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.
Cruel winter wind you seek me out in jest If only, in joy, to tear horendously into my mortal coil Ah...how the bite of your teeth do sting Driving all thought and feeling from my flesh. Leaving naught but the numb sensation of defeat. Rendering me a vesel of mere dumb mumbling. Deaf and mute to all passions save the pain you drive into me And you would call this a masterpiece of achievement. This you would call your sole purpose. Fie on purpose! Fie on your self interested ways That leave nothing but ashes and dust behind. Bare bones stripped of all warmth from their living shells. Oh cruel you are indeed; minion of Friil.
All the while you stalk the north ceaselessly. Lying the homesteads bare and burnt by your dread chill. Dust only to be swept cleanly away by your unsubtle hand. In turn it leaves a frightening subtlety in it's wake. And this I shall cannot abide. Nor, I suspect, shall others. For to abide such a thing is to accept it as truth. And how can a man accept that which he does not understand? Understanding is meant for those above such mortality. Frail though we are.
But it is with us that gods play their games. Tripping men within wired webs, Only so that men may stumble heedlessly onward. Delluded in his belief that it is he that chooses the path walked. Not the unseen hand that lacks all sympathy. While men Lack all comprehension. Such a sad world in which we live. In which men are naught but the tools of cruel masters Who regard us as naught but livestock. Meanwhile Fire rages against the winters bitter chill! The fires of war that bring naught but death to the land. Kings and Emperors flock to the call. Moths to a flame! Ah twisted comparison that is so apt for the two. So apt indeed!
But, lo! There is a glimmer upon which I would rest All hope that I, out of misplaced conceit, have left to my heart. That these words be read, and, read true. For they do impart A most bitter truth: That all machinations of gods and men Lie bare upon the tip of a sword, or ink filled pen.
I AM GONNA EAT YOUR BRAINS!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! Cause I'm a zombie. ;P But no for real, this was just a repost of other stuff. WE NEED SOMETHING NEW BUD.
Yes i'm aware I've been reposting the same poem over. I just wanted the finished product up here. You can nit pick something else, when I write it, when I am not running on 3 hours of sleep
Forgetfulness is so sweet to dream upon. One day it will consume you; Leaving me a hollow image, A ghost of a ghost. Old and tattered beyond reach. A ghost of times I thought so sweet, Now, grown stale with age. If you chance upon me once more Within your hall of memory Remember I am but the fool Who loved you For reasons only I knew.
Apathy. Drifts beneath my skin. Crawling. So hidouesly seductive. Escape. This world of hateful fears. Forget. The reasons to care. Lock. Away the feelings. Because. There's no much pain.
To those readers who have stayed with my work on this thread I thank you. I am currently struggling to cope and gain a handle on my depression. Because of this all my writing will be suspended until further notice. This thread will remain open because I still wish to receive your comments. Should you have any concerns please post on my profile though I may not respond immediately or often I will try my best. Thank you.
I will certainly miss your works. Despite not commenting each one, I read all of them thoroughly. I wish you luck in your struggle (though I know success will come no matter.
It's the all time lows, the short ride of the highs. You write it out, you understand. You 'cope'.
You want to receive our comments? About what? Nothing new, this will die. Mr. Kent, Do you want to learn it the hard way? If you do, I will leave you to it.
I have never been a man short on words, and of consequence, opinions. I have formed opinions on everything and anything that has the misfortune to pique my attention, be it my interst or ire. I form opinions based on my own understanding of knowledge of the subject, and strive to refrain for voicing ignorant opinions. Some one say they strive not to voice unbiased opinions as well, but such a thing is impossible, for in speaking out against a bias, you have created a bias against bias. No matter the thought or deed we create our own bias, even if we wish not to. It seems redundant to say all this, because I have said it all before in a different manner. From my senseless ramblings to my cynical poetry, or the occasional short story where I lead the reader into the mind of a sarcastic and bitter character more reflective of me than I wish to admit. To speak out against ignorance is akin to speaking out against gravity; no matter how much you say, and no matter how you say it ignorance will still exist. It grows ever more wearisome to speak like this, to impart these words on this page. How could it not? While guilt and regret are the only feelings that at once sustain me and deprive my life. Burdens. Everyone has their burdens, and I will not presume that mine are heavier than anyone else's, for that is ignorant beyond comprehension. Though, I will not bow to modesty in this and claim my own burdens weigh nothing. No, they are indeed heavy, having been born of my own guilt and regret for all the times I believe I have failed. To only be topped by my feeling of estrangement and the resentment and bitterness that springs from such emotions. The feeling that I do not belong, have never belonged and will not belong. How can I not be cynical? How can I not express bitterness in such a regard? And yet, I only wish for peace, for these feelings to be laid to rest. I formulate on how these things could be done, and I ask, everyday, to take me back, to one moment in particular, and to change my answer to a question a friend asked me. Instead of saying "No," I would say "Yes,". Perhaps then my soul would find the peace I seek.
