[Official] Share and discuss your amateur poetry and stories.
I recently wanted to challenge myself, so I decided to try my hand at poetry. Since I’ve written a few poems, I’ve really wanted to get some kind of feedback, I’m not sure if they suck or not. So I’m creating this discussion in the hopes people will share their amateur poetry and stories. Only constructive criticisms guys, not everyone is literary genius. I’ll share a poem, if you want to here another of mine, just ask.
An Explorers Ode to Earth
As I see her from afar,
I obtain an inkling of who we are,
Here I sit in this frigid waste,
As if running from her warm embrace,
Just as children must move from home,
Here we travel deep into the unknown.
I have so many songs I don’t know where to begin. Drugs.
Religion. Relationships. Youth problems..world problems and politics….ill add a diversity if I can..
I like to get high and forget the words to my own songs
My my its wrong
I had so much wasted potential
I used to take pills, doctor prescribed, to help kill the thought of suicide
My my such wasted potential
But I was never sober enough to give a fuck about sobering up
I gave it up
And honest, I love my addictions
And there’s no need to be humble
There’s no honor amongst thieves
There’s no reason to forgive me
I admit to everything
There’s nothing that should surprise you
What did you expect from me?
Pouring from my wrist into a cup, for you to drink
With every piece for you I fix I lose a little piece of me
passion opens a portal to the land of immortals, for-told scolding I’n prophetic enholdings control the fortune of cosmic contortion. in shorthand, keep it real, man. time line’s our minds to seek and find our kind, together shine through our spines.
Wholeness turns to beauty
I will inspire light
I will know the secrets that seem hidden from my sight
Will others gaze upon me as I have my own reflection?
Desperation fueling an escape from disconnection
You think that you can tell me that I’m pretty and I’m smart
And my primal mermaid body is a precious work of art
And I know these things it seems
I just don’t have any seams that distinguish who I am from what I’m not
I only have these dreams that keep me hot
and burning, yearning
Squirmy for some unlearning
Disturbing. but it’s more
And its vague
I’m a thinker that you plague when you’re feeling loving
And a lover that you beg, struggling
You are raging
Caging me inside my empty pages
Leaving me to lust after the power of the sages
I am not a slave, I’m a humble giant
I could get defiant if my system of belief wasn’t reliant on a book of other’s leaves
Cover the sleeve with a weaving from the sieve of the deceiving
Extract what’s freeing,
Everyone is seeing you be a human being.
I feel like empty space
Or should I feel it permeate?
Eyes on lock down
Third eye pounding
Questions dripping and ungrounding
Keep on walking
Time and time again
That the most alive you feel is the purpose at its end
But infinity, eternity turns thriving into hollow bends
So swallow what I’m sent and keep on walking
While your sending and receiving
Persevering in conceiving
All that’s gray and turning it to crayon-box green
Lean into what you’ve seen inside
Reject the place you hide and keep on walking
Prepare yourself for the days to come
We wont remember this come the changing of thrones.
Prepare yourself for these words.
This wont be pretty, as it comes on strong, and the world is deafened by its force.
this wont be pretty.
It takes less effort to destroy than it does to create. lethargy to famine to disease to apathy. in that order.
I dont really want to know what it is you do for a living.
These cheap accommodations are frivilous, yet draw me closer
inticing the slightest bit of cold.
how long have i been here?
and when did everything get so dim?
Let me die
I won’t try to reason with you now
I just need your help
“Let’s cast a stone into this machine, sabotage will set us free”
A great man once told us
And now I know what he means
Cause we cannot work forever just to die with nothing
When I am dead you can take what evers left of me
But let me live till then…
And all we do is wait for our eminent escape
Into a world that we fabricated
To give us all false hope about the actions that we chose
And to establish a sense of calm that we needed
One day well all look back and see that this was all fake
The lies we told ourselves. In reason and in faith
Were taught to be immoral and told what is our fate
We think we’ve come so far but we are afraid of change
Let me die
I won’t try to reason with you now
I just need your help
Go and breath revolution
Spread it like a disease
And all we do is wait for our eminent escape
Into a world that we fabricated
To give us peace of thought when were all dead and gone
And to establish a sense of calm that we needed
Don and Bob
The most unlucky pair of friends,
Deaf Don who’s about gone
And poor blind Bob who’s prone to sob,
Did something never done.
