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.
But peace is usually ruined by ownership and by extension consumerism? Therefore greed? I'm just trying to be literal here or am I debating trivial semantics to myself? Never mind; good work though.
D: Efan: I gives you internets biscuit! Wolf: wat? O_o Efan: Perhaps biscuit makes happy? Maks Efan happy Wolf: That wont be neccesary. Efan: I've got magic mushrooms from walk in the woods? Wolf:...........OK. Efan: OK? Wolf:yeh.
Oh pale undrawn breath that shall never be, What have you become? A working of links; Naught but chains. Your gaze has met an eye more subtle, A voice more melodious than yours, a heart That still beats in time with life given. You now gaze into an indifferent sky, as the wind Caresses the skin that once felt, the lips that once Tasted the kiss of a lover. And the heart of the sea Beats on, while your heart has ceased all beatings.
You are but one link in an imperfect chain. A chain That tried to cirumference the world. And failed. Does it not sting you? Even beyond the reach of such feeling? Does it not reach into that dead heart of yours And steal the last stubborn will that I know has not yet died Regardless of the fact that you have stopped all living? You tried to rule, and have fallen. You tried...
But what of your triumphs? Oh what triumph is there in death? Should we all bow our heads? Should we look to see you rise? I think not. Your cold gleam has now be cast aside. Into the shadows from which it sprung, and took out hearts Like some ravenous beast that longed for feeding, Despite already being fed. You twisted us into your slaves, Made us wear chains of our own making, brought the clash Of swords and the cries of widows to our very homes, Seen proud men march off under the burdern of you expectation. And yet. You claimed it was not enough. The fire of war must be fed, so you declared! Declared! For the whole world to hear. For everone to be subjugated, To bow to your throne of lies and imperfection. And you ask to speak of triumph.
Dead lips may not move, but well do I hear your voice. It whispers false assurance into my ear. It tells me That you will rise in the guise of another. That all I say to your dead form is to no avail, That the sea shall indeed dream of you, and so be content. But, you are as mad in death, as you are in life. Cruel King of Chains, I once knew than man you were, No longer. A corpse is all I see now, and all your imperfection Is revealed to my ever keen eye. And this I know, dear brother. The sea shall not dream of you. Not now, nor ever.
It's part of a movie. Ferris Bueller skips school, and the teacher is calling attendance. And Ferris isn't there, so the teacher just says his name over and over again.
Upon a shelf inside a box A chest of dreams That I hold dear. Inside this box Are all my wants Without the hate and fears. The box is locked From the outside in And I hold the key. I cannot open this chest Of dreams. I must Stumble Blindly, ever onward. Only fulfilling Those expectations Of others. I could have all I want If only they Would let me feel.
