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.
When sharp winds blow I am reminded of Fairer days. Days in which the gentle breeze Caressed your skin, and we lay upon eachothers laps. Gazing haplessly upon the sun.
Upon these days where grief was but a memory. And in the winter of my youth, These days, now too memories, are still fresh, As was the time then, as it is stale now, As it was and should have been. Sharp winds are these.
And as these winds caress me in mockery The sun drains its last light listfully away. Setting darkness upon this still waking world Where the shadows come to play. Cruel this. And what they have to say I have not a mind to listen, If only had they not spoken before it was decided.
I am very happy to see that you still write poetry. I remember when I read "These Are the Boring Bits", and even though that poem was wonderful, I have to say you have only improved over time. Keep it up!
You're poetry is deep, and that's what i like. Im srry but i can't stand shel silverstein sometimes because it seems he ryhmes pointlessly, but i know he is a literary genius. Im getting off topic. When i read your first poem, the boring bits i think, i was stunned about how well written and well crafted it was. It would not suprise me if one day you will be the next Poe or Shakespeare, although i have no idea what your real name is. Also, some of your poetry gets like almost philosophical in my opinion. I enjoy your work and since your 19 (i think) you're dreams of becoming a poet (if thats what they are) are about to become a reality. Keep up the good work.
I once knew a maiden as fair as spring Who stole my heart amongst the April rains. Her eyes two emeralds, did not, but sing. And I, the fool, so gladly kept my pains. For what power had I over such love In which I was a most willing captive. No need was there to pray to God above, For I had all my open heart to give She had only to take all she wanted, Alas, she broke my heart as if t'were glass. A foolish man I was; left so haunted By that spring time deceptive lass. So now I write these hollow words in vain To somehow express my well earned pain.
*Well this is new for me. A rough attempt at an Shakespearean Sonnet.
It is an odd thing being a writer. These moods where you can see your world so clearly, and yet to put it on the page defeats you at every turn. I at times wonder how long it will take to complete this story. And is it merely the ambition of my youth that drives me to write it as swiftly as possible. I have time for this, should I not allow it then?
It seems to me at times that life is too short to idle in this creation of mine. That I must complete it in order to move on to some new ambition, some other task to set for myself. And yet, at times like these, when the world is demanding I write it, demanding to have the world know its tale, I look in askance for patience. Patience in my own ambitions which, by my very nature, are nearly boundless. This tale requires time, and thought, and it must be crafted not only for me, but those who would read it.
The ambition to succeed must also be coupled with the patience and subtlety of timing. And these two things more than anything in the world, make for awkward bedfellows. Alas, this must come to an end as the voice falls every dimmer upon my inner ears, and soon the clamour will begin again, and I must either endure until I am ready, or pick up my pen again and tell the tale.
PATIENCE, WOFLEH. I was in the middle of writing a comment... :P
I wish I could be a better critique but I really don't have much to say. A few of the lines seemed a tad off for some reason, though I can't really place why. Overall though, I really, really liked it. The last few lines were the best.
