[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 think intention is important to mention
when concealing and revealing information
this life is worth chasing – not erasing
and the strife is worth facing and abasing
be true to yourself and true to your future
you’ve got to do for yourself in order to heal the suture
adventure is only half of it; and
traveling may build laughs, but it’s
the expansion of mind and shifting
worldviews that guides my time
and helps me choose
a life of giving is a life worth living
putting trust in strangers can put you in danger; but-
what is a life worth, if lived in fear… once the end is near?
Calculated risk may be key to progression
but inaction and complacency can lead to digression
I call out now for individuals to think
so raise your glass; let’s have a drink
DON’T LET APATHY POLICE THE POPULOUS!
This is the sound of broken silence.
What do you know about nonviolence?
if i had to many riches, a codex of the hidden, an alibi, and a witness;
fission based decisions would cause me to get a dog tags fitted.
vertigo visions, plausible sequence reprinting, elite energetic remissions: exhausting limit’s; *bio-mechanical witness.*
existing, is enlisting…… dancing out crime’s committed…is how to manage emotionally astounded expansion … redefining my mind with patience, temperance and, leverage. expanding until forever.. i hate everything is how to measure time and space traveled through our conscious endeavours. reason’s why we cover up our treasure’s is a question to be kept heard. rest assured i wont come in third, second, or first….. i’ll lay back to the dirt……falling everlasting sipping on infinitous worth making a spectacle perching atop of an imaginary church screaming fuck the new world. luck is a cruel word. yin and yang is the true search.
So this is one of my first kinda short story things. Tell me what you guys think. (P.S. my first post!
On a Cloud
One day you break down and cry because the torment of uncertainty is unbearable. In this moment of complete helplessness, a feeling rolls into the broken wreck you once called your heart. You roll over your bedside and fall to your knees as you remember the prayer your father taught you before he passed away. You remember the love you felt as he squeezed your hands and taught you to spill your soul to the lord; as the words flow from your lips, you feel the sweet rhythm of love dance through your heart and mind. The pureness of these untainted childhood memories fills the bottomless void, the depression, life has made.
As you stand up from this experience, you find yourself so very calm even though the world you know is crumbling around you. This calm in your soul brings you to this once hated mattress but, as you fall, it feels as though you have just fallen onto a plump cloud. You look around and notice that the all too familiar plain white walls of your room have vanished and in their place a majestic, indescribable, beautiful meadow. In this place, you see a man who calls you by name and greets you with a hug. The voice of this man has a loving, yet confident, sound that makes every word feel as though he is whispering to the deepest parts of the soul. “My son,” the man says, “these times of trial are great, but do not be afraid for I am always right beside you. I am truly sorry, my son, for this pain and heartache I have bestowed upon you, but I must for I have something great in store for you. Now go, my son, and bear through these times of tribulation for at the end, you shall be exalted and praised above any.”
You awake several hours later in the same uncomfortable mattress to the same plain white walls. The only thing you are left with is the feeling of unconditional love and the knowledge that, one day, your life will bring something significant to the world.
wake up……… get out of bed see whats shaking outside of my head…..decide to stay dead…mope around concrete floor’s fed…up….with everything and then some….. regurgitate im sorry and settle down…. resentment is a deep dark clown that will push you around like a bully found a way to make his feeling’s feel fully as if your a pulley and he’s the pushee…. smoke tree’s please is the tease that makes me feel complete.. I don’t need weed, money isn’t free, all i have to find is me but until then i’m going to puff on some green. sip on tea… while i search for key’s to my heart I’ve been told they are somewhere in or around art, inspiration never finishes… begin where I left off.. rent out a box sized loft in east bay… dream with out fault, peace treaty… come in contact with alien feeling’s, i mean my own teachings spinning out of control after leaving a home that was so close to my own, contact’s cut is apart of feeling alone, trapped in a box of physical properties, step outside my door to have my conscious dropped to it’s knee’s. say please oh please and life is a breeze.
it doesn’t fucking matter…. all this bullshit poses to be the ladder to the latter…slap my self with laughter….. bring reality into fear’s factor…. pack my satchel with tool’s of rapture…. sing hallelujah to your master, wrap your head around disaster…. capture your green fields of pasture… moo cluck bark meow live in the now… kun pow batman wont save us now~ it’s our turn to allow who we are suppose to be. fly free.
