Sign in to follow this  
falcon45ca

Poetry & Creative Writing

Recommended Posts

Posted (edited)

I saw the cunning man behind his own image of poverty; in his eyes were the fires of passion,--the blue burning marbles that resembled what was left of St. Elmo in the world of the living,--that could be instilled only by the benediction of the tragedy no more than one person would ever be permitted to know. They were calm eyes, I mean to say, which is why I give them such a reputation; but defeated by their gaze was anyone unholy, any and all he would have called ill or wrong. He dressed in rags and sat dead-eyed on the sidewalk everyday with his possessions on display for those passing by to judge him for, unknowing any other life and uncaring about what was thought of him--or caring only in that it may have given him satisfaction, the warm tingle of being sure of one's righteousness and the justness of the personal sway of his right hand, when all the others are walking the wrong way in a time of something spiritual but he has the courage to step first, not second, the other direction.

Edited by 112
  • Upvote 1

Share this post


Link to post
Share on other sites
Posted (edited)

It is; and it is here. The cacophony of all the voices, falling from this world to the next,--only some of them rising to better ones,--pleases the ears of virtue. After the sequence of minor and annoying changes life comprises, we have the end-days that the damned who walk with us through the ghettos and alleyways told us about--the greatest change hereto, the shifting away from all our senses into realms where only our will still exists. It is not a time to weep and throw tantrums, for there is no escaping the flux that has affected us throughout all our lives, only at different times with different speeds, sometimes so subtly like the dark figure that leaves the camouflage of the curtain sharing its colour to commit malice against those we care for, and otherwise violently, with strength of cannons, killing the personalities we used to have, ruthlessly enough that we forget we even had them; ineluctable is change, for if we refuse to do it, we die, overtaken by souls who don’t mind it, those who run through airs of glass and laugh at their own lacerations, their bloodied bodies a sculpture of their spirited spirits.


The burgeoning darkness of the streets and the wetness that runs down the streets slightly slanted at this hour of late evening, maybe night, affects my spirit wonderfully, for I have learned like the Greeks to rejoice and affirm life after all the tragedy has struck. I go to see the theatres; I do it every-day, walking amongst other actors but mostly people who don’t know they’re acting, robot-like individuals who are not individuated, those without the soul or expression necessary to ascend as I will, to go through the apotheosis prescribed by my masters and idols, the kings and queens I’ve met in my days who wore the crowns they crafted for themselves, the greatness of the few I’ve known who’ve seen, as I have, the shores beyond the end of the seas, the galaxies behind the edge of all. The pathology of man is his unconscious imitation. But I am not man.

Edited by 112
  • Upvote 1

Share this post


Link to post
Share on other sites

Random thought, not creative writing but more for discussion:

This is obvious, I'm sure, to anyone who's actually studied poetry, but the form of it, it's clear to me now, is as important as the content; to become a great poet, one must have mastery of both the syntax and what it carries.

  • Like 1

Share this post


Link to post
Share on other sites

Didn't even

 

            Feel it,

Didn't even

 

Need It

 

  Every circle ends in the 

 

 

Death of

 

the

 

Radius

 

                      On our knees

                            we fall

Descending to

 

                a crawl

 

the      ANIMUS

     a FAULT,

 

 

 

 

Diameter 

            of Salt

  • Like 1

Share this post


Link to post
Share on other sites

Makes it Hard

Makes me weep 

 

  Make me think

  We're All Sheep

 

Soft & Cold

Soft & Old

 

 

   

 

   Softly death

             Will take Hold

 

Cuz' we're lost

Cuz' we're sold

 

   Cuz' the Lies

   need be Told

 

        I can't help 

that there's 

       Pain

I just wish

        that you weren't 

                to

                    Blame

Share this post


Link to post
Share on other sites

Gotta like Love

 Kissed with a Fist

 

Once, twice? Nay, Thrice

 

Feel the ice melt

and the embers smoulder 

 

Into a cold decay

Rem'niscent of 

 

October

 

Say you want what I'd like,

"Do you want me to stay?"

 

Asked to Leave

     and yet you stay

 

 

 

 

So it's my fault!

They called the Cops out!

 

Cuz' you hit me, then parked us

In traffic goin' 70

 

Chase me, across a parking lot

 

If I ask you 

   To 

Stop

 

You 

Can

Not

 

 

 

  • Hydration 1

Share this post


Link to post
Share on other sites

I wrote these a few months ago; it's supposed to be dialogue, but I don't like either enough to work into a project. I'll share here instead. :)

 

--You know of me, but who knows me? Personalities are inferred by what: the inflexions of a person’s speech, the mannerisms that characterize them,--as in the waves of their hands, their gesticulations,--and how much less by their diction, the content of what they actually say and the meaning behind those utterances? Am I just an unknowable entity? I say again: he who knows me knows not me; he knows me only as I manifest to him, through the many projections his mind applies and through what the Buddhists call the aggregates--or some such psychological matrices, the psychic machines we are subject to but can never comprehend or speak of appropriately enough, for we lack a proper vocabulary or because one cannot exist. My values I can all say, but can I say why I value them such, really? How much of me is not me; as in, how much am I a product of what the psychologists call environment? And of genetics, is that me? Is there not a timeless me, one not bound by cause and effect, as Kant proposed--one outside of the physical world, without a beginning or end, purely spiritual, purely me? If there’s no freedom of will, there is nobody; and if there’s nobody, I am not. All of what I give to the world is borrowed from those I've met in my life: from the ill whose madness I entertained--the cute phrases they managed to communicate, surrounded by angry or humoured nonsense; from my mother whose true self I only ever saw come through in sarcastic idioms and not even then; from the television I’ve watched, the actors and actresses miming others yet before them? We’re all nothing but what we’ve seen. Personality is a tradition like any academic one, and we’re at the mercy of the influences before us in its timeline. It's all a plurality, never a singular person.

