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.
Wake up to the sound of your world breaking again and again. And listen as the silence reassembles Fragmented and whole in one go. Oh, I'm you best friend, the best one you ignore Because there's a guilt inside you, you won't admit. And I keep calling you on the wire tin telepone Because I know that you're not answering, But someone has to be home.
One day you'll turn around again. Face shining with the smile you'll want me to see, But I won't be there that day, not ever again. Because you wasted me away, and used up my heart Only so you didn't have to feel. You know I'm the silent one at your side, And what happens I'll see it through with you Until you use my kind heart, run it dry.
Author's Note: The girl I used to date calls me her best friend. She doesn't answer my texts, doesn't talk to me when she rarely does. But the title remains, at least to her. To me, it means nothing, she was my best friend, but she's turned away from me. She'll expect to see me by her side always, but it isn't going to happen. I just hope I'm far enough not to see her fall.
The last stanza seems put together.. better. The beginning seems awkward and choppy compared to the end of it. Maybe because of the rhyme you used in the last 3 lines of the first stanza, but maybe because you enter the poem with a visual, then dive into the more emotional side rather quickly.
Believe it or not I deliberately wrote one stanza as a visual for the emotional. Probably makes no sense, however, it's how I roll. Kinda. Minus the rolling.
Puppet on a string, Do you speak for the king You claim to be? I thought not.
There is a road in to the darkness of your soul That you will walk until the day you die Or, realize the futility of the march Through the wasteland that is the result Of a great and bitter pathos.
Speak to me not of the words left unsaid For we, as men, will say whatever we wish With a host of regrets. Yet, we will never Correct the idea of what was left unsaid.
Bitter and jaded is the trail we pursue. In that our natures are shown in the truth, And the horrid things we hide in the recesses Of our minds, are at last laid bare.
You will look upon me in abject horrow and sorrow, And rightfully so. I am the tragedy you shy from. The broken remains of what a man could be. What a man is. If only he would accept the truth.
Do not pity me. I will not scorn your for it, But I will despair. Such pity is best left for Yourself and your unseemly regard of my nature. Bare not softness to me. I prefer your indifference.
Not for myself. No, I scream injustice at such slights. But because I cannot bring myself to so blatanly Disregard the suffering of others. Even while I too suffer. There is no true peace in the desert of heartbreak.
Speak to me of peace. Feed me the lies I grasp with grubby hands. Speak to me of hope and love. Even if I have lost my faith. Walk with me down this road of dark. To my shattered soul. God of pain, of misery, of injustice, hold my hand.
I am the disciple of tragedy. The prophet of disregard. I am the confessor of compassion, while I bleed unseen. Puppet on a string, do not speak for you king. Walk with me into the wasteland that is my soul.
Well my audience of...um...I think two. I have been debating on whether or not to post my prologue that I have now finished (rough draft of course). I have decided that I refuse to go and edit and change my apostrophe's just to have it make sense on this demonic system of AG's, so I shall be posting it on that blog I started months ago, shut down to restructure the story and shall be starting it up.
This time the blog will be updated at least weekly and will be filled with rambling about the world I have created, mainly unimportant yet interesting facts. Perhaps tidbits of the book itself, and simply opinions on writing.
That being said this thread will be still in use and mainly used as a poetry thread and, if I desire, random rants and more cynicalness on the world.
Lord of High House Platypus, Wolf
Ps: Should you ever read The Malazan Book of the Fallen (it's epic and a major inspiration to my writing) you will understand more of what I say.
Wolf, I think your poems reflect the thoughts and questions you have about things and because may or may not know the answers to these questions, you write them. Without going on and on, you make a point, whatever it might be.
You haven't seen my longer work then. I can ramble when the mood takes me.
