The [real] Synopsis

It has come to my attention that the Golden God, Derek Landy has written and released the synopsis for his latest novel, Last Stand of Dead Men. You are probably fearing the death and the destruction which will be featured in the eighth addition to the Skulduggery Pleasant series, yes?

And while you are right to be, I feel the need to point out that Mr Landy's summary of the book is not accurate.
Here, I give you, the REAL synopsis.

Last Stand of Dead Men:

War has finally come.

But it's not a war between good and evil, or light and dark- it's a war between Unicorns. For too long now, the Irish Unicorns have teetered on the brink of world-ending disaster, and the other Unicorns around the world have had enough. People turn to Unicorns, socks turn to Unicorns, and Skulduggery and Valkyrie must team up with the rest of the non-Unicorn-beings if they're going to have any chance at all of maintaining the balance of power and getting to the root of a vast Unicorn Sub-culture that has been years in the making.

But while this war is only beginning, another Unicorn is on the verge of rising to the surface. And if Valkyrie slips, even for a moment, then Unicorns will tacklehug the world and everyone in it.

(I wrote a few of these, much by accident, really. It was a lot of fun. I think my favourite involved rabbits, but I dig unicorns, too. I'm considering making a small project out of it, but there's still plenty of time for that...)

Consider:

We are none of us innocent.

We all make mistakes.

We say things we shouldn’t,

And raise the stakes.

We each have our flaws,

They’re what set us apart,

But hold us together,

By mind and by heart.

We all take irritation,

From many different factors,

And some of these stimuli

May operate reactors

We can weild our differences

And throw them at our throats

Shave away at imperfections,

But think what this denotes

We could just as well indulge

In seeking out those upper sides

And we may not fall so hard

When individuality collides

We can take a course for betterment

And hold our heads alive,

Keeping upsides next to downsides

In the characters we drive

Detestable

There are things that I say, do, or don't do, that can just have me hate myself over and over again.
One of these things, in struggles between what is right and what is wrong, not only do I give up, but I run.
Because when there is no right answer, I suppose the only real wrong is to not answer at all.

I am pathetic,

Don’t deny this,

It’s true,

I stand in the shadows,

You don’t see me,

I don’t let you

You say you’re going to leave

Still, you don’t see me,

And I slip away, unnoticed,

I don’t stop,

I don’t persuade,

I don’t care;

But I do.

I care,

My actions fail to show this,

But I care

And they care,

You care,

But still you say this,

And I do nothing,

It’s not my actions that fail to help;

It’s me.

Waiting for the Rain to Fall

It's been far too long since it last rained. Granted, it snowed a whole lot, a couple of weeks back, and that's still lingering on the ground, but it's not the same. I miss the rain. It's nice. It works with writing, somehow. Now the weather's just still, and I find it hard to get my brain flowing. Anyway, I put some thoughts onto paper- I think the result has some issues with flowing, too, but hopefully that's something I can work on, at least. :)

The persistent sun breaks through the blind
And lights the notes I fail to write
I stare too solid at my pen
Until I'm waiting for the rain to fall again

I can rack my brain so hard
I'll feel my frontal lobe is scarred
So I'll forget the things I've said
And be left waiting for the rain to fall again

With the liquid pounding glass
I feel the words expand like gas
Forming clouds around my head
So my thoughts cannot be read

If I can't see things disconnect
Then I've nothing to correct
So I'll sit and carry on
Without a worry that the rain will stop

But the sun evaporates the fall
And throws its light upon us all
I can't relish this terrain
So I'm left waiting for the rain to fall again.

Do You Understand?

People seem to believe
Without an extra thought
That perfect means flawless

I prefer to believe
That the contrary is true
That perfect means problems

People should believe
With problems and shortcomings
That perfect means acceptance

I'd like you to believe
That if you accept what you are
Then perfect means you

Do you understand?

Damnesia

Forced from home by noise and alarm,
Unwanted intermissions induce fists full of harm,
Your workspace is packed up, transported away,
To a refuge of safety in words you could say,
Or write, or dictate, or just tumble around,
Specifics aren't something to worry about,
You reach your asylum, open your work,
Devastation clouds eyes like handfuls of dirt,
Between distraction and refuge something is lost,
Taken from homeland and bluntly forgot,
It will never be finished, an idea not explored,
You are left feeling hopeless and homeless and torn.

Lockdown

Batten the hatches, close down the doors,

Wind up the windows and tape down the floors,

Lock up for lockdown, swivel a key,

Scaffold the ceiling generously,

Light bulbs like onions spin hazardous wool,

Into lines of ‘tales are too eventful’,

Tables and chairs are not so alike,

As to fit in the space between shadow and light,

If paper makes parachutes, I’m okay to crash,

Into wires and lenses, from take-offs to ash,

Colours of cuboids stand solid, robust,

But they sink in the oceans with lies and mistrust,

Piles of peppers set fire to ice,

While dust rains through archways, if words might suffice,

Brainwaves and centuries alike and alone,

Within earsight and eyeshot, complexion takes throne,

Notable spotlights burn out in the skies,

Sautéing galaxies and pigs who pass by,

Calligraphic sentences to prison and life,

Are why they aspire to bullet or knife,

If poorly sliced vision offers sense of regret,

Then my clearly cut intake performs as offset,

Letters and numbers, painting concept,

Give me hours of practice, so I’m ever inept,

Broken guitar strings can always be played,

If numbers of equality can always be made,

And while rubber ducks swim in kitchenware sinks,

There’ll be locks drawn on doors with India ink,

And noting the tone of this graphite voice,

Comes a pen with an eagle to signify choice,

Beneath layers of lifetimes and deathtimes galore,

Sits a torn strip of sellotape on travertine floor.

I am struggling over the meaning of most of this, and a part of me just wants to sit and analyse it verse by verse, line by line, and word by word. I wrote the first line; the rest followed with relative ease, and little attention to what I was actually putting down there. "Hoorah! for fun and not revising things~"