10.5A, DFP

If Algebra were a nation,

T'would be located somewhere,

With mountains mighty high,

and fields quite charmingly fair.

All on its own,

Somewhere between Belgium and France,

Awaits the land of Algebra,

Where its wheat does wave and dance.

You can wade in the grasses,

Breath in the fresh air,

But if you're to walk in a direction,

You will not get there.

You'll think you understand it.

You'll be positive in the soil.

You'll watch the wheat wave,

And your belly will hunger at your toils.

The mountains will grow farther,

With their crystal springs,

and your throat will cry,

Parched for wet things. 

Eventually you will fall,

You will collapse-

Hungry and thirsty,

Calculator just out of grasp. 

DFP 2

He was hideous. He'd seen what he was. He saw it in his father's eyes, and reflected once more in the liquid surface of his mother's saltine blood. He saw it in his father's horror, in the knife buried in his mother's breast. It was time for the ugliness to come to an end. So he withdrew his blade, withdrew it from the gaping flesh, and withdrew his own mind. He was hideous.  At least he would be no longer. In a few weeks, his features would degrade, his soul long gone and unidentifiable from any other. In a few months, no one would be able to distinguish him from anyone at all. He would look finally look just like his mother - beautiful.

This World, DFP (Destined For Portfolio) Sample 1

Darkness was everywhere and the children were afraid. The unborn squirmed in their mothers' wombs, primal terror birthing silent mews and fluttering heartbeats. Their mothers, being less tuned to the natural tug of order and terror, where wholly unsuspecting of what was to come. They didn't know until they received their telegraphs, until long after their husbands' bodies had stilled and begun to warp. But the children knew, and they quaked in their warm cocoons and dreaded their arrival into a world where blood mixed with blood. This world where blood mixed with blood so thoroughly that no one could tell whose was whose. 

Acrostic Name Poem

Exceptionally
Roman profile coupled with an
Infinitely
Nosy

Manner,

Sackett girls
Almost never resist a
Creditable impulse in order to
Keep cocky lads upon
Expression-laden
Tenaciously unsuspecting
Toes