“Do you want to climb a mountain?”
Don’s brave words were jumbled.
Bob’s pale blue eyes widened in shock
His legs shook and tumbled.
“I cannot even see!” He wailed.
But Don could not hear him
And so made up his mind to go,
So Bob appeased his whim.
They stood before the lush, green peak,
Bob’s sweat dripped to his knees.
The mountain surpassed the skyline,
A horizon of trees.
They trudged along the upward slope,
Bob used his prized wood cane.
Along the way Don sang folk songs
That drove poor Bob insane.
To talk to Don, Bob played charades.
He protested the song.
He was unsound, and hit the ground,
Don thought something was wrong.
He cried out in his oafish howl.
For sure his friend was dead!
To this Bob groggily awoke
And smacked Don on the head.
So they resumed their gallant trek,
Through nature’s alleyways.
On the stepping stones to the sky,
That set their hearts ablaze.
The warm day faded into night,
The bread they brought grew stale.
Bob could not thrive, he lost his drive,
And Don grew very pale.
It made no sense to quit half-way
The two would reach Zion
Or see the darkest depths of hell
They would not be outdone.
Don scavenged for berries and nuts,
Bob only tagged along.
They made a little fort of twigs
That wasn’t very strong.
Bob ate bright red poison berries
That stung and burnt his tongue
His stomach gurgled in anguish
To his knees his head hung.
A faithful friend, Don carried Bob
Who now was thin and frail
Up to the peak where success lie
He would not be derailed.
They were almost to the apex,
When ol’ Don rolled over.
Bob came flying down, and he found
A green four leaf clover.
The unlucky friends cheered with glee,
And gathered strength to move.
They carried on with prideful strides,
And both got in the groove.
Four days passed on the lush, green peak,
But they did not realize.
For Don was a deaf oaf-like man,
And Bob lacked working eyes.
They happily trotted along,
Assured of their good luck.
Bob was becoming healthier,
And dumb Don ran amok.
At last they reached the mountain’s peak.
There they basked in the Sun.
A victory long awaited
They had finally won.
At home they were hailed as heroes,
The two best of their kind.
They were known as the Lucky Ones
The brave deaf and the blind.
So goes the story of two friends,
The unluckiest pair.
They’re still just as close as before,
After such an affair.
How strange a world
People pretending that they understand
“This was all made by God’s hand”
Anything to make them feel secure
When really, no one can ever be sure
Look at all the people,
Leaving their thinking to the steeple
“When I die I’ll receive eternal bliss”
That’s just avoiding giving meaning to ‘this’
It is the strangest thing just to “be”
How can there possibly be a “me”?
“What are we? What does it all mean?”
All any one can offer is their best guess it seems
Never pretend that you understand
Life is just far to grand
Infinitely beautiful and bizarre
No one knows what the fuck we are
Some claim to know the truth and to have figured it out
Others face the vastness and realize the mystery is what it’s all about
Dream of a place where no one goes,
yet every one wants to be,
dream of a beach where waves will wash,
and you’ll be forever free.
Dream of a house,
a place to call your own,
imagine the space,
you’ll be free to ruin.
Dream of a life,
you wish you had,
as you age unknowingly,
till death do us part.
Sometimes life doesn’t work how you want it to
Sometimes its for the best
But this just isn’t one of those times
If it’d help at all Id repent
I wasn’t ready
I didn’t deserve to die alone
Maybe I did
Ill never know
If Id stayed at home would I still be dead
Or just caught up in smoke?
My ears are ringing
The light in my eyes is finally fading
Where are you tonight?
I see the things I’ve been trying to keep to myself
Enter my dreams
The void of reality
Madman’s Visit # 1092. “Call me a fag, but I will still say it,” he said.
The stories/events depicted in this post are fictitious. Any similarity to any person living or dead is merely coincidental.
