- Collective Writing -

Thanks Snocbor. Hey do you have any writing you want to share too? Anything man! Poems, short stories, long stories, in depth posts, essays, anything man Id love to hear from anyone whatever they have to say!
Although Im about to go watch a film with my wife, I had to work over time today and get in early tomorrow so I better quit the night while Im ahead. Im bursting with energy and feel like writing some new stuff, but at this point I feel like I would be better off letting the thoughts ricochet off the walls of my dome while Im resting and flow out some new jauns tomorrow, after work. Or maybe during work?! :tongue:
God bless you guys, and thanks again Stalk for showing me a whole new world of poetry. You've given me a lot to think about, and melty word vibrations to rack around and set up to knock down with my own off beat rythm. I dont even know what my writing style is, I never even thought I had one, but looking back at my stuff over the last few years, I can see that I definitley have a thing going. I hope I never understand it though, all of it came out as if by a will not of my own, and I prefer it that way.
Good night dewds! :cheers2:

 

wow kacie, very interesting. it boggles my mind. I love the structure.
and goodnight Relayer, you definitely have quite the style. lovin' the sutra. so glad I can inspire. peace brother.

 

set back by set up

conveying crystal clear career charades to my candy,
just tunes to cope with a clouded frenzy, feeling
almost stumped.

like a guitar, i'm out of tune.
slurring my rhythmatics once straight ahead.
"i needed to lose myself, to find myself,"
he stepped up so bold,

and i devoured the illusory loser, after he spouted his lonely dimensions.
only to perspire and mirror, a figure he can't help but compete with.

my group attack, at that, the ones who come to my side,
are stronger than your pre-permanent pressures to please...

 

thanks. :]

I'm really enjoying highway 9
rereading it and there are things it seems I missed each time
that's my favorite kind of reading.

 

God damn, this girl has a unique style!
This is wonderful, the Asmodeus line left me feeling emotions that as of yet seem to be untouched in this thread.
The inverted and upside down image in your pupils fading away is chilling to the core kacie. Thank you!

 

Glad you enjoy, it's one of my favorites as well, wrote it during one of the most intense periods of my life so far..

and I agree, kacie's poem was very chilling. It holds such an ancient wisdom. Really took me by surprise.

 

Awesome! :cheers2: crazy c cycles crossing constant charismatic control! :tongue:

 

:] thanks guys.
I've always loved writing -- and I'm not used to such positive feedback. I had two teachers during high school that liked my writing, and the rest didn't at all.

--------------

Number one was a painfully shy, chubby-cheeked boy who nobody expected to fall the way he did. I wrote him notes that he eventually didn’t mind responding to, always writing in a narrow column down the center of the page, to make what he could say seem longer. We had battery-depleting phone conversations that he eventually refused to be the one to end. His mother decided I was a whore, after we were caught kissing on the band bus on the way to Atlanta – it was his first kiss, it was mine too, and we went down for it together. It was sort of an oddity, the pair we formed – his discretion and calm in every situation where I had none to lend, and my intensity that could carry us both, sometimes too far.



I ended it in a note because I was afraid that if I was there to see his face, he’d make me regret what I was doing before I managed to do it. Shortly after realizing that not only had I actually written the note, but that he’d actually end up reading it, I searched frantically around campus hoping to take everything back before it had officially been said. I got there too late, but it turned out to be of little importance as we rejoined and broke off again several times until whatever there was or had been faded completely. It came down to an unattractive, sweat-stained struggle between this rigid certainty he sprouted that I had cheated (strangely, with the most non-threatening people I knew) and my helpless inability to convince him otherwise. Eventually I was sort of glad – the bitterness and hard feelings and finality were all so much easier to digest than the ambiguousness of the simple parting of ways.



Number two was more than I know how to condense into a blunt, impersonal narration. I was fifteen and he was seventeen, and everything about him, quite frankly, terrified me. He knew all the right things to say for whatever purpose he had in mind – he could enamor, infuriate, sedate, and re-enamor me all within a brief monologue. I was his audience as he made jokes that other people found distasteful, drove as fast as he could get away with and offended people in any way he knew how. I never felt that anything was wrong, except in the rare moments that I was, rather than an audience, the one on the receiving end of his performance.



