[Poem]series of poems for my creative writing class.

[FlameBlade]

This is a prose poem.

Vending Machine

Among the masses, they try to stand out. Each member try to push others away to stand out despite the clamor of “Pick me! Pick me!” They desire to be selected by an overseer, who is trying to decide what he wants. The overseer’s face contorts into strange shapes as if he is trying to make a very difficult decision, and trying to ignore the clamor of the masses. Finally, the complexion on the face clears away, and overseer puts his hand in his pocket to pull out several round artifacts, and he places them into a slot. “Pick me! Pick me!” kept coming from the masses that desire to be specially selected by overseer. Then the overseer begins to hit two buttons: one being F, and another being 1. As if by a magic or machinery, a member of the masses is pushed forward as if he is a chosen one, and he fell down into the dark bin below him in gratitude. Overseer smiles, satisfied with his choice and he bent down to pick up the member. Then Overseer rips apart the member’s skin apart, and tears away at his innards and ate like a savage beast. The masses’ shouting drowned out in horror of overseer’s atrocity. The masses sit behind the protective glass and stare at the overseer, in hopes that they would not be selected next. Fortunately, the overseer left. Few moments later, next overseer appears, and the masses begin to shout out, “Pick me! Pick me!” And that is when it starts all over.

[Ancient History]

The repetition does not help, I think.

[sinsual]

On the contrary AH, the repetition is absolutely perfect. That was very enjoyable and incredible imagery from such light use of words or description Flame, BRAVO!

[Ancient History]

If you say so, prose was never my strong point.