Poetry

[The Imfamous AKA]

Back by not-so-popular demand, is the poetry thread. Which I will now proceed to flood with my crap!

Starting Now

Starting now,
I'm living a new life.
Starting now,
I won't make myself lie.
Starting now,
I won't avoid your useless strife.
Starting now,
I can't let myself cry.

Starting now,
I'm packing my emotional bag.
Staring now,
I'm living in my own reality.
Staring now,
I won't let you make me drag.
Staring now,
I'm embracing my mortality.

Starting now,
I'm walking on my own.
Starting now,
I'm facing my pain, anger and sorrow.
Starting now,
I'm entering the unknown.
Starting now?
How 'bout I start tomorrow?

[Seven]

I like the irony of the last line. Going on about all the profound life-changing internal-struggle decisions being made, and then putting it off for another day. Is this procrastination at it's finest, or is the narrator afraid of actually making the change? I really like the use of repetition, it works really nicely. Where do you get all the ideas for your poetry Aka?

[The Imfamous AKA]

I have no idea.

Voices

You’re going to tell me that I’m not dead.
That I shouldn’t listen to the voices that are talking in my head.
You’re going to say that I don’t understand all you’ve done and thought and said,
But I’ve been down this twisted trail before, and that’s exactly where it led.

‘Cause if I’m not dead, why the hell am I so numb?
Where’s the pain to fog the logic pointing out which angles you come from?
You can play stupid all you want, but we both know that you’re not dumb.
You can see I’m one tough cookie, ground down to one measly little crumb.

And this useless chatter has done wonders on my self esteem!
But those clever little voices hid everything you could possibly glean.
And I’ll just stand by passively while you moan and bitch and scream,
Because you’ll never know what’s in my mind and heart and deepest, darkest dream.

So I’ll just watch as you shake your head with rue,
‘Cause even if I’m not dead, I think we both just knew
That I would rather listen to what the voices tell me to do.
And it goes without saying, that those voices don’t like you.

[Asila]

Whoa, the first poem was definitely charming and clever, but it was the second that got me. It makes me think of my mother...nearly all of the poems I first began to write regard her in such a fashion, with many of the same sentiments of defiance and inner strength, but they where not so beautifully written. I could tell you all day that you have an incredibly amount of talent, Aka!

[The Imfamous AKA]

Thank you. I feel loved.

Bottle Neck

I see the world through a bottle,
Through thick and sickly glass.
A specimen within a cage,
To poke and prod and harass.

I see the world as a cynic.
Every trick and flick as slight of hand.
A spectator in an audience,
Finding the show so very bland.

I see the world through petals.
In a quick and prickly plant.
As single rose in a sea of heads,
Where indiviuals are scant.

I see the world in a bottle
Filled with thick and sickly stuff.
A dose of poisoned rationality
Could never be enough.

[Asila]

*claps hands over ears* GET OUT OF MY HEAD!!!

*sighs* I can hear the sentiments of these poems so clearly. I'm thinking about putting a few of the poems that I don't like just so that you can see the similarities between them. It's eerie...

You are, without a doubt, the better writer though. I have never enjoyed reading another person's poetry so much.

Here is one that I have written. It's a rare story poem. I've only written one other. Well, two others but the second needs some work. I have only rediscovered it within the past few weeks. Amazing, the things I had left forgotten in these notebooks...

One last thing about this poem. It had been a writing assignment for my CW class. We were supposed to write a 250 word story with single syllable words. I don't know why I chose a poem, it was more difficult to pull off than a story would have been (for me at least) but I have my moments during which it seems I feel obliged to be difficult. There were a few points in the poem where I gave up and went with a two syllable word, but it was pretty good for the most part. (words that ended in ed only counted as one syllable. Don't ask me who decided that. It was pretty convenient, though.)

