"Let's Kill Hitler"

WARNING! SPOILERS! DON'T READ IF YOU PLAN TO WATCH DOCTOR WHO!

Two things I would have rather seen in the 6.08 episode of Doctor Who entitled "Let's Kill Hitler."

-While I was completely caught off guard by Melz being Melody/River, I think it would have been more satisfying to meet Melz before, maybe just a passing mention if not a full-fledged story. This has been one of the only times where I felt like Moffat didn't have a long, elaborate plan. Melz's back story felt like it was thrown in for the convenience of plot.
- The rehabilitation of Evil River seemed too quick. Maybe I just wanted to see more Badass Nazi River, but what if she had been the Big Bad for a couple episodes, hunting down the Doctor and setting traps for him, until she eventually kept experiencing his compassion for her, thus leading to her inevitable change?

The Kind of Poet I Am

I'm not the kind of poet that slams.
Don't get me wrong, I love the style
I just don't quite get the rhythm
But I admire – no, I want – nay, I need
The type of passion I've seen
Associated with those powerful, spoken words.

You see, I'm the kind of poet
Who likes to rhyme
Who can hear a word or a phrase a thousand times
Without thinking, without blinking
Until that unspecified muse consumes my mind.
You want a confession? Here goes:
I get obsessive, and often no one knows.

It's words like “lips” and “lies”
and “smolder” and “sweep”
And “irresponsibly”
That tip-toe meaningless toward my pen
Until I hear them in the right context.
Even now, the word “patiently”
Has been slowly seducing me.
And I want nothing more
To hold it close and take it home.

Come on now, I'm the kind of poet
Who pretends to fall in love so he can write again.
The kind of poet who hears about a girl
With eyes that change color with the weather
Then loses sleep until I run out of ink.
She gets lines like, “She is of lighting and gentle thunder,
Of summer storms and falling rain."
I'm the kind of poet who realizes eyes of blue exist
But I won't notice until the right shade notices back.
At which time I call them “crystal” and write,
“I'll count each time she decides to blink.”

It's like this: I'm not the kind of poet to tell you a story
Who connects consonants and vowels and apostrophes
To construct some kind of artistic prose.
No, I'm the sort that leaves you hanging.
Always writing on the edge of not enough.
It's between the unanswered questions and unrequited details
That one can find my emotions, naked and weeping.
The quicker the rhyme, the quicker the release.
I'm just afraid that slam and the spoken word
Won't satisfy my need for absolution.

It's just that, I can't slam worth a damn,
But that won't stop me from trying.
That's the kind of poet I am.
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This is my first attempt at the slam/spoken word style poetry that Amanda writes and performs. I realize this is likely crap, so I'm open to tips and pointers. I've always envied Amanda's style and passion, but I've never been able to catch it myself. After watching her and George Watsky perform live at Vidcon (and also Melza on her poetry channel), I want to be a part of this live, spoken word poetry movement. Look for this on my channel soon.

Love Poem to a Dead Girl

I often thought I couldn't live without you, but obviously I can.

I just changed the definition of what it meant to live.

Because if the World After is void of everything you are

Why would anyone want to dwell in that sort of life

A crude, bastard sketch of what reality could be?

A simple look destroyed me, and left me wanting.

The grievous blinks came in distant intervals of relief

But you still ignited my love, you painted my heart

With the brushstrokes of your very existence.

You were

Beautifully flawed, imperfectly pure

The whole of Heaven and Hell.

An angel with painful eyes

A femme fatale with sunset smiles

A contradiction and cliché.

Just like me.

I often claim to love you in past, present and future, but how,

When I am selfish, desperate, pitiful in my need for you?

I cannot release my anger in the way you were released.

I've not forgiven you for causing pain, Before and After

I've not forgotten you hurt me, and I hurt you back.

What kind of thing is this then, that I hate as much as I love?

I never told you what I meant to say, but I hoped you guessed.

Today, I placed dandelions upon your grave and didn't leave my name.

But you knew who they was from.

Slow Burn

I remember a time when my heart was set on fire

And singed anyone who came within my arms,

Smoking, fuming, stinging with every golden coal

But it was the good kind of hurt, the type of pain

A person desperately wishes would flicker forever

Because quenching the flames would mean the end

The inescapable, unavoidable, unsavory cessation

And inevitable conclusion of all I have come to love.

Stop.

Pause, pause, for the love of God, pause!

What must I do to perpetually keep you close to me?

I promise this time I won't edit out any of the details

I swear I won't char the edges of these memories.

I want you to stay, to remain, to lag quietly in my life

Because the flames are swiftly turning to shadows of ash

And the scorching tears won't evaporate away this time.

I remember a dream I had in which we were together again

And when I woke up, my soul ignited with desire:

I want to burn in your eyes of everything.

For all of you.