The mind rationalizes,
while the heart mourns.
Forgiveness is just
a work, how does one
forgive that which has
scarred his soul? Time
heals all wounds, yet
time opens new wounds as well.
A sick existance. Life is pain:
The pain of healing while dying.
The pain of loving while letting go,
The pain of acceptance of rejection.
Yeah the end.
You're a regular at this! You and Nicole should have a poem-off!
Maddox is awesome.
I was never good at spontaneous haiku.
Fuck haiku.
Yeah, I agree that pointless bad angst poetry is, well, bad, but as I went through a rather prolonged stage of that myself, and STILL can't write something happy if it'd save me, everyone starts somewhere and that's usually the "god damn I'm pissed off POETRY TIME" somewhere. Hence, criticism is good - criticism is a cleansing thing, sloughing off the imperfections and leaving something smooth and crystalline and beautiful behind - but unnecessary rudeness in criticism often serves to stifle the person lobbing out their work. The work may not be particularily good, but the criticism should end AT the work - no "lob yourself into a lake of molten lava" comments on the piece.
On the other hand, some works of poetry are intensely personal and are often better kept like that. Not just for reasons of unwillingness to share with others, but because the public you're lobbing it to hasn't experienced what you have and will either not get it, or consider it nonchalantly. Especially with something like a breakup, which is terrifically painful at the time, but in perspective, something everyone goes through. It's callous to say, but it's kinda common, and poetry written about it often sounds very similar and often becomes cliche. I know the feeling of just wanting to yell something terribly loudly in a very public place where everyone can hear, but often no one expects anyone to actually verbally RESPOND to that, which can happen when you lob a poem into a board full of patchwork critics.
In closing, I shall leave you with something that makes no sense and is eight lines long:
Suspension solicits
wipes lips on her wishes
and orders my words in
a four hour unlife.
Ice forms 'round six AM
and I'm sure this makes sense
under brandy and angst songs
and a need to go to bed.
quote:
Neeecole stumbled drunkenly to the keyboard and typed:
On a semi-serious note about poetry:Yeah, I agree that pointless bad angst poetry is, well, bad, but as I went through a rather prolonged stage of that myself, and STILL can't write something happy if it'd save me, everyone starts somewhere and that's usually the "god damn I'm pissed off POETRY TIME" somewhere. Hence, criticism is good - criticism is a cleansing thing, sloughing off the imperfections and leaving something smooth and crystalline and beautiful behind - but unnecessary rudeness in criticism often serves to stifle the person lobbing out their work. The work may not be particularily good, but the criticism should end AT the work - no "lob yourself into a lake of molten lava" comments on the piece.
On the other hand, some works of poetry are intensely personal and are often better kept like that. Not just for reasons of unwillingness to share with others, but because the public you're lobbing it to hasn't experienced what you have and will either not get it, or consider it nonchalantly. Especially with something like a breakup, which is terrifically painful at the time, but in perspective, something everyone goes through. It's callous to say, but it's kinda common, and poetry written about it often sounds very similar and often becomes cliche. I know the feeling of just wanting to yell something terribly loudly in a very public place where everyone can hear, but often no one expects anyone to actually verbally RESPOND to that, which can happen when you lob a poem into a board full of patchwork critics.
In closing, I shall leave you with something that makes no sense and is eight lines long:
Suspension solicits
wipes lips on her wishes
and orders my words in
a four hour unlife.
Ice forms 'round six AM
and I'm sure this makes sense
under brandy and angst songs
and a need to go to bed.
Write about puppies, ice creamcones, rainbows, and.. pink.
I dare you.
Ryuu seems that he wanted to be flamed, ever so little.
Why else would someone write a poem and use the flame tag?
quote:
This one time, at Gikk camp:
Write about puppies, ice creamcones, rainbows, and.. pink.I dare you.
Dare taken! And I WILL make it depressing! Or at least listlessly down!
Room color, pastel pink void
on the types of days when the
sound of airplanes screaming overhead is
prophecy
in the summer heat.
I was seven years old.
Feel old by the
savor of my memories but by
god I was seven years old
feet over the bedspread edge
hair recently cut into something
short and unflattering
dog three years old
(still a puppy
because puppy's a cuter name)
by my sneakered feet
in the summer apathy
that ensured I'd never get money
for the ice cream truck.
This story has no end.
And I am of that perfect age
where I can run my fingers over my
smooth round memories
skip them over a lake
without fear they will bury me.
quote:
Elvish Crack Piper attempted to be funny by writing:
Sol/NicoleRyuu seems that he wanted to be flamed, ever so little.
Why else would someone write a poem and use the flame tag?
Pre-emptiveness.
I know this type of feeling well: there's some times when you just want to yell very loudly in a public place, this was likely one of those times, flame tag was so the flames were acknowledged before they came.
quote:
El Imán Grande! had this to say about Pirotess:
Getting Sol to write something cheery and upbeat is like getting Zephy to draw something with breasts.
He drew a picture of Ferrel!
quote:
Trillee thought this was the Ricky Martin Fan Club Forum and wrote:
He drew a picture of Ferrel!
My comparision still stands. Unless he has a great big portfolio hidden away full of naked women drawings.
That reminds me, Neeecole, when can we see your porno book?
quote:
El Imán Grande! spewed forth this undeniable truth:
My comparision still stands. Unless he has a great big portfolio hidden away full of naked women drawings.That reminds me, Neeecole, when can we see your porno book?
Once you disarm the deadly poison traps, get past the hungry cyborg undead wolfhounds, somehow manage to foil the alarms and magical incantations, enchantments, hexes and curses I've placed upon it, defeat my army of undead, and guess just which brand of tequila the guard likes to be bribed with.
quote:
There was much rejoicing when Neeecole said this:
Dare taken! And I WILL make it depressing! Or at least listlessly down!Room color, pastel pink void
on the types of days when the
sound of airplanes screaming overhead is
prophecy
in the summer heat.
I was seven years old.
Feel old by the
savor of my memories but by
god I was seven years old
feet over the bedspread edge
hair recently cut into something
short and unflattering
dog three years old
(still a puppy
because puppy's a cuter name)
by my sneakered feet
in the summer apathy
that ensured I'd never get money
for the ice cream truck.This story has no end.
And I am of that perfect age
where I can run my fingers over my
smooth round memories
skip them over a lake
without fear they will bury me.
OMG JIM MORRISON!