“”He knows God probably has a grand plan for him in the long run. But right now, he feels so frustrated, so lost, so depressed, so confused, and so angry. All these obstacles, hurdles, and walls. “Why so many?” he wonders. It’s like curve balls after curve balls, riddles after riddles. An endless barrage of taunts as if insulting his very existence in the world. All the elevated hopes followed by heavy disappointment. All the up and downs, turns and twists. He wanted to be optimistic, but everything that is happening is making it that much easier to be pessimistic. Easier to not Believe. He knows that people out there are having it worse than him, but…just because they are having it worse, doesn’t make his problems any less important or any more trivial…does it?
He feels that he needs a break…from everything…he needs a break from life itself. Maybe it’d be okay after hes finishes counting backwards from infinity, oh wait… He knew it was becoming a problem cuz other people start asking him “are you okay?” based on how he was talking or how he was looking cuz it could only means that his outer shell is crumbling. Inside he is already broken. Outside, he is trying his best to mend the cracks that are slowly emerging. There is only so much that even Atlas could shoulder before buckling, and he is no Atlas; he is a mere boy trying to navigate the minefield that people have learned to call life. One wrong step. Baboom…human confetti. That’s what he called it.
Recuperative sleep eluded him no matter how hard he sough it but fatigue haunts him everywhere and whenever he doesn’t welcome it. Bothersome thoughts invade the very privacy of his mind. He told me he felt like a zombie from Warm Bodies, caught halfway between dying and living. Too scared to die, but not brave enough to fully live. Tired and spent – physically, mentally, and spiritually.
He wanted to get away…really bad…but there is no where to go. There is no haven for a boy such as he. He told me that everything he might want to do and everywhere he might want to go will just be a temporary escape. He didn’t want something so short lived, he wanted something that he can keep forever. He didn’t t want to take another journey down the slippery slope known as video gaming. He didn’t want to drink away his problems. He told me that he would,however, love to seek inspiration through introspection, but fears that he would not be able to handle it under his current unstable emotions. He want to leap over those tall ass mountains known as life problems. But isn’t it funny? He wanted know that it is greener on the other side before making the jump. Otherwise, why spend the ATP to generate a motion not needed. He wanted to be shown a happy ending at the end of it all, this endless tunnel people called life. Oh wait, he was never promised a happy ending, only one that would be worth it. WTF does that even mean?
“When we are at our lowest point, we are open to the greatest change.” He told me that’s what Aang said. He wanted to believe that. He said “I am sure life can be worse. Like, if I had a about 6 months left to live.” But this has been the lowest he has gone in a long while, and its slowly eating away at him. But then he laughed and said “But hey, you know what people say, “when you hit rock bottom, you have a solid foundation right?”
He said he needed to stop making excuses, making small insignificant superficial changes. He needed a real change of heart…something substantial. He told me he needed to know what He wants for him. Until then, he said he will just keep coming back here for counseling therapy…”“
you, your, and everything you’re not
what exactly is beauty
for it, I can’t define
your vanity compartmentalized
etched into an uncanny emotion
that sways ominously into a shallow sea of idle insecurity
your nose peaks out of the water enough for breath
as you lie down in a sandy blanket
until your iris constricts all you have ever known
until sleep defeats you
and you again, wake up in front of some mirror
your fleeting blood pressure and humanistic desires
pull you toward the suns reflection off the water
you look over, there’s no one else lying beside you on your italian marble granite
a few blinks and stares until the pattern on the floor morph into dancing little flowers that resemble familiar blonde curls
you’re staring at your own reflection
a familiar neurotic dance from the middle, to the top, than the bottom
lets me know that you must be conscious
you’re ego still unsatisfied
i repeat to you like an adolescent child
i will always be there, because i love you
the mirror shattered after that brief moment of consciousness
behind it, you find an un-edited newspaper
you find an obituary with your name on it
Like a flood wave,
thoughts batter the inside of my head,
eroding my senses and slowly dragging me under the surface
I’m desperately grasping for something concrete to hold onto,
while being thrown from side to side
As I fail to complete the task,
I let out a silent scream that ripps my heart into yet another piece
Putting an agonizing smile on my lips,
I try to hide any sign of the raging war going on,
between mind and soul
But the roars of battle will soon enough come to echo across the border
Meanwhile, another world awaits unconsciously the inevitable invasion – of uncontrolled thoughts.
