I Love It!

I love it!

Reasons I Hate Writing Poetry

I when we look in a garden, we only admire the beauty of the flowers, we don’t think about the weeds the flowers had to fight to reach that stage in which their beauty is displayed. the beauty of my poetry is a reflection of how hard i fought but no one sees this.

II I hate writing poetry. Poetry of you and me. My pen still sets my demons free. I love you still, it’s plain to see. And will until eternity.

III It’s true, I hate poetry but Listen before you judge. I hate the swamp-like writers block Impossible to budge; I hate the words that won’t come out, The stuff that I can’t say; The half-formed thoughts swirled in my brain I can’t make go away; I hate when I don’t understand The feelings in my heart; I hate the times I want to write But just can’t make a start; But poetry is in my soul, And what I hate the most Is all I won’t have time to write- My own poetic ghost.

IV there came a time in mid-december when everything tasted like the mints of old september i saw your eyes i saw your smile and your visions bade me stay for just a while but all the pages i had typed were burning, burning in the night and they burned so bright and true they blinded me with hues of blue

V How terrible of me that sometimes My heart grows weary And its ink runs dry And I contemplate handing it over to defeat That sometimes I earnestly believe that writing is all for naught All these failures are my fault And I cannot help the anger that washes over me And I blame it all on poetry When really I got caught up in my vain search for fame And forgot the selflessness that is The true meaning of poetry 

VI you ask me about my poetry, and usually, i am at a loss for words. how do i describe something that flows in my veins as easily as blood? but i also wanna tell you that sometimes this blood turns to poison, sometimes the way i look at the world is ‘too dark’, and sometimes i feel like i would never have the courage to face the words again, that i would never be able to revisit the feeling. sometimes i chastise myself for hating every word that i write. sometimes i have to punch the wall till it’s red and my knuckles are bruised so i don’t have to deal with my fingers not being able to hold still. sometimes it’s my voice pulling me down and sometimes its others’; the words hurt and they sting. but they also love and they heal. you ask me a lot about my poetry, and i always end up saying that the only way i’ll ever accept death is bit by bit, day by day, the words engulfing my soul, my very being.

VII Exsanguination exhale, compose in the language of judas—a kiss, rather, a war between thought and paper we call these words blood and ink, a weapon formed when silence becomes a drum, a thrumming pulse bleeding out—quietus

VII Words cut themselves too thin for feelings to house meaning past hello; I bleed in color for you, but all you feel is rain against your eyelids. Love is the catalyst for destruction & we’ve never held anything whole; darling, I said your name left gently, but I still caress the exit wound; it’s everyday of counting moons until I can write you out of the air

& become a part of your story

IX The empty purge of writer’s block dry tongue scraping teeth, teeth taming tongue, twitching fingers that lay at ready on the keyboard. Writing is an art, but writing poetry is an artful ache the confliction of catharsis and audience appeasement, of doubt and determination.  It’s sitting in the corner of a panic room with two versions of yourself, arguing.

X I despise rhythm and rhyme, always chasing time, and emotions between meaning. Let’s see … what can I convey, what do I wish to show? And what will be misinterpreted between the sow and the reap, and what words will be forgotten, after I’ve pulled from the heap?

Amassing like bodies in trench warfare, phrases I could not find, words beyond my mind.

Poetry is not an enemy, but I see it as a challenger, and have come to despise, not the challenge, but my mind. it’s inability to free from the boundaries of language and leap to new heights to connect folks who will never respect one another enough to see just how similarly we all bleed.

This is my first collaboration piece with some of the tumblr writers I absolutely adore. The prompt was a bit hard but the following writers rose to the challenge with their amazing contributions @poetcc-things @ellenya @alovelykay @broken-bell @doomchesters @teacup12 @pomegranatepithos @duherica @thefoolspages (tagged in no particular order) None of the contributions have been heavily edited because the raw compilation of the different styles emphasized the point more. Once again thanks to everyone who participated, it was highly appreciated.

1975

What is the first happy memory that comes to mind, recent or otherwise?

Well for the 4th of July last year, a family friend invited us up to a little town called AngelFire (Look it up, it’s beautiful. It’s pretty much a ski resort town. It’s small and extremely outdoorsy, but quiet and quaint.) to shoot fireworks. This guy’s family pretty much runs the entire town, so they’re in charge of the town’s fireworks show.

You know the fireworks in your town or city that everyone goes to or parks near and watches. Yep, those. Not just the small tube fireworks that you buy at the pop-up tents in parking lots. No, the real deal, canon-like fireworks that you light with a four foot pole and that will rupture your ears if you’re not wearing earplugs.

Anyway, so we were in the middle of this huge grass field on the edge of a small cliff that overlooked a lake. There were a bunch of people helping out. You know the saying, ‘it takes a village to raise a child,’ well, it takes half that village to put on a firework show. There were probably 30 people actually dealing with the fireworks, and tons more just to tag alone. You had runners (the people going and grabbing the fireworks and setting them up) and you had the lighters (the people who lit the fireworks with that three to four foot pole with a flare on the end) and you had people managing the fireworks in the back of a trailer (handing out the right ones) and people that helped direct the whole thing.

I cannot describe how thrilling and magical it was. Once we started, the fireworks went on for about 45minutes to an hour. You light one and turn around and walk back, three steps later, you feel a puff of heat and a thump throughout your body. Once you feel that, you stop and look up at the black sky to see a massive firework right above you, knowing you just did that. Multiply that by about five to ten fireworks going off right above you and hearing everyone around you cheer and laugh. I don’t think I’ve laughed and smiled so much in my life. It was so surreal.

I became a pyromaniac that night. Haha just kidding. It was pretty disappointing that we didn’t get to do that this year though, but I’m crossing my fingers for next year.

Send me a word!

3 13 33

And 23

3. If you could take claim for any invention, which would it be?

Um... the lightbulb? Sorry Ben.

13. Who saved your life?

My friend Nick; he is such a genuinely good person. Literally pure sunshine since the moment I met him.

23. If you had to choose one music artist, actor, or author to become your mentor, who would it be?

This is stumping me. I know I would love it to be a writer though. There are too many to choose from!!

33. Van Gogh or Michelangelo?

Michelangelo’s work, Van Gogh’s person.

Ask me questions!

Memoir (to M)

I’ll lay back

     and take my time like a cigarette,

          to sing the songs that came before.

That haze, perfect,

           that mystical                fog,

           the sweet embrace     of     the     echoes:

   Could that be a memory?                    Eternal,

           like

                 drops

                           of

                               water,

   will I be too? Maybe

         just a roaring thunder, a passerby

           playing a part and then…

No, I must be something else,

        Love? Perhaps.

        Sin?

        …

                          Always.

   -Submitted by @randomapproach

“We’re just lost souls

in a pool of unclean vessels

drowning in empty words.”

   -EL

Do a piece about time if you can :)

Finally done! Thank you so much for the suggestion! =)