Here is a thread dedicated to my work as a writer. This thread will mostly be filled with my poems which vary in theme but I try to fashion myself after my favourite poet T.S Eliot, who I believed captured human nature in his words. I aspire to do the same. Please feel free wo citique and review my work. However, simply saying "I like it" is not good enough, as a writer I must grow and develop so I beg you readers to give me a reason as to why or why not you liked the poem. To start off I shall provide you with one of my personal favourties.
These Are The Boring Bits
Call life what you will, A joke, A curse, A gift, An adventure. Take from it what you will, Joy, Sorrow, Love, Hate. Lose yourself in it Find your purpose Or, Find nothing at all.
A man asked, "What is the meaning of life?" A woman told him, "Whatever you make it to be." A child asked, "Is god real?" A parent told them, "Only you can decide."
Personal opinion is what we use to guide us, The opinions of others are what lose us. We can never be certain That we are certain of anything Because of change, And because things stay the same. What makes sense one day, Will confuse us another, And so it goes on. People tell others to: Get in line, Grow up, Get our lives straight, Who told these people these things? And why tell us the things that broke them?
Is it human nature to be unhappy?
Two men sit on a bench, In a park, Under a tree. They talk about family and friends They talk about work and dreams. One man says, "It is a waste of time to dream," The other says, "Yes, but to have dreams is not." Dreams are what the world is made of Bad dreams, Good dreams, Lost dreams.
Hope is never far off, As the old die, The young are born, The young grow, They become old, The old die. But while they are young, They change the world. Some for the better, Others for the worse.
Inspiration is a dream.
The only inspiration in life is life: What to do? How to do it? Can we change the world? How to change the world? Is there purpose? Are we real? Or a figment of imagination? All questions do not need answers.
Call life what you will, These are the boring bits.
Is this you or someone else? (writing this, I mean)
This would be I, Tyler Kent, middle initial P. What the P stands for shall not be shared. And this is not even close to the end, I was just throwing in something to thank my readers. I do segments from time to time, well starting to at least. See I have From the Desk of The Writer (which is rambling) and The Words and Workings of Wolf (which is more serious). It changes things up see...
(in a non-cultish way).
Wouldn't it be awesome if I had a cult? I could even come up with a cool snappy name.
Anyway I would like to thank you for making things I actually want to read and failing to ever disappoint
You're welcome. Anyone know of a decent self publishing company?
It's 4am, and I'm staring at the ceiling again Drifting somewhere in between realities Another day, another wasteful night As curtain thin walls drown the noise This is what they seem to call paradise But from where I lie I see plastered Faces in my window. Faces in my window.
And can't you see that I'm not sleeping? I'm somewhere caught between What you told me, and how I answered Don't sit there and lie to me... 'Cause I'm no longer sleeping.
Dawn is coming over the horizon And here I am wide awake, again. Today is, just like any other, Where my bloodshot eyes are unfocused On that old plywood floor. And I hear the sounds of those plastered faces Knocking at my door!
And can't you see that I'm not sleeping? I'm somewhere caught between What you told me, and how I answered Don't sit there and lie to me... 'Cause I'm no longer sleeping.
I'm no longer sleeping, I'm not longer sleeping I'm no longer sleeping, no longer sleeping
And can't you see that I'm not sleeping? I'm somewhere caught between What you told me, and how I answered Don't sit there and lie to me... 'Cause I'm no longer sleeping.
Don't sit there and lie to me I can hear those plastered faces whisper, In the sound of your voice I'm no longer sleeping...
OH I GEEEEEEEET IIIIIIIT!!!!! Tyler P. Kent! THATS YOU! gotcha. gotcha. Then... that is your quote on your page..... . . . . >,> I would call you a name, but I doubt it would be appropriate for the youngsters of the site.
AND YOU ARE WELCOME! I've been reading this cra- Stuff since day one! Or two... I can't remember back that far.... You get the picture. I've supported your whole "emo" look on life, and I have opposed it to no avail. ~obviously~
But. Yeah. You're welcome Mein freund! Mi amigo! Wo pengyou! ect. ect. I like the Insomniac one. Probably the most. Why? Cause I'm selfish and I feel like that is me. This is really long... isn't it? I should probably stop rambling, but I just can't seem to. Like that one time! Oh, Nevermind. :P
May your journey as a writer be a long and fruitful one.
I'll check up on that self-publishing thing, but I highly doubt that is even real. And if it is, it is more than likely that it costs an arm and both legs. Maybe even a nose.
I'll check up on that self-publishing thing, but I highly doubt that is even real. And if it is, it is more than likely that it costs an arm and both legs. Maybe even a nose.
While your at it, look up self published in the dictionary.
I do not have a "emo" outlook on life. If I did i'd never right anything that has hope underneath it all.
While your at it, look up self published in the dictionary.
Yes, thank you Efan, while I know some self publishing companies, I was wondering if some knew of any others, considering the one;s I know want me to spend more than what I view as a reasonable cost to publish.
Inspired by the song "In Repair" by Our Lady Peace
"You'll be fine," the mechanical man says Grinning his half metalic smile. You walk out the door Without a second glance back. Some happy romance this turned out to be. Here I am, knuts and bolts, and scrap parts All worn through and rusted. I'm hanging on screeching shackles Hooks twisting through my broken frame The grinding of gears and loosened knobs. I'll be here for a while, I'm the Tin Man who never found an oil can. You survived our car crash nightmare And you left me to repair all I had.
They work on me with twisted machines. Machines to save the Tin Man from himself. To replace his beaten worn out ticker With something brand new and shiny. Something else entirely. But the computer programing in my mental head Blares out, "Does not compute!" The shiny new toy these metal men would employ Is nothing but a false happiness. And such a thing I cannot live with. Happiness is not a fish to be caught.
I'll be here a while, I'm the Tin Man who never found and oil can. I'm in repair.
It is described in a very physical way-- speaking of a man made of metal, but can be thought of as an emotional metaphor. I like how the last four lines of the first stanza
I'll be here for a while, I'm the Tin Man who never found an oil can. You survived our car crash nightmare And you left me to repair all I had.
are transferred to the last three lines in the whole poem, but a bit off.
I'll be here a while, I'm the Tin Man who never found and oil can. I'm in repair.
Not in a bad way, but in a way that makes more sense for the end of the poem.