This impermeable fog has us trapped,
All I want is my wings to be flapped
Away, away, away from this insanity,
Never back to this gross reality
This fog truly has me trapped,
My fledgling mind is shut and snapped
I hear all the people cry out in sorrow,
Demanding that it be a different world tomorrow
I look upon their tearstained faces,
They admit defeat; they know they are never going places
To them they see a one insignificant girl,
They see my fist unfurl
As I walk down the road filled with despair,
My mind is still raw and bare
I wipe away my tears,
I stand there with no more fears
The fog rolls away,
I know that it will be a new day
Because I’m ready to take on the world,
The World needs to get ready to take on me.
Here is a short story i wrote that concerns of misplaced love, artistic infatuation, passions and the creative mindset:
Beauty Through Veiled Eyes
The oscillating rumbles of the 6 train brings with it a similar waving movement that spreads throughout the carts. To the average New Yorker this waving is negligible, especially for pensive Artist near one of the doors, getting lost in the colors of the dental ad but not at all taking any of the information in. He is much too absorbed in his own predicaments; he is so absorbed in fact, that he does not realize that the heavy sleeping woman next to him is every so slightly slouching closer and closer to him, with each rumble of the train speeding up the process.
“Please stand clear of the closing doors, please…ting ting”
The train halts a few seconds earlier than usual, with the remaining speed being converted into a force that pushes the woman into the body of the featherweight Artist. Startled but not surprised, the Artist squeezes out of the still sleeping giant’s crevices and out on the platform of Astor Place. Recollecting himself from the great squish, his momentarily blurred mind repaints his worries. That short moment of blank thought was peaceful, but it was not enough to fill the dread.
It had been a long time since his last gallery opening, and this new chance was ripe with opportunity. The only problem was that he could not find the perfect model for his newest sculpture. He had always worked with drawings first, but the usual models always moved too much for an accurate drafting, and the ones who stand like statues provide no energy either. The problem must be him. His mind is always filled with the grandest ideas yet nothing seemed right enough. The concept was fine, the concept is engaging, the concept is multi layered…but the execution is poor, the execution does not equal the idea, the execution is no match for the concept. And there lies the greatest of the Artist’s problems.
But apparently all that would change. He was to meet a friend at Astor Place who claimed to have the perfect model, the perfect solution to this problem. Looming in the distance was the Alamo Cube at the center of a little concrete island on the busy streets of Astor Place. The fully accessible Modernist sculpture seemed to mock him. To him, it represented everything that the art market wanted and he refused to give. It stands there in it’s grand form; a physical puzzle to those who wish to play with it and a puzzle to his predicament.
Deciding to wait instead in his studio, as the fall chills were soon getting stronger as the sun set, he turns west a few blocks down to his apartment near Waverly Place.
If there was anything that could calm the Artist right now was the ride up the elevator. The blue green steel always gave off an atmospheric glow that almost seemed to embody the feeling of calm, while the deep red shadows given off by the riders gave a nice soft spot for the eyes to melt away in. The faulty railings give off a soft chiming noise that brings the artist back to the comfort of his childhood porch where he would watch the wind chimes sing the hot sun away.
“What took you so long to get back?” inquired the friend who was waiting by the studio door.
Obviously oblivious to the actual promise the friend stares as the Artist just walks in, happy that he did not have to wait much longer.
“How many times do i have to remind you about taking your shoes off?” cries the artist indignantly as he puts away his own loafers.
“Well it doesn’t matter anyway, i have to get back to work soon, i’ve already taken too much liberty in time waiting for you.”
Scowling, the Artist sits down to listen.
“I have had it all arranged, the model should arrive tonight. Don’t ask me when, i have no clue, but it should be when she is back from work. I think she is right for the pose…nah in fact i think she is the perfect one. You’ll have those art-type businessmen kneeling on their knees for your shit.” And with that he leaves as rudely as he had shown up. Wretched child, he should have never had a hand in this. Hopefully this new favor isn’t as much a disaster as that one time he had shown up with Play-doh in place of artisan’s clay. The kid…what does he know about art.
