no clue why its highlighted.. i apologize
i'm trying to curb my reluctant enthusiasm to write, because my words are never felt only heard for the diction that they aspire to be. They say to be a poet is a ailment, in tune with natures voice. So does that mean that im sick, sick with withering ambitions because of vowels that dont listen to consonants and it becomes complicated, clashing cacophony when it should be blossoms that bloom blissfully something like euphony. So writing normal literary phrases present a problem that cant be solved by simple books, or simple poetry for that matter. The only thing that present an absolute solution for that matter would be a mirror, so i could face myself, or more or less who i really am versus who im pretending to be. yet, i find that i scribble meaningless blasphemy across the edges of the pearl surface, so its scarred. i guess its funny cause its a play on words,(p.o.e.t.) a pacifist overflowing exquisite thoughts, but why i should just be
limited to that only what is textbook poetry. Why cant poetry be an extension of my soul cultivated into the purest form of energy that i know, or at least a shining bind that will drive shadows away? I guess neither will occur because people are blind to musical notes that flow from words that are spoken and deaf from visions that scream louder than actions ever will. I guess this seems more like a rant than a poem, because im running from that which is made for me; Is it me running though? Yet, everyone aspires to be, yet only so few make it and its saddening to see that people dont have a love for words. Metaphorically speaking i could cry out bright red tears because my pen left yesterday and there is no medicine for a broken heart. So maybe i need a artist to paint me an answer of what it means to let words fly free and maybe i wont have to question every essence of what im doing. So maybe i just wont ask why anymore because im a fallen apathetic
laborer lamenting embarrassing narratives couple that with a person that just fails to write
i'm trying to curb my reluctant enthusiasm to write, because my words are never felt only heard for the diction that they aspire to be. They say to be a poet is a ailment, in tune with natures voice. So does that mean that im sick, sick with withering ambitions because of vowels that dont listen to consonants and it becomes complicated, clashing cacophony when it should be blossoms that bloom blissfully something like euphony. So writing normal literary phrases present a problem that cant be solved by simple books, or simple poetry for that matter. The only thing that present an absolute solution for that matter would be a mirror, so i could face myself, or more or less who i really am versus who im pretending to be. yet, i find that i scribble meaningless blasphemy across the edges of the pearl surface, so its scarred. i guess its funny cause its a play on words,(p.o.e.t.) a pacifist overflowing exquisite thoughts, but why i should just be
limited to that only what is textbook poetry. Why cant poetry be an extension of my soul cultivated into the purest form of energy that i know, or at least a shining bind that will drive shadows away? I guess neither will occur because people are blind to musical notes that flow from words that are spoken and deaf from visions that scream louder than actions ever will. I guess this seems more like a rant than a poem, because im running from that which is made for me; Is it me running though? Yet, everyone aspires to be, yet only so few make it and its saddening to see that people dont have a love for words. Metaphorically speaking i could cry out bright red tears because my pen left yesterday and there is no medicine for a broken heart. So maybe i need a artist to paint me an answer of what it means to let words fly free and maybe i wont have to question every essence of what im doing. So maybe i just wont ask why anymore because im a fallen apathetic
laborer lamenting embarrassing narratives couple that with a person that just fails to write
I tried to copy and paste this to MS Word so I could print it out, read it, mark it up and respond...but pasting broke the application. Must be some power in this piece.:)
ReplyDeleteFirst and foremost, I love your poetry. Or writing. It suits my own personal style and so I really enjoy devouring it. I don’t have much to add in the way of suggesting improvements for the words or piece itself because I found myself enthralled by it. What I will say is that I think you need to work on developing a structure to your posted content. You need to control how the reader sees the words on the page - control the tempo, the flow, the lines, everything. It would be much more dramatic if it wasn’t so hard to read. This is how I would start…do you think it makes a difference?
ReplyDelete“I’m trying to curb my reluctant enthusiasm to write because my words are never felt
Only heard for the diction that they aspire to be.
They say to be a poet is an ailment, in tune with nature’s voice.
So does that mean I’m sick?
Sick with withering ambitions
Because of vowels that don’t listen
To the consonants
And it becomes complicated, a clashing cacophony
When it should be blossoms that bloom blissfully…
Something like euphony.”
This is how I interpret your writing, and I hope you see the difference and added impact the structure lends to the piece. That’s what I’m trying to show anyway. I’d love to see you work out the structure and repost. Beautiful piece, thank you for sharing it.
no problem, after looking at your comment i did try moving some of my piece around and it sounded and looked a lot better... Thank you for the help.
Delete