 

--Our imperative is to build so that we may fulfill our desire to be remembered. We craft our grandest thoughts into art and monuments for those younger souls who come after us to peer and awe at, so they may know us at our innermost; so that they may know us at our most vulnerable; so that they may know the flurries of our minds and the beauties they considered, imagined and made; so that they may know the immenseness in which we felt our pains and pleasures and learn that life orbits these moments of paramount; so that they may know and not forget us, and so our influence thereby does not cease with our bodies and we can establish happiness from our graves, from our place of timeless nonexistence, and in our isolation from all sense and sensibility still connect with others. So much does it ease our loneliness in the present to think of some other to whom we can today attach no labels or descriptions admiring the work we did in our lifetimes in theirs. We build so that we don't die and so we may be known. And let us be known, we say, for our greatness--for the greatness of the thoughts we immortalized in our passions and vocations and the greatness, too, that was our lives. But let us be known moreover as lighthouses which glowed long after being abandoned, warning of danger, advising those keener than us not to follow where our paths led to jagged rocks and disaster, for we sailed, as all do, often into it--like the tribesmen who ate wild berries, went through agony and perished, like the smoking uncle who developed a malignant cancer and turned his nieces away from that terrible plant, like the man who lived in arrogance and died alone: like them we are examples; like all we strive to be more.


 

  • Like 1

Share this post


Link to post
Share on other sites
Just now, 112 said:

I wrote these a few months ago; it's supposed to be dialogue, but I don't like either enough to work into a project. I'll share here instead. :)

 

--You know of me, but who knows me? Personalities are inferred by what: the inflexions of a person’s speech, the mannerisms that characterize them,--as in the waves of their hands, their gesticulations,--and how much less by their diction, the content of what they actually say and the meaning behind those utterances? Am I just an unknowable entity? I say again: he who knows me knows not me; he knows me only as I manifest to him, through the many projections his mind applies and through what the Buddhists call the aggregates--or some such psychological matrices, the psychic machines we are subject to but can never comprehend or speak of appropriately enough, for we lack a proper vocabulary or because one cannot exist. My values I can all say, but can I say why I value them such, really? How much of me is not me; as in, how much am I a product of what the psychologists call environment? And of genetics, is that me? Is there not a timeless me, one not bound by cause and effect, as Kant proposed--one outside of the physical world, without a beginning or end, purely spiritual, purely me? If there’s no freedom of will, there is nobody; and if there’s nobody, I am not. All of what I give to the world is borrowed from those I've met in my life: from the ill whose madness I entertained--the cute phrases they managed to communicate, surrounded by angry or humoured nonsense; from my mother whose true self I only ever saw come through in sarcastic idioms and not even then; from the television I’ve watched, the actors and actresses miming others yet before them? We’re all nothing but what we’ve seen. Personality is a tradition like any academic one, and we’re at the mercy of the influences before us in its timeline. It's all a plurality, never a singular person.

 

--Our imperative is to build so that we may fulfill our desire to be remembered. We craft our grandest thoughts into art and monuments for those younger souls who come after us to peer and awe at, so they may know us at our innermost; so that they may know us at our most vulnerable; so that they may know the flurries of our minds and the beauties they considered, imagined and made; so that they may know the immenseness in which we felt our pains and pleasures and learn that life orbits these moments of paramount; so that they may know and not forget us, and so our influence thereby does not cease with our bodies and we can establish happiness from our graves, from our place of timeless nonexistence, and in our isolation from all sense and sensibility still connect with others. So much does it ease our loneliness in the present to think of some other to whom we can today attach no labels or descriptions admiring the work we did in our lifetimes in theirs. We build so that we don't die and so we may be known. And let us be known, we say, for our greatness--for the greatness of the thoughts we immortalized in our passions and vocations and the greatness, too, that was our lives. But let us be known moreover as lighthouses which glowed long after being abandoned, warning of danger, advising those keener than us not to follow where our paths led to jagged rocks and disaster, for we sailed, as all do, often into it--like the tribesmen who ate wild berries, went through agony and perished, like the smoking uncle who developed a malignant cancer and turned his nieces away from that terrible plant, like the man who lived in arrogance and died alone: like them we are examples; like all we strive to be more.


 

I really enjoyed this, thank you.

  • Like 1

Share this post


Link to post
Share on other sites
4 hours ago, falcon45ca said:

I really enjoyed this, thank you.

That's a wonderful compliment. (Sometimes the simple ones are so impactful.) So thank you. ;) 

  • Like 1

Share this post


Link to post
Share on other sites

lol /lit/ got angry

 

unenlightened last men

Share this post


Link to post
Share on other sites

The wind shivers, cold

 

 

       

 

             Thy beauty, soft yet frozen

 

Thaws my sickly heart

Edited by falcon45ca

Share this post


Link to post
Share on other sites

Join the conversation

You can post now and register later. If you have an account, sign in now to post with your account.

Guest
Reply to this topic...

×   Pasted as rich text.   Paste as plain text instead

  Only 75 emoji are allowed.

×   Your link has been automatically embedded.   Display as a link instead

×   Your previous content has been restored.   Clear editor

×   You cannot paste images directly. Upload or insert images from URL.

Loading...
Sign in to follow this  

  • Recently Browsing   0 members

    No registered users viewing this page.