Chatterbox: Pudding's Place

Poetic Picturings. Trying this again, heh.

If any of you remember, a little over a year ago, I posted a thread advertising poetry picturings, and several people requested one. I didn't complete any. For anyone who wanted one, I'm (very) belatedly apologizing, and also trying again. So, yeah.

These aren't going to be very long, most likely. More like poetic doodles, short poems depending onn the complexity of the idea. I will provide a few lines of prose for you if you fill out the sheet below. If you have any imagery or metaphors at all that you think might be cool in the poem, please tell me!

Name:

Pronouns:

Appearance:

Personality:

Central conflict/story or type of poem (optional):

Other: 

Here are some examples, some sort-of apologies from last time (if you want an updated one, feel free to fill out the sheet again) and also my example from last time.

For Agent Winter:

she is a force of nature--

a typhoon in an imagine dragons t-shirt 

hair and hands and eyes that are never static

as the entire world flows through her veins

and she knows someday she will rise

like an otherworldly sun, in a blaze of immortalized glory.

For HoodedMidnight:

clear glasses carry refractions of the tilt of a head

of the way hair brushes shoulders and the way freckles shift to make room for smiling white teeth

the way blue eyes twinkle like the summer sky in a way so hard to express

that the hooded girl must try again and again

crossing out her words for days weeks months

a year and she finally gets it right

penciled script breathed to life in a voice so shaky she almost must repeat herself--

but the words were already inscribed on their recipient's heart,

and she'd hear them if they were worlds away. 

For Viola?

she sits, hunched over a piece of paper

drawing. light catches her hair as it falls in curtain,

hiding her delineation. (you can only see the

eraser curving around and back, inverse to the lines she must be creating.)

but if you were to move closer, you'd see

quick strokes of the pencil forming eyes, a nose,

a person growing beneath her fingers.

but no matter how close you got, you wouldn't see

what she's really looking at, the way her eyes are turned inward

to where half-baked shards and glowing dust, and drifting, loose fibers

shift apart and together again,

in her swirling star-nursery of a mind,

where ideas are forming, creating and erasing themselves,

then waiting to flow out through her fingers.