class criminals use it so they know who not to mess with."
"And you think that he was killed by Mr. Jack Skeleton?"
"I know he was, Johnny."

Johnny shifted in that long grey trench coat of his. The passenger seat squeaked underneath him as if to voice an opinion on the matter. And honestly, as fast as crap was hitting the fan, I think I would listen. He looked to me, his wide brimmed hat casting a concealing shadow over his face.

"Why the hell did we warn that putz if he was not going to leave the City or something? I mean we wasted a quarter tank of gas going up there!"

"We have bigger problems. I dont think Jack has come back to just kill the ones who double crossed him."
"You dont mean-"
"Yeah, I do. And if I am right, the body count is going to get MUCH higher."

Johnny remained silent for a few minutes. I could never read his expressions, maybe because I cant see them half the time. It is seriously hard being partners with a guy who almost has no visible face. Finally he reached into a hidden pocket from within his coat, and pulled out a pack of smokes. Then, he proceeded to light up a fag and fill my car with a ghastly smell of burning tobacco. He has no courtesy.

Finally he said, while cooling exhaling a puff of smoke, "Let us hope that bastard said nothing about where Angelo is, or we might be screwed right in the down under."

(Previous night back at the Gravekeeper shack)

"You are going to tell me what I want to know now, or I will cram this up your ass like a lesbian sex toy!" The shack now lay in ruins. Everything was turned over and smashed. Or maybe it was smashed and turned over. Shattered glass littered the floor like freshly fallen snow.

The Spook stood above a beaten and bloodied Gravekeeper. But Mr. Spook was not unscathed. His coat lay in shred in a corner, and a long gash ran along the side of his vest. His blood was already starting to stain. The cut that was put on his cheek earlier was now accompanied by four others that were a little deeper than the first..

In his right hand was the demon slaying shovel. Their was smoke and a sizzling nose coming from where his hand grasped the shaft. He must be allergic to holy scriptures.

The Gravekeeper sat on the floor with his back against the wall. A small crimson streak ran down his temple, some of it getting caught in his dreadlocks. That is going to be really hard to clean out later.

The Gravekeeper chuckled lightly at the threat, but winced as if it caused him pain.

"Dang big boy," he started. "Dont you believe in foreplay?"

With lighting speed, the Spook stomped with all his might onto the already broken ankle of the Gravekeeper. A loud crushing and crackling noise filled the room as the bones broke apart completely. The Gravekeeper could now never play soccer again.

"AARRGGHH! Learn to take a joke asshole!"

"Tell me what I want to know NOW!" he yelled without moving his foot from the crushed ankle.

"OK! Ok, here is what you do," a devious and sly smile crept across his mouth. "You go down to the local pharmacy, ask for something called Viagra and it will help you go FUCK YOURSELF!"

The Spook didnt react this time. He remained silent, and he did not apply any more pressure to the ankle of the Gravekeeper. His shades hid any emotion.

"Oh come on! It is only fun if you get mad!" No reaction.
"That suit makes you look like a queer." Still no reaction.
"I got blood on your custom shoes." Nope, still nothing.

"FINE! I will tell you, Jack. You know why?" He continued to be statue of self control looming over the Gravekeeper.

"I want to see him kill you again. You were lucky the first time around, but this time he will rip you apart like a paper tiger! For the rest week, Angelo is going to be holed up at the Suicide Bride."

Jack twitched slightly. It was small, but Gravekeeper knew he struck a nerve that time. That is what he was wanting the whole time.

"Well lover, it seems I finally got you to come. Dont feel bad, it takes all woman a long time!" Jack said nothing. He threw down the shovel and steeped of his ankle. There was another crack from the ankle and a small gasp from the Gravekeeper. Jack had what he wanted.

As he turned to leave, the Gravekeeper suddenly called out to him. He must have had some broken ribs, for he grimaced again.

"What do you want, Terrance?" He asked without turning.

"I have some food for thought before you leave, Jack." The smile returned as he continued.
"You are stronger now than before, right? And your planning to use this power to ice that bastard Angelo?"

"Correct on both accounts."

"Alright. Here is something to scratch your head to later. You could not beat him the first time. This time around you are stronger, but you could barely defeat little old me. And his power his FAR superior to mine! How the hell do you beat a guy who already has your number, but is still more powerful than you?"

Jack remained motionless for several minutes. The silence felt like triumph to the Gravekeeper. He may not have won, but he knew his had not truly either.

Finally Jack turned to face him, and what the Gravekeeper saw almost made him scream. A snarl spread across the mouth of Jack, revealing two rows of razor sharp teeth that slightly resembled a meat grinder.

But scariest of all, was the black mist that radiated from behind the lens of his shades. It looked as if darkness was leaking from his hidden eyes. Then with a booming and demonic voice that rattled the shack walls, cracked the one unbroken window, and made the heart of the Gravekeeper skip a beat, he said three words.

"BEND OVER, BITCH!"

"Serpents in the branches branch up to heaven's door.
Slithering at the windows, hellish intentions wish to explore.
Angels in the darkness hear that tapping on the glass.
They the ones sent down by their god into the abyssal mass

Crawl on their hands and knees while groveling at our feet.
They have heard of the sweet salvation and now crave the teat
That produces the milk of our blessed blessings.
Absolution through suckling is easier than confessing.

Hark! The beloved saints are a falling,
And the golden trumpets are a calling!

Sinners down in the deep
Stir from an endless sleep.
Clawing at the pit's torn and ragged walls,
They can now climb what was once too tall.

The trumpet's roar is growing louder,
But this only makes the demons prouder.
Hark! Your angels are burning.
Their screams keep the ideas a churning!

Day 2:

Serpents in the branches branch up to heavens door.
Slithering at the windows, hellish intentions wish to explore.
Angels in the darkness hear that tapping on the glass.
They the ones sent down by their god into the abyssal mass

Crawl on their hands and knees while groveling at our feet.
They have heard of the sweet salvation and now crave the teat
That produces the milk of our blessed blessings.
Absolution through suckling is easier than confessing.

Hark! The beloved saints are a falling,
And the golden trumpets are a calling!

Sinners down in the deep
Stir from an endless sleep.
Clawing at the pits torn and ragged walls,
They can now climb what was once too tall.

The trumpets roar is growing louder,
But this only makes the demons prouder.
Hark! Your angels are burning.
Their screams keep the ideas a churning!

Well, its 4:30 in the morning, Im tired and stressed as hell, but I still feel like updating.
I have Days 2 and 3 pretty much planned out for my project (10 Days). Day 2 is currently under editing and review. If it makes the final cut, you will be seeing it here soon! Even adding a peek below. Keep on reading!