A sharp rapping awakens our modern Picasso, signaling that the model had arrived. He wonders for a second whether or not he should open the door first or check if the setup is correct. When thinking yielded no action a second rapping had broken the hesitation. Although both the room and hallways are dimly lit, there was something peculiar about the way her ivory skin gave color to the air around her. That air felt so warm, and it felt good at a time when it was still too warm for heating yet cold enough to shiver at night. A moments hesitation between them was broken when her glossy eyes spotted the blue velvet chair sitting in the middle of the room, one of the only things lit and the most obvious place she would be enthroned upon. She brushed past him with her heels clanking on the floor. She was beautiful and mature, but there was something so innocent in the way her hair was disheveled and had her sweater inside out. It reminded him again of childhood play.
Her red lips opened ever so slightly like a sweet little cherry apple, possibly wanting to introduce herself. But the Artist hushed her. She was an enigma, this abstract concept of innocence and maturity. Under the light her pale hair was able to capture all the colors of the rainbow, in the most pleasing pastel hues. Her rosy cheeks did nothing but to prove themselves softer and friendlier than the velvet they rested on. She was slouched in the most graceful, organic form; she was at the dividing point of youth and adulthood, of collection and of mirth. Abandoning the sculpture project, the artist becomes a painter once again.
By the end of the night the fair Maiden is done and the painter almost is too. Not requiring any more modeling and not wanting to take anymore away from this precious soul, he bids her farewell and gives her her pay. He asks her to please stop by the next day to see the finished work.
“OK” is heard just as the door closes behind her. But the artist hears no apathetic wordless letter construct but hears a siren song calling him to the girl. But instead he goes back to the painting, working feverishly to put his newfound love into every brushstroke.
The sneaks up, daylight runs past and evening lands. The waning gibbous moon floats over the thing vapors of cloud. The artist has been back from what is probably his third smoking break of the night. Though it seems a whole carton was wasted and none was shared with the maiden who lives on the canvas. At this point waiting in the room was like being judged in purgatory. Judged by the angel on the canvas whose mouth can not be distinguished as either a playful grin or an apathetic frown by the artist. It seems like with every changing thought, every hope and every fall the smile flickers up and down. The artist paces and paces like he usually does when he is hit with the usual melencholic stagnation.
Suddenly the lights pop, and the room turns into an obstacle course of form and color. At least the light of the full moon is on his side, enough to help him stumble through the obstacle course of form and color and out into the hallway into the elevator. How wretched this elevator is, he thought. They couldn’t use anything but grey steel? And no one had replaced those chattering railings in years.
But it was good to finally get some fresh air. Or was it? The air seemed to burn up his insides,
the lights too bright. See, even such great forces as air and light thought he was a fool, he belonged in the polluted dark solitude of his studio apartment. But he was hopeless there, just as hopeless outside. But he chose the new hopeless, as it was better than the old.
He took a lonely walk through Washington Square Park stopping at his usual spot near the fountain. He sat down the closes to the water, his feet submerged in the icy cold water. He felt a bit more relaxed here, to mix with the crowd of young lovers. Maybe through observation he could receive back a bit of the love he had shamelessly given away. But he could no longer see color in any of the actions or feel any energy move through him. He was a ghost in that spot. Not one face gave him a canvas to paint a smile on, or paint anything for that matter.
Going down a desolate street, he sees a young girl and her parents emerge from the nearby Blick’s Art Supplies store. She looks ecstatic, too much perhaps. He knew that face all too well, for he wore it too one time long ago when he received his first set of paints. But he almost wanted to shout at the parents for such cruelty. Do they know? Do they have any idea how painful it is to create? If there is a God surely he weeps for his creations.
