Tuesday, May 10, 2005
I have a new poem.
Thought
I stand at the brink of a storm,
Watching, wondering
Admiring the beauty of the wild.
Stray thoughts tug like the
Gusts of the wind
Drawing deeper,
Deeper into the storm.
Wandering, a single flame
To guide,
Like the Wreckers' beacon
To storm-tossed seas.
Again and again,
Like the turn of the seasons;
A familiar path looms
Haunting, beckoning.
A path like none other,
Twisting, wretched,
Cloaked in darkness,
Fear haunts the entrance.
Go down not that path---
Madness awaits thee.
The fog of despair
Lies heavy upon it.
Good intentions are its paving stones,
Road of which destination
Is but common knowledge to all.
A kind word awakens me---
Tearing me from the midst of the storm.
A welcome distraction.
Even as I turn away
I know well---
Damnation is waiting.
So how was it? I came up with it while I was brainstorming for my PI. Lolz. I TOLD you I wrote better with a morbid influence. I'm about half certain that my muse is demonic in nature.
Self-destructive, controlled rage and bitterness. Consumed by hatred. Obsessed with blood and violence.
If you have been paying attention to ALL my poems, most of them have some mention of blood in it. Some don't, like this one, but blood is a major theme for me.
Blood is life. Spilled, it leads to death. And death is yet another major ingredient in most of my poems as well.
But most common is a haunted theme. Not haunted as in "Boo! There's a ghost!" kind of haunted, but more like past memories and baggage refusing to leave you alone. Emotional baggage.
I thought myself free of it. I really did. For a while I was at peace. And when I started to backslide, I realised a fatal error.
My only pride now lay only in my writing. It was the only thing that I was any good at. I lived for it, breathed it, embraced it. It was my life, my blood, my dreams, my soul.
When I was at peace, I could never write. Attempts to depict beauty and happiness came out twisted and deformed. To depict negative emotions, which was my forte, meant that I had to be channeling those negative emotions----something I could not do while I was at peace.
Am I a vain, foolish person? Clinging on to pride and material things? Perhaps. But writing was my only form of artistic expression. It released the creative soul in me, nourished it, gave me life.
A path that forces me to be devoid of my ability pains me beyond belief. I would gladly sacrifice an eye or foot to be as one with my writing.
Maybe I'm just a pathetic, useless, person with petty dreams of art. How can a true artist confine oneself to only one art form? One was be free to explore different themes---yet I am content with my usual macabre ones. I do irony too; and on occasion, something filled with dry satrical humor. (Like my latest poem Rat Race....no I'm not showing it here....)
But to me, death is beautiful. Damn, I sound like Zhang He from ROTK. Blood fascinates me. Although I'll admit, the stench of blood is not to my liking. But what better it is for me to describe how much it nauseates me?
Ok fine. I'm morbid. We've established that. I enjoy violence. Also established. I have voyeuristic tendencies...somewhat established. There are a few other things I'll keep private. I wouldn't know who might be reading this. Lol.
I think I might have upset someone in my class. The person will remain unnamed. Fortunately, that person is not one of my close friends. Unfortunately, I like the person and would like to be friends. Sort of an impasse here, so I'll just leave it.
Miserable weather outside. It's been raining. How wonderful. I love the rain. Morose and brooding, just like me.
Excuse me, I'll go brood somewhere else now.
]
Thought
I stand at the brink of a storm,
Watching, wondering
Admiring the beauty of the wild.
Stray thoughts tug like the
Gusts of the wind
Drawing deeper,
Deeper into the storm.
Wandering, a single flame
To guide,
Like the Wreckers' beacon
To storm-tossed seas.
Again and again,
Like the turn of the seasons;
A familiar path looms
Haunting, beckoning.
A path like none other,
Twisting, wretched,
Cloaked in darkness,
Fear haunts the entrance.
Go down not that path---
Madness awaits thee.
The fog of despair
Lies heavy upon it.
Good intentions are its paving stones,
Road of which destination
Is but common knowledge to all.
A kind word awakens me---
Tearing me from the midst of the storm.
A welcome distraction.
Even as I turn away
I know well---
Damnation is waiting.
So how was it? I came up with it while I was brainstorming for my PI. Lolz. I TOLD you I wrote better with a morbid influence. I'm about half certain that my muse is demonic in nature.
Self-destructive, controlled rage and bitterness. Consumed by hatred. Obsessed with blood and violence.
If you have been paying attention to ALL my poems, most of them have some mention of blood in it. Some don't, like this one, but blood is a major theme for me.
Blood is life. Spilled, it leads to death. And death is yet another major ingredient in most of my poems as well.
But most common is a haunted theme. Not haunted as in "Boo! There's a ghost!" kind of haunted, but more like past memories and baggage refusing to leave you alone. Emotional baggage.
I thought myself free of it. I really did. For a while I was at peace. And when I started to backslide, I realised a fatal error.
My only pride now lay only in my writing. It was the only thing that I was any good at. I lived for it, breathed it, embraced it. It was my life, my blood, my dreams, my soul.
When I was at peace, I could never write. Attempts to depict beauty and happiness came out twisted and deformed. To depict negative emotions, which was my forte, meant that I had to be channeling those negative emotions----something I could not do while I was at peace.
Am I a vain, foolish person? Clinging on to pride and material things? Perhaps. But writing was my only form of artistic expression. It released the creative soul in me, nourished it, gave me life.
A path that forces me to be devoid of my ability pains me beyond belief. I would gladly sacrifice an eye or foot to be as one with my writing.
Maybe I'm just a pathetic, useless, person with petty dreams of art. How can a true artist confine oneself to only one art form? One was be free to explore different themes---yet I am content with my usual macabre ones. I do irony too; and on occasion, something filled with dry satrical humor. (Like my latest poem Rat Race....no I'm not showing it here....)
But to me, death is beautiful. Damn, I sound like Zhang He from ROTK. Blood fascinates me. Although I'll admit, the stench of blood is not to my liking. But what better it is for me to describe how much it nauseates me?
Ok fine. I'm morbid. We've established that. I enjoy violence. Also established. I have voyeuristic tendencies...somewhat established. There are a few other things I'll keep private. I wouldn't know who might be reading this. Lol.
I think I might have upset someone in my class. The person will remain unnamed. Fortunately, that person is not one of my close friends. Unfortunately, I like the person and would like to be friends. Sort of an impasse here, so I'll just leave it.
Miserable weather outside. It's been raining. How wonderful. I love the rain. Morose and brooding, just like me.
Excuse me, I'll go brood somewhere else now.
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