I'd like to encourage you to keep writing poetry.Originally Posted by Blazingorchidlv
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I actually haven't really written any since HS...only the one. All the others are ones I wrote in HS...Just kinda..lost it for awhile. I can only write em when I'm depressed...and the last time I was sad..I was too sad to write haha! But I'm gonna start again. It gives me something to do hehe.I'd like to encourage you to keep writing poetry.
heres one I just wrote:
Why do they say the good die young
When the best stay to suffer
They lay in their beds
Nothing to do with their time
Slowly going crazy in their own minds
Watching those around them coming and going
Thinking everyone is out to get them
Not understanding what is happening
They say the good die young
But the best stay around to watch you grow
You were one of the best
And you will be remembered
And your life will carry on
You are the one we will never forget
We will carry your memory in our hearts
And think of you often
In memory of Catherine Hallock 12/21/1916-12/25/2002
Heres one I found
The blood trickles from her wrists
Tears fall from her cheeks
Throughts run through her mind
She wonders why it came to this
Why she let herself get this involved
She wanted nothing to do with it
She didn't want the first puff
She didn't want the last
She had just wanted to fit in
Wanted to show she could be part of the "In" crowd
She didn't know it would come to this
She watches the blood drip to the carpet
Her family disowned her
Her friends wanted nothing to do with her
She had nothing left in her life
Except the memories and jopes of what could have been
The first time she said yes she struggled to say no
She couldn't run anymore
She had no where to hide
As she falls back on the floor
She remembers one last thing
She told him she loved him
And he laughed in her face
He watched her self destruct
Watched as she wasted away to nothing
No words of encouragement
No advice for her desperate cries
He broke her heart
And killed her with two slits of her wrists
I know what its like. I hadn't written anything between mid 1998 and earler this month. Its like the divine inspiration is done for. but then something snaps and its like a faucet that wants to run and run and run.
or so it is for me. Now its passing through another phase where its doing just odd things....
I haven't posted anything here in forever. This started out as the beginning to a short story but I ended up scrapping it. Still interesting though. Makes more sense when you read the second part.
"Where have all the days gone? Prelude"
The dream is always the same.
I stand naked in a dark cave, dark with the exception of the glowing red stalactites above me. Warm drops of blood, magically evolving somehow from the lime deposits, splash onto my cold skin. The room is spinning, a merry-go-round waiting for me to jump into the fray. I swear I see monkeys flying across on vines, their annoying chatter like a jackhammer banging pavement on a cold autumn morning. A voice calls my name from the distance -- soft and warm, it beckons me.
Try as I might, I can not reach the voice. The revolving surroundings dizzy me into delusion. The whispers are uphill. I reach out with empty hands for the voice, hoping it will find me and pull me to safety. My name again, this time a little bit closer. Broken shards of glass dig into my bare feet as I fight through the tornado. My lips are salty, not like the good taste you get from a potato chip, but that bitter one you get from sucking on a bad pickle.
The monkeys are attacking me now. Tweeking my nipples like I'm some S & M freak. It's not very enjoyable. My dangling penis is too tempting a toy for the little urchins. They pull on it like a slingshot. My chattering, wet body rocks back and forth from their catapulting motion. I just want to reach the voice.
The voice is gone.
"Hello," I cry.
"Please help me."
Laughter in the distance. The spinning has stopped. The monkeys have disappeared into hiding places I can not see. Someone turned the heat on. I'm warm now and no longer have the taste of blood on my lips. More laughter. It's a scary laugh, the kind you'd hear from a madman in some demented Wes Craven flick. I'm not sure I want to leave the cave. The voice comes from alongside the laugh.
I don't know.
I don't f***ing know.
I hear a drop behind me. I turn and look. It's blood again. It starts dripping faster. And faster. The monkeys are back. The room starts to spin again. I run. Towards the voice. The monkeys reach for me, groping like a child looking for a lost candybar, as the cave tries to suck me in like the last drops of water in a sink.
Finally, I am free. Flowers all around. Daisies, tulips, roses. Pretty. The voice calls from behind me. I turn and look. Mom. Her open arms reaching. My hands extend out.
The laugh. Dad.
He pushes me back into the cave.
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Your poem reminded me of Edna St. Millay's "Dirge Without Music" (a good thing.)