By now the few stars in the city sky shine as bright as they can. The Artist has ventured too far south at this point and now must make his way back up SOHO. On his way he sees in the distance a quick exchange between a streetwalker and a driver. He thinks about how similar prostitution is to being in the art game, and makes a mental note not to become an art whore who caters to the hungry investors in degradation to art itself. Seconds later the car takes her away, leaving darkness in what was originally oddly glowing air. After a pause the artist walks on. Feeling oddly liberated, he glances up for the first time in a while. SOHO never seemed so…neon! The glass, the signs, the cars, the lights…it all even seems to demand nature to be on her knees. And this is where, the artist realizes (for him at least), there is nothing hidden in this jungle of beauty. Nothing to expect but what was given and no hidden faults to worry about. Humans are cold compared to the joy the city gives him.
My latest dabble:
Take my day, but leave me its time
Take my sun, but leave me its shine
Take my path, but leave me to wander
Take my storm, but leave me its thunder
Take my food, but leave me its taste
Take my dance, but leave me its grace
Take my friends, but leave our connection
Take my answer, but leave me its question
Life can’t be bought by a number of pennies
Only the emptiness sought by so many
Take what you see only then will you find
What is essential is invisible to the eye
Where will we be in our wandering hours,
When the quarter light splits the night
And we toll the dreaded dower?
Recalling divine heroes of mendacious dreams;
Clad with charm and courage
To win the heart of fair maiden.
Never a vile wretch of visceral intent;
We never question its worth,
Trying to remember
Memories of memories.
Sunday morning was made
For tapping at the door
And mocking the black robes
We stand before.
And made to lurk about the house,
Play the great predatory game with shadows,
Never knowing, which is cat and mouse,
Building for ourselves a dead man’s gallows.
My name is Summer. I live in an apartment complex. Here’s a poem about it.
You live beside me in my apartment complex.
We are only separated by a wall.
Your blinds are drawn,
Your TV’s on,
Does it help drown out the sound?
Of the world whizzing by you,
the dreams it denied you,
your children not knowing their dad?
What keeps you up at night, pacing the hallway?
Do you dream of whales and coalmines like I do?
Is your life the way you imagined it would be?
Maybe I’ll ask you these things
next time I pass you on the stairs,
and you look away.
Then you can go back to your box,
And I’ll go back to mine.
And we’ll share a wall.
And nothing at all.
rolling security out of the flurry
of stones that were kicked across your mind in a hurry
steady and rocking, pocketing fears
they fall to the ground with the rest of the years
kissing mindfulness and flightiness
in all seriousness this is business at its finest
assimilating wine lists of truth to align with
not hard to take the heart ‘s suggestion
beckoning and skipping- no malfunction in shifting
sift through cliffhanging
proverbial banging, mostly enflaming
in the sweetest sense of the past tense
and the future lens zooming out and in
freckled skin and rainbow fins
and all that shit you pretend to depart from
while living postpartum in my head
dead ends send me hiking
sprinting the pike and throwing bicycles
in the most zen rice bowl way possible
lost bullshit- cross a polarity
less caring, more clarity
Don’t spare me
Life is the dance
All the time
and smiling at the plexus
feet through the nexus
silver roots prick my skin
spiraling through what is me
and it’s nice on the concrete
hug the slices and weakness
its only bleak without bliss
and I’m the whispering sister
the eternal tight rope
swaying to your slope
welcome the choke if need be
because I’m free, I can feel-see
I shall try to explain, a fear as it is;
When in adjacent seats, strangers do meet,
Or more so, do not meet.
The brushing of shoulders
And fingers through hair
With no glance met
And no words shared.
A folly of silent miseries.
What introduction would suffice?
Drama and calamity?
Down on knees to scream
“Forgive me angel, that I am
So base and wretched that
I could not even compare thee
To a pleasing colour
Let alone a grand thing.
Alas, you are more than either”?
No plans resting racing heart
Or sweaty palms, or addled mind.
A mind inside a mind.
Though she may feel small
I am smaller still and
I know my own size.
Losing, day by day,
Power to go and to stay,
How will we live?
Through the tumult of empty streets?
Or the vacuum of well trodden paths?
There should be more to say?
What is a word?
And what do we use it for?
Can it be dropped
And picked up off the floor,
Dusted off and shelved,
As it was before?
And no more?
O curse this birth!
That I am not galvanized
Or made of some stronger metal
Or lion heart or even that Blarney mineral.
There should be more to say.