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.
I dream of silent things Creeping like phantoms, Forgoing all dreamscapes, Softly placing themselves Into my very heart and soul.
Shadows lengthen, drawing out Cold breaths that leave me shaken. Held, rooted to a single spot. And so it is, and so it shall be.
And here, among the blackened hills Sit the scavengers. They do not weep. Their eyes are gone, blinded by sight. They speak coarsely, dull whispers That send the mind reeling.
I have paced among them, Here where the shadows seep, Brining my silent dreams Into the cocaphony of nightmares. And here I die.
Death has but one form, And I dream of silent things Creeping like phantoms; Softly placing themselves Into my very heart and soul.
One road to walk, one path to tread, Heaped burden on burden, I carry my dead. The skeletons piled; one on the other. This one my sister; that one my brother.
How long has it been, since my last rest? A sheltered place, removed from this test. My will, my hopes, nothing but smoke. A shriek, I cry, I do naught but choke.
Lonesome is this road I walk. Absent, of even crows' squawk. I once possessed a name, that I recall. That was before my nightmares took all.
And into this night, this void of black. Time cannot be rewritten, no going back. Here shall I sleep, my cries unsounded. The world claiming: my fear's unfounded.
One road to walk, one path to tread, Heaped burden on burden, I carry my dead. The skeletons piled; one on the other. This one my sister; that one my brother.
I have seen the madness in mens' souls, and its name is love. No passion turns more swiftly in upon itself, One moment it is the grandest of triumphs; The next it has left you with ashes, A private wasteland of the soul.
One of the most frequent motifs I use within my work is that of silence. Not merely the absence of sound, but simply emptiness in and of itself. And, Oddly enough, while poetry is often a reflection of the author's mind, or emotional state, I cannot say that my poetry always reflects that. Looking back over these pages I realize that any readership I have had since I mostly abondoned this thread, must assume I am some deeply tormented and, (I loathe to say this) stereotypically what one would consider "emo"...
I won't deny I'm a little emotionally bent out of shape, I do suffer depression, however, I do believe I read somewhere that highly creative individuals suffer mental illnesses far more commonly (don't quote me on that). However, to me scilence is comforting. Even in some of my darkest works (many not posted) silence offers the reader (and writer) the reprieve needed. I include silence as a means to breathe within my own work.
On the other hand, I realize I turned this thread into an emotional dumping ground, using it to post, more often than not, inadequate work. I would like to revert back to what I had originally planned for this thread, to showcase my talent as a writer, not merely a poet. Hopefully someone from ye olden days of AG (well kinda?) can find a new readership to entertain. It seems my old critics have either left or visit far too infrequently, which I can't blame them, I did the same. So, shall we begin?
I remember the nights we stayed up until 2am, Wondering if this lifestyle would come to an end. Or, at least I did. You, you knew already.
Charely D. once told me that they were the best Of times. They were the worst of times. Man, I wish I had listened back then; when it mattered.
But, now, years gone on, I look back, and yeah, I can see us at 2am. Finding the secret hearts, Of eachother, lying to ourselves. To myself.
These are the words you an buy, at any gas station Convience store, just out by Route 5. If you know Where to look and when. Cheap things these,
What with there barely half altered sounds. Choking On the fumes that they made.But man, those were The nights. Waking up at 2am, just to find an empty bed.
Or, at least that's what I do these days. You're gone And I can still look back and see you. I'm glad you're gone, Honest. Time isn't suposed to stand still.
But those were the nights where 2am didn't feel like an Empty Pepsi can, coated in dust and grime. Yeah, Those nights meant something. Thanks. I guess.
Time time time All for the reckoning of time And to show, to depart from bliss and ignorance To stand To fall and fall.
To fall again. Oh, what of time Time for all and none and all again We speak and speak with no Passion.
And speak again, oh speak speak! To me to her to him to all. There is no time to speak Just time to fall fall fall.
To weep, to laugh to hold To push Away. The time we shared and that we didn't Of things we knew And those we forgot. There is no time No time now, nor ever To go back to go forward
No time to look to touch to tase to see To hear to sense, for this. This. This. This. This. This. This.
I have learned that there is a difference between Falling in love and Being in love. When one falls in love, it is simply that. Falling. Weightless. Hoping against hope That someone, anyone, will catch you. Because of this, falling in love Is not being in love. Being in love is reciprocated. Shared Between two individuals. Being in love brings both passion And temperment. To be in love is to be static. Immovable until love itself changes. When you fall you fall alone, And falling is the uncertainty that plagues us all. And that, Is the difference of being and falling in love.
There is a lack. A lack of breath Of space and time. A lack of blood it seems. My heat beats. And words echo dimly. I see you clearly, Beyond all recognition My heart breaks; Again.
Now, I don't want to be rude, crude or anywhere in between. It's not a defense, an offense I'm not trying to be obscene. And I am Sorry, honnest, if it comes of that way. I'm good, At least at heart. See it's hard sometimes. When you're there Swirling around me like an intangible mist. You're beyond reach, and I keep running into solid figures, But they're all wrong see. They don't fit quite right. Or they can't fit, because they're taken. Not that you're possessions. But that's a man's thought, and my weakness, At least to you and your judgements; because Men are men are men. We're weak And we're not allowed to be. There's no screaming No yelling and crying, only fists and violence Blaphemeous destroying. I'm not like that though. I. I work words, I try to at least; I spin tales Write poems and scrawl essays and numerous blackboards, And I most certainly wear My heart. On my sleeve. It isn't safe there, I know, but I can't help it. I'm incomplete. I am Incomplete. There, I said it happy? ... no? I didn't think you would be. A lack that feeling. No, that isn't it. I lack the feeling be returned to me. Reciprocated. You know the meaning of the word? Half the time I don't think you do. You play games, you judge, you laugh, mock ignore. I'm not innocent. I judge too. We size each other up, hoping to take home some mythic prize. Like the Holy Grail. But here's the thing: I'm willing to take chances. I'm willing to lay my heart down. But that scares you, doesn't it? A man who isn't a man. There's my conflict. Me. Myself. I. Well, that's fine. I think I've said all that needs saying. I'm sorry then, if you're offended, or even apalled. I think I'll leave now. Goodnight.