The Death of Truth

The sky is deep,
I weep, I weep,
The stars are bright,
Who'll put this right?
Trees claw the sky,
Oh why? Oh why?
The tree frogs sing,
The death bells ring,
The chill wind sights,
Red torch sparks rise.
The square is lit,
The cruel judge sits
On his dark throne
to judge a lone
man clad in white.
Their hate is loud,
but he is proud.
He stands full height,
This man of light.
The dark crowd leers.
He shows no fear.
One frees a hound,
He stands his ground.
His eyes hold flame,
He cries his blame;
"Why do you loath
Those you think odd?"
There was no sound
From the shocked mob.
Once stilled by doubt,
Hate soon won out,
The crowd sent up
It's cries once more.
He spoke no more,
What for? What for?
His cause was lost,
Too great the cost
For this small mob
To accept the odd.
Amid calls for blood,
Streaked with black mud,
The man faced fate.
It was too late
To do any more.
He had been judged.
To death he trudged.
The crowd is still,
They wait to kill
This man of race
Not like their own.
His guilt is fact,
It's time to act.
Is there no hope?
They cut the rope.
The sharp blade falls,
Blood on brick walls.
The black crows fly,
A brave man dies.

[Seven]

*To Aka* Ahh, I remember these poems. *Grins* They're so much fun to read. I can't wait till you write a new one....though (looks at first post) you just have.

*to asila* I love narrative poems! Yours was so interesting--I liked the sort of static, sticatto tone yours has from using short syllables. Why was the man on trial? Is this just something the reader is supposed to imagine? It didn't seem like his fault. The poem really gets you on his side. You said he was a man or race, right? Does that mean he was black or another non-white ethnicity? Did this have to do with his 'crime?"

[Asila]

The poem is very symbolic. Basically, he is truth and therefore pure, and the mob symbolizes corruption. By killing Truth, they are telling the story of moral decay, which is evident everywhere since people are usually unpleasant beings...

I was originally going to have him a black man facing down a white crowd, and when I visualize the events of my poem that is still what I see. A black man in white and a white crown in dark clothing with wild expressions. But the main point is the symbolism.

Now, who's up next?

[Seven]

I got that he was truth, (I always feel so happy when my interpretations are right!) You know, the scene you described would make for a pretty good picture...
A sort of compliment to the poem?

I feel like I'm going to have to start writing poetry so I can post something to show you guys.

[Asila]

Hurrah! I can't wait!

[Rojo]

*Frowns* I wrote this...It doesn't have a title, nor am I sure what it's about, and I'm quite sure it's terrible, but it makes me feel happy, so...yeah.

I feel it in my bones
I feel it in the air
I feel it every day
In everybody’s stare

I sense it in the wind
I sense it in the sea
I sense it in the earth
Beneath you and me

There is no telling
What it is
Or where
Or why
Or how

It is all around us
It is everywhere
It is flowing right
Like a cunning snare

But who
Could fathom
What this be?
Not within the hearts of men
Or neither you nor me....

[The Imfamous AKA]

Strange

People look at me and think I'm strange.
They see dark black hair and light blonde roots.
They see someone who embraces change
With black cloths and chucks and knee-high boots.
They see with such a norrow range,
Their knee-jerk reflex always shoots
A picture my existance hangs
On, my opnions is exactly moot.

I can't stand the way they label.
WHo gave them the power to define my mind?
Who says that they see all the cards on my table,
Even the hidden ones that I can't find?

Do they read my notebooks?
Can they hear inside my head?
Is it with a mind's eye they see my looks?
Or is it with stereotypes they read?

Do they see someone slightly mad,
Someone who looks for inspiration from no other?
Do they see my ever-angry dad?
Do they know about my mother?

DO they see the reason behind my chains?
Can they tell me what each pendant means?
Would I be comfortable dropping the reins,
And trust they know whish way I'd lean?

SO you don't get to label me,
Until through every nook you go
And you can tell me "What I Be"
And figure out secrets that I don't show.
Until that time, all you get is simply,
A short and basic "no."
But once you can, you may feel free
To label what you know.

[Asila]

*shakes head* You write poetry so well. This poem flows beautifully. Seemingly without effort. And I really like the last stanza, the rhymes and the moral. Kind of like the old proverb that says you don't have the right to judge someone until you have walked a mile in their shoes, just written more eloquently. And there's something about the phrasing of the last line that is striking...I think that it is just the way it tells the reader they may label what they know, since people just love to do the opposite. It really is great, Aka!