A piece from a collection I am writing- this one is called “Desert Menstruating”
Cactus and Atticus
practice and Narcissus
Echo and let go
desert and Schubert
Jade and China
Alex (not Reagan’s)
the girl of the hour
the spineless cactus flower
Come to the desert
you will see
all that you needed to see
Life and unlife
the squa and the breeze
off the sands and the sea
of time and
you are taken
back to the time of the
ancestors not mine and hers
but yours and ours
the roadrunner runs
the mockingbird mocks
the coyote calls
the peyote falls
from above into our
hearts and we see the light
of the stars
The sands become time
the Moon feels new
the silver sweet dew
wine from the queen
Her dark side not seen
but there are unbelievers
they believe that we(e)
women and men cannot
reach the stars but
with a little help
from my friends
I can see you and her
the Sun King
the Moon she(en)
She calls and falls and
we lift and are placed
in the sky with our
This is something I wrote while I was high and a little bit confused and troubled:
It has been so long since I’ve last seen myself. All the mirrors in this apartment are shattered, lining the area around it to caution all who proceed. Tiny green branches litter the now dull grey rug; all the leaves were burned long ago in a ritual to numb the soul. But memories are cleansed as quickly as they come. Each day a sea of imagination, vivacity, and hopefulness fill my mind, just begging to be born. However, I see these beautiful landscapes I could summon with the Magick of word; capture in the essence of the canvas, the colors; the potency and infectious nature of sound and wonder when I will touch them with life. What could be accomplished? What new world could be sprung forth? How could I have changed the landscape of thought? How I aspire and dream of these fantastical worlds of beauty, pain, and death to be seen, admired, and lived in by the world. I could allow these ideas to expire in the void of time or I could capture them and let them grow. For that, however, I must gain these skills in order to properly apply my creativity. How can you create without any tools?
The air here has been tainted by the thick cloud of burnt herbs. It lingers in the air, stains the walls, and chokes the throat. I always knew this was how it was to be, but I was always hopeful that it would turn out different. Whatever, I guess that’s just how it is. You can’t entice fate, she will not be outwitted. She has chosen your path, scribed on the lining of your bones. You are forever linked with your destiny, it cannot be avoided. How you tell your story, to yourself and to the world, is what can define you, what will blunt the unbearable harshness of fate. Expression, in a pure form, can save us all from the inevitable death. We forget those who were hidden, who pretended to be what they were not. We remember the raw and the passionate, regardless from where it came. Humans have been awed by pure expression since the beginning. The dark and mystical always captured our attentions because they were relatable; we all feel hate, beauty, love, but we suppress it to seem normal. So when these creatures of our mind are given form, thought, ideology, we adore it and admire it for all it represents- ourselves.
But what has been offered to us for the sake of redemption, clarity? The Abrahamic religions offer us immediately forgiveness of sin, but never offers us a way to free ourselves from guilt. Eastern religions rely on the element of isolation from the outside, full concentration on self and the realms of the mind. How are we supposed to reach clarity and balance while we abstain, or restrict, interaction with the personalities we encounter? Ancient spirituality offers an intriguing passage through life. It shows how to use thought to alter our behavior. They relied on meditation, shamanic rituals, and music to set us down the path of redemption of self. We have deviated so far from where we began. We have corrupted, controlled, and contrived every single wholesome belief from a passage through life, to a mere battle of power. Luckily, I believe that we all have the ability to create our own forms of spirituality using the same techniques of the ancients: Meditation on self; exploration of your psyche through psychoactive compounds; and expression of soul through the appreciation and creation of music, art. Maybe we can use these tools to weave our roots into life, take advantage of existence.
Maybe honesty is what is needed to free us from our pain, our hurt. To truly bear your soul, make everything that haunts you become real, heard, and allow it to be swallowed up by the acceptance of those who listen. It seems that that is how we should deal with stress and emptiness, by sharing it. However, what if the people around you don’t accept you for it, and treat you like garbage for showing who you are, what you feel. That seems to be the ledge to our jump. We straddle, hoping to be given a push, to learn how to fly, but they always push us in the opposite direction, making us standstill, unsure.
I have a tiny bit of something I’ve been thinking of. My basic goal was to sum up my 2 year experience with depersonalization and anxiety. There’s still much more (and I mean MUCH more haha) left that I would like to add or edit:
I cry out into the dark,
Insanity just cries back.
