Forums → Art, Music, and Writing → The Words and Workings of Wolf

lol ah my story is a long and chaotic one. Yes indeed.

Why don't you tell us all through here? Hmmmmm? write a story. Do what you do best.

Because perhaps he is not the sad tortured person that writing is his only outlet. He has privacy. I'd love to hear it though.

I really hate turning personaly experiences into fictional work. I suppose I could just explain what affects my writing in a rant or two.

The Words and Workings of Wolf: An Explaination of my Writing

Since so many people are curious where the origins of my writing lie I suppose I could give you a few justifications as to why my writing is at once bleak and whimsical. My writing rarely comes across as such, but much of my inspirations lie within the work of T.S Eliot who I view as one of the greatest poets to have captured human nature on the page. I also have been inspired by Poe for my darker work that seems to have no true shining ray of hope, and for my ramblings that are borderline to madness. The final inspiration within my poety is Carol, mostly Through the Looking Glass. As for the novel I am working on I draw on a number of accomplished writers such as Stephen King, Scott R. Bakker, and Stevn Erikson. Oh, and of course J.R.R Tolkien.
Now, I have always been an outsider, and from a very young age have had a flair to create complex senarios which often have one creative and unexpected twist or more. Growing up I never had many friends, mainly because I lived in the country for the first five years of my life, so I had to always entertain myself, this really helped my imagination and creativity to grow unchecked. If it was for being bullied from the ages of 9 to 14 I most likely would have never written anything, or, I would be a much more optimistic writer. As it stands this was not the case. Being bullied, and driven to a point of suicidal behaviour made me see the bitterness of what humanity actually can be, and is. Strangely enough while this had a darker impact on my writing it also influenced me to always, or try to, write in undercurrents of hope within my work. Aside from the various books I have read and continue to read the last thing which influenced my writing is the outlook on life I have developed in recent years, which is: Life is meant to be lived and those who judge you are nothing more than spectators in an often madhouse for the sane.

~sniffle~

If I woulda known you then, I would kicked all the bullies butts. And then some.

Anyways. You need a shining ray of hope in your life. To make you be not as sad and stuff.

That seems to be a more and more traditional background for good writers now, it's especially a trend in generation Y's indie writers such as yourself. That being said I agree with moon in that it's great you're able to see a bright side of some of the darkest circumstances.

wow do u mind if i put this last poem on my gmail status message???? you are an amazing writer and i can tell you put a large amount of work in to this. well make and may the wind be at your back!

it's especially a trend in generation Y's indie writers such as yourself.

As I paced the halls of thoughts unknown, lies and deceit were my trade. <--ignore

An End of Sorts

Dare I question? I question
These questions of questions?
And that all good things come to an end.
And should they end?
Why do they end?
These good things that we cherish so, yet never measure.
But, claim that measure is the measure of measure
And never should these good things be subjected so.
Yet, how do they end?
Do the grow sick and old?
Rotting as if a mere piece of overripe fruit.
Maggots squirming through the cavities of them.
And these are what we once called good times.

There were times of sorrow
And times of joy.
Times of times, and half times and no times.
A time to know and time to be known.
And here, here among the halls of memory
Of peace and prosperity
Where dark things never crawl or creep, slither or slime.
And these we call good times.

We were friends, you and I.
As I paced the halls of thoughts unknown, lies and deceit were my trade.
And you, a sweetness of memory, worried in ways and ways
Ways of known and unknown. Such a Paragon
I have never known.
And compared to I,
I the crippled crawling thing. The one
That sleeps among the shadows as blackening fogs
Creep among the brickyards of the mind.
My mind.
and these we call good times.

And we came to a crossroads
So many times.
And we had chances to take our chances
With chance for chance and at a chance.
We took chances with each other
And continued onward. Down the road we had been walking
Down to the sea of our own making.
And should we ever come to a waking
And wake from this dream we have dreamed.
Where the day is measures by pacing feet
We have come to our last crossroad,
Or so it seems.

And here I know
To the sea I shall not go.

And these roads have ended.
These winding wayward streets that never mended a single soul,
They have ended.
Ended. Ended. Ended. Such a bitter end.
And not the ending I would have had.
No ending I would have had, had I had the way I had planned.
No ending of this you and me
And together we would sit by the sea.
A sea of waking dreams.
A sea of our own making.

And here I know
To the sea I shall not go.

Here is our end. My sweetest of friends.
My true listener of hearts. One of love I bear this hard.
And you would have me spent,
Wasted away and left to wait
Upon the sands of the beach where no waves flow.
A desert bereft of hope.
And should this, this fate for me be the thing you wish
Then let is be so.
And to the sea I shall never go.

I shall grant you any wish
Should it be within myself to give.
And if you wish to send me away
I'll never trouble you again. Not today nor ever.
But I would have you know,
I am sorry. Sorry that I have little left to give
And have given you so little in the end.
And let the punishment fit the crime
I have burned you, scarred you and harmed you, for the last time.
I would have you know,
I do apologize.

And here I know
To the sea I shall not go.

And here, now as I stand beside the cliffs
I can hear the waves call me.
And I reflect on these twisted rotted thing
The things we call good times.
And of friendships then and now.
And here, here sit the waves.
And I shall never know,
For to the sea I shall not go.

And here I thought I was unique.

Geebus Wolf it is people like you that make it useless to enter the darn poetry contest. You and Fallen win all the dang time. >,>

How am I supposed to tell you how great your work is? I will have to go to the Thesaurus to look up synonyms of Awesome.


Main Entry: amazing
Part of Speech: adjective
Definition: astonishing
Synonyms: awesome, fascinating, incredible, marvelous, prodigious, shocking, stunning, surprising, unbelievable, wonderful



There ya go.

Geebus Wolf it is people like you that make it useless to enter the darn poetry contest. You and Fallen win all the dang time. >,>
How am I supposed to tell you how great your work is? I will have to go to the Thesaurus to look up synonyms of Awesome.

From The Writer's Desk #2

Where do we draw the line between dreams and reality? I've been told everything happens for a reason, yet how can reason exist within the contexts of a chaotic universe? We make laws and binding codes, hoping they'll guide us to the moral nodes. Those nodes that direct the techno machine that infects like parasites lacking a vaccine. We're technonauts without a rope to hold on to, and yet the people flood the concrete streets anew. Every waking hour progressive methods made for progresses sake, leaving a home of shattered children in its monstrous wake, with cryptic call signs and tangled wireless phone lines, no place to breathe clean fresh air, and those hacked in and jacked in, just do no. Care. And even I owe you an explaination of sorts. I'm the one who has tech cohorts that allow me to spread and divide on submolecular pretences if only to hope to knock out these modern hiflying fences. And we, those who speak in unfound words, words the world hasn't ever heards. Those that fall in to archaic. Hoping. desperately. TO.BrEaK. This. Constriction and RELEASE a new-wave mosaic. And these ramblings that are never spoken, save in a few languages that remain unbroken, these are the things, the very means, that will dethrone these newage kings and queens. For in us all lies madness. And it falls to me, to release such sadness. To revel in a truth, that should not be true, and is not, for will not and cannot, be true. But true it is. And true it remains, despite the growing tension and these electronic pains. And do note, that these flows are off, not off by chance, not off at first glance, but off all the same. I offer you no truths, just the things to keep you sane, by the ways of insane.