And I haven't forgotten you, Rojo. I still can't believe how well you write for someone your age! In fact, you nearly have me beat in terms of poetic skill. *smiles* I really like the mood of your poem, but it is kind of aimless. Yet I can think of a few things that that unnamed object could be, and that to is an interesting direction to take with a poem...

[The Imfamous AKA]

Thanks, Asila, but you really can't discount your own skill. I absolutely suck at narrative poetry. You used imagery amazingly, and the personification of truth was so stunning.

But, because I have an insane stock of my poetry, I'll post another. This poem is my baby; I wrote it almost two years ago, and it's still one of my favorites.

Daiquiri to Hell

He’s everything I wanted, and everything I hate.
Makes me feel perfect, makes me think its fate.
He’s every single thing I can’t stand in my life.
He’s the cause of all the trouble, pain, loss, and strife.
He’s my addiction, my candy-covered demon,
And he gets the biggest kick out of leading me on.
He’s got me enchanted; I’m completely under his spell.
I’m the alcoholic; he’s my daiquiri to hell.

I thought he’d keep me grounded, and that would let me fly,
I never thought I’d only get to say goodbye.
For the sake of my well-being, and my mental health,
I can no longer trust me to protect myself.
Just one thought of him and my heart begins to soar,
But just one thought of what’s real drops it to the floor.
My heart’s mixed in with his far and much too well,
I’m the lime and he’s the rum of my daiquiri to hell.

When I thought he’d accept me, I guessed my place was found,
But now I’m back to homeless barely uttering a sound.
For the first time, I tried to let myself go.
The only place it got me was neck deep in snow.
I felt like a morning dove, bursting into song,
But now I’m just a crow, balking at what’s wrong.
I tried to jump across the gorge, but then down I fell.
Right across the canyon is my daiquiri to hell.

So now I’ve gone just as far as I dare.
I’ve had enough of gossip and each lingering stare.
Self-contained, I concentrate on each lingering wall,
I’ll spiral down, down, happy to finally fall.
Then I’ll climb my wall out of this pit I’ve dug.
I’ll find a way to get off this fatal drug.
So far cold turkey isn’t helping much to quell;
I’m suffering withdrawal of my daiquiri to hell.

There’s hurt and pain with him, and hurt and pain without,
And every time I think I figure what he’s all about
I lose my grip on everything but the anguish that is real,
I’ve dropped my sense of foresight, and everything I feel.
But I know it’s worth it, to make it through the pain,
It may take a while, but I’ll force myself to be sane.
And when he calls me back, like the tolling of the bell,
I’ll have kicked the habit of my daiquiri to hell.

[Asila]

Aw, thanks for the compliment! That one is a favorite of mine. Oddly enough the monosyllabic words really seemed to work for it. I was surprised.

Ah, but the poem you just posted! Just the prevailing metaphor alone is catchy, elegant, and refined! And the clever use of repetition, the way the last line in every stanza had the object of the metaphor, a daiquiri to hell, in common...yet each slightly different from the last...*shakes head in speechless appreciation*

I have never been able to write long poems, and this seemed to somehow become more magnificent with every stanza! Each grouping of lines was cleverly built upon the last, making the final message profound. Once again, Aka, you are remarkable!

Well, I think that now is as good a time as any to post another poem of mine, though the poor thing can hardly compare to yours!

The Failings of Purity

Snowflakes drift from their tree limb perch
And, fluttering, they strike the earth.
Now one with a flawless blanket of white,
As individuals, they fade from sight.

How bright the hue of winter's dawn,
As it lays sprawled across my lawn.
How predictable the flattened planes,
A field of white that doesn't wane.

Dull crunch of snow, bright gleam of ice,
I stride across the field of light.
How pure the snow that gaily gleams,
untainted by strife and shattered dreams.

Yet it is too much, what innocence costs.
Knowledge and experience lost.
Is it worth the endless state of bliss
to live your life in ignorance?

For now I do know one thing, though.
Much wisdom can be gleaned from snow.