Anxiety’s made His mark,
Again, He just attacks.
A prisoner of my mind,
You see, I’ve lost the key.
In my locked, dark cell I find,
I never was and I’ll never be.
(Hoped you guys enjoyed this tidbit – Nathan Garcia)
The Cosmic Dance of Life by Stormy
While dreaming, so awake
The the dance of life is always here
How to find it? Look up, stop trying
For insecurities dissolve when there is no dual
Am I dancing the right way? I feel silly
A voice tells you to control, not to let go
But you don’t don’t have to listen,
Just go with the flow
Material molly can help you get to that place,
but only when you realize that you do not need her
for the dance isn’t something you do,
but something you flow through
After a while you may get thirsty,
The water is better when it fills your hands
But you cannot stand by the sink forever,
Fill a bottle up and pass it around the party
Music is like food, with each to their own taste
A sensation translated by your mind,
From mundane physics of the universe
Into something wonderful, magical
Something that cannot be expressed any way,
but experiencing it for yourself
It can be done alone, or with others,
But then you realize, there is no you, there is no me
this poem is called ‘catcalls’
covering your eyes with your hands won’t make the sandman
come any faster, not after you’ve laid awake
trying to fake sleep, trying not to weep
and pretend it’s okay to feel this way
to remember every failure
every time someone said no, go home, you don’t belong here,
every jeer, from the time you were too little to spell your name, until this day came,
and the days like punches keep coming
memories like rain drumming into your skull and settle in your spine
lives like mine where nothing’s really wrong (but something always is)
something’s gotta give so you do,
under the weight of can’t wait anymore,
the pain of no gain, in this game you can’t win
because everybody knew the rules by the time you got there
and they don’t care that you’re lost, and the cost
of catching up is too high so you say goodbye
to another rite of passage you never had a chance at
it’s not that you’re giving up but that it’s giving up on you
sorry kid there’s nothing more we can do
come back in another life and maybe then we’ll give you the time of day
i remember a boy catcalling the girl sitting behind me
over my head like i wasn’t there, made of air
looking down at my body to make sure i existed and thinking
oh, that must be it, i don’t look like her, so
who gives a shit if i’m real, or how i feel
so i let the boy go on making the girl behind me feel pretty
and it’s petty
but i wished all her hair would fall out
so some guy would shout over her head at somebody else
i didn’t care whether someone shouted at me,
i just wanted her to feel invisibility ‘cause it packs a punch
you won’t forget, you can bet, i’ll be remembering that catcall
for all my life. they say you don’t remember pain
so it’s a shame how long being irrelevant
stays with you and haunts your every move, saying
don’t bother introducing yourself,
they’ll only forget your name.
Okay, so I’m an amateur poet. I want your honest feedback on this recent poem I’ve written.
I am born
She is young, too young.
She cries when she sees me.
Those are tears of regret.
She doesn’t know how to hold me.
It doesn’t come naturally, like everyone said.
A newborn and a 16 year old are not so different.
They both need to be taken care of.
But infancy is pleasant,
Because infancy is numb.
I am five.
Men come, then they leave.
Through with her, because they are through with me.
She cries when they’re gone.
Those are tears of self-loathing.
It is hard to find a man when you have a child who needs a mother
They didn’t tell her fathers were so rare
A five year old and a twenty-one year old are not so different.
They both get too attached.
I don’t know that she’s unhappy
I only know that she stopped smiling.
I am fourteen.
Mom and I wear the same clothes.
And we both wear too much makeup.
We cry when we’re alone
Those are tears of loss.
It is hard to get older,
They didn’t tell her that youth was so fleeting.
A fourteen year old and a 30 year old are not so different.
They both want to be twenty-one.
We look in the mirror,
And somehow neither of us are happy with what we see.
I am twenty-one.
I let men see me as I see me.
And they never stay for long.
I still cry when I’m alone.
Those are tears of helplessness.
Twenty-one is still not so different from five.
I still get too attached.
I still don’t like what I see.