After a time, we shifted from a concealed virginity to a public fall from grace complete with the obligatory (sometimes feigned) indifference to the widely varied reactions we received. There were knowing smiles from my hippie geometry teacher as I arrived to class later and in a state of greater aesthetic disarray as time went on. There were lectures filled with condescension and mock concern from band directors with unnamed informants – these ended only when I lost control in one of two ways – preferably with anger and curses, but on occasion with tears of which I was conditioned always to be ashamed. There were innumerable confrontations from unimportant people with no connection to either of us but the magnetism and allure of a scandal. There was an odd mixture of admiration and separation from the friends I managed to keep as I became something of an authority on the subjects of love and, more importantly, sex, and a minor legend in the performing arts department for all the rules he and I disregarded.



The grandeur and theatricism of our infatuation considered, the burnout was strangely subdued. There were, of course, sadness and tears and the inescapable feeling of severance – these are difficult to avoid for even the cleverest among those who take the fall – but juxtaposed with all the things we’d said so loudly, goodbye was unexpectedly quiet.



And you. I don’t yet know if you’re mine to name my number three or if you are not. I don’t, understandably, want to be the girl who needs to strangle a relationship by defining it. But it will not, I predict, be much longer until I am forced (be it out of pride or his ignorant sister, hope) to ask if you love me too.

 

When you are here the words I feel never cease motion, never break rank and all that is quiet in me cannot rest so if you are there to hear. You are not here today and the effort is not beauty for beauty’s sake, poetry and rhetoric, but clarity that I should be able to find without you. I know all too well how capable you are of walking away (V 2.0) and I fear that long distance calls and letters won’t sustain you long enough. I feel more acutely when you are near and today I have no words for it – a feeling swelling in my chest (bile of the soul?) but instead of biting orange rising to reaffirm suspicions, I have an unsteady flow of cryptic words, the kind that should fall into place at first touch.

I do not seek enlightenment, absolution – I want my words back unt(a)inted by the hue of love.

Hiatus.

 

The earth stood still
as we lay back into infinity
from beyond a hill
beautiful, isn't she?
the blind man had a lucid dream
he woke up only to scream
the blind man had a lucid dream
what had he seen?
once you go so far
you don't know who you are
things seem strange
but its a little late to change
the blind man had a lucid dream
he didn't know where he had been
the blind man had a lucid dream
or so it would seem.

 

this thread =

 

right on.
I've been reading and feeling inspired.
something'll come of it tonight.

 

I feel like contributing, but stalk, relayer, and yourself have convinced me that I dont' know how to write poetry.

 

everybody knows how to write poetry.
!
I hope you contribute. more to read is always a good thing.

:]

 

I didn't know how to write poetry either...you know what I did?
I went to the poetry section in barnes and noble and started flipping through books. If I saw something that struck me, I would steal it.
I've stolen hundreds of poetry books to date, and always pass them on to friends who pass them onto friends etc...
I've realized that almost all poets are connected...they all influence each other, sometimes write about one another, you can see the poets scattered in each other...There was a fantastic period half a century ago called beat poetry that fascinated me for a while. Allen Ginsberg's HOWL was seized by the FBI and deemed Obscene...hahaha
Poetry goes way back...since the dawn of language...
My advice is to just read the poetry you like, it will inspire you. You'll get a feel for structure and you will develop your own style because everyone is unique and so is the way they express themselves.

And kacie, thanks for your contributions. I enjoy your style a lot. Keep writing, guys! Neodude, poems are like mandalas.

 

I love poetry, but's its a very weak area for me when trying to express myself.

I always get locked into rhyming things even when I don't mean to, and my poems are always centered around emotion, so I just let them flow without thinking and am never satisfied with the end result.

 

just read more poetry books...that's the best advice I can give...fill your brain with data and possibility.

 

I might crank some mental junk out of this head of mine later on tonight

 

so last night I sat on your bed nothing but moccasins and a headband on and I waited
and it was never exactly quiet because I drummed fingers on headboard and hummed pieces of mahler 9 and I waited
maybe once I fell asleep and dreamed of loving you and woke up sweating blood rushing
and I waited
there was a time when my body was my only instrument of trust
there was a time when my body was my only divination of truth
so I waited for the door to open and unsuspecting eyes to fall on incense-blurred curves and dimly lit skin
I never really studied the role of the temptress and I waited

you walked in and I never looked away
I have never seen anything quite like the way you looked at me last night
so inhale, eyes shut
we waited

--------------

this is pretty old.
I still rather like it.

style and communication are a constant metamorphosis with me at least.

sometimes it gets better, sometimes not.

 

would love to read it.