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.
You don't comment on MY thread... XD Just kidding, Wolf. I think people are scared you won't think their comments are constructive enough. I know I am, but I face my fears!
Allow me one day to wake up free of doubt. Let me know that I belong In all my flaws and imperfection. All I ask for is a moment of blessed peace.
I am the recorder of the Fallen In all their twisted broken tales of triumph. Where none see what they have gained For their tales are of ruin, of defeat.
Glory. A hollow and conceited word. The Fallen will triumph even in grievous defeat. For them to stand. To be acknowledged. That, in itself is greater than any victory.
I realize this latest poem is somewhat jarring. It doesn't flow as most my poems do. And it doesn't seem to connect, but I'm leaving it up for you to decide, as always. I await your comments and querries.
This is a matter of perspective. To be weak, imperfect, flawed, different, is often, to be ignored. To be witnessed even as you remain unwitnessed is a triumph. Not all defeats are worthless.
I write for those who can not speak, I write for those who can not look, I write for those who can not stand, Not because they will not, But because they are the ones in chains. Only the Fallen can rise again.