But infancy was pleasant,
Because infancy was numb.
aint got no puns, aint got no guns. california dreaming spillin outta my feelings, hun
nothing is better when everything is lesser, love is our messenger.
healing is secular. what is my rooting solution to this growth thats been brewin up senses of looting,
hoopin girl’s have my mind convoluted and looping.
hit a plateau that’s soothing, friends come and go grouping.
do you run the heat and the AC at the same time?
not in the ghetto doin time,hoarding lines, droppin rhyme’s,
chasing that pride of finally realize, I, am I.
I will humbly side with what i think is mine, what i feel on the rise.
immortal fire blazing in the back of my eye’s
dare to look and you just might find a portal to my cybernetic kind
grime and rhyme’s flood my essence, punk treasure’s.
neo in the matrix, eleven eleven guessing,
what is this lesson, how do i accept the message.
do i create the staircase to heaven, climb until my legs break or sever
let go of everything, witness my soul escape, or be clever.
forget all realization’s, label coincidence as vacant.
change the station, sink back into sensation’s.
get a job making, pennies for slaving,
or be full on dalai lama hazy.
make poetry aimed at the crazy,
while i find my way through this illuminated maze of me.
It never stops raining
Daggers strewn throughout her heart, she cries so filled with confusion-“No one can help me! I know no one can help me until I can help myself! I can’t fixed myself!”
Suddenly frozen throughout, exposing broken skin.
“One more hour, one more day..another week!”, she shrieked.
Pleading with the skies, she just can’t take anymore.
“Why can’t I erase your memory? Why can’t I sever your heart now?”
The image of her burned through her eyes, on to the mirror.
The broken glass reflecting the shards of the past, more force fed memories.
Her face, it haunts me.
Her words tear through my soul, “You can’t stop the rain.”
A love affair of just one.
I carry you within my heart
leaving nothing behind
a heart beat
every breath of me
I carry your heart within me
with every step I take
with every breath I make
I hold you so tightly
so not to lose or break you
I carry you deep within my heart
in the depths of the crack
from past lovers
my heart sack
With no key and a locket
I hold on
I know I lack
a heart to love
a heart to carry you
a heart to hold
a heart to care for you
But my love
Oh how I feel for you
in this love affair of just one
Sometimes my brain works over time and ideas pour out like a leaky faucet. I write a lot and this poem I just came up with today as I was reading a book. Romance to me is not just a feeling its heard work too just keep it up. But I will not give up on love someday it will bite me in the butt and I wont even see it coming. OUCH!
I’m destructive but pleasant, bitter but sweet. I’m obstructive, omnipresent, strong and meek. I’m here and i’m there, like the wind I sway, i’m tears but i’m air, pinned to ground, dead weight. I’m the earth yet far, i’m my birth but i’m stars. Already gone before I croak. I’m the cold breeze you exhale as smoke. I am you and you are me. She is him and he is we. Earth is where we’ll die together, then turn to atmospheric clouds of weather. I am matter I am strife, I am pain baptized in life. I am mind and I am soul, you are me and we’re the whole.
Made tension blessed
Emotional rent vested in
the witch’s interception
clues being winged out
but the focus taking over
so the spectators shout
Quick sprint quick
Lacking packed orders
So wickedslick trips
Take the bumpers off the borders
Some heroes have no inner
Some Neo’s have no outer
But I hear the inversion
Calling louder and louder
Figure eight is love
If you’re tough enough
to stay on your side
and uphold your part of the collide
even when it means to subside
and let the why’s spread wider
while the light gets brighter
If my brain is an antenna
Let there be no evil
I’m not into sneaky people
Even for the sake of Santa
Even though its not written in stone
There is suspicion on parentals in the home
Taking advantage of imagination
when they don’t have their own
Not hating, its serrating the divide between
The sweet and cyanide
And its not where you thought
No robot, no homo, no joke though its yolo
Spoke to the queen and she made me drop low ho
Focus is the focus and the focus is on more bro
I don’t need a photo
To show that I felt woah
And got loaded on slow flow
That made me find Waldo in my wallet
And now we’re both solid- called it
I’ve never been alone
because the times I feel at home
the images of judgments
of the ones I fear should roam
snarl at my satisfaction
calling me a liar
as if I don’t deserve to be the person I aspire
because I’m less than what I feel
and how I feel is that I can
and if I could then they would vanish
there’d be nothing but “I am”
I am unstruck
I am a fuck
I am afraid of luck
I run against the dust
because I must be consumed in self-lust
and this ugliness justifies trust