3. Angsty poetry?

Angsty poetry indeed, what with my over thinking and pointless self-defeat... though I try to stay away from the cliché angst. I live with something I like to call petty issues. They are problems that get me so worked up even though in the general sense of life I don't care a thing for them. I try to stay away from these issues when writing angsty poetry... though maybe it would help to put them on paper?

* Here's a quite repugnant excerpt (I should probably not be posting):

"Something tells me I don't import

While I long for all to see me.

I get attatched to bodies;

A suicidal jumper on the edge of a cliff..."

I'll leave it at that while I go out and take a waft of fresh air to clear the shadows. Boo!

* Here's a not too shabby excerpt:

"Through torture you can get whatever you want

But remember it's my passion you're taking it out on.

We've yet to find a day where my projects aren't at stake

And your power to collaborate, not a dead end fate."

2. Poetry?

Send me some poetry! Something you like, something you love, something I might like. I would love to discover this side of literature.

I like poetry. Some poems sound nice or look nice to me but tend to go over my head even though I try hard to dissect them. Other poems move me tremendously (I haven't got any examples though... I'm not a big poetry geek at all). I think I rather be read to or shared a poem orally though. I like to write them but usually look back at them in disgust because I find myself too choppy and pointless or way too obvious.

Here, I found a piece of poetry that I quite enjoy. It's music lyrics, the poetry I am exposed to the most. Somewhere only We Know by Keane (The first song in my playlist to the left) is full of dream, of wist, of nostalgia, all things I am very fond of:

I walked across an empty land
I knew the pathway like the back of my hand
I felt the earth beneath my feet
Sat by the river and it made me complete

Oh simple thing where have you gone
I'm getting old and I need something to rely on
So tell me when you're gonna let me in
I'm getting tired and I need somewhere to begin

I came across a fallen tree
I felt the branches of it looking at me
Is this the place we used to love?
Is this the place that I've been dreaming of?

I myself have little snippets of prose in a bunch of scattered post-its that I find are going somewhere yet which I can't bring myself to complete.

"But I'm lying here, half asleep

And the alarm is ringing so it's hard to keep

My eyes closed...

I'm barely sleeping.

My dreams are seeping

Out of my grasp.

It's a slow eye movement."

"And the golden birds fly over the mountain

Where the royal heart bleeds,

And the quest to the river of blood

Is held by tiny blind green men..."

"The soul in me; the ghost in me.

The ghost in you; the soul in you.

The concrete shoes, they're pulling us down.

It's a sorry potential."

1. What’s the last thing you wrote? What’s the first thing you wrote that you still have?

I. The last thing I wrote is a short story called Succesion (Title may undergo change). I've been practicing short stories for a while now. Though I don't find my voice is really clear in these they are good for my storytelling skills (them that need working on). It was the story of a man writing a letter to his newborn daughter about the dreams he must sacrifice for her to grow up with dreams of her own.

"My dear May,

Do not find me hasty for writing you this letter so soon. I know very well you’ve never set eyes on written words yet. I am aware if I was to give you this letter now you would merely snatch the paper out of my hands, drool on the ink, and giggle at the running words. Do not think me arrogant either. I do not claim to being anything grandiose, but this sacrifice, it is bigger than life. I will not accept to forget it, not completely at least, or I may come to believe I was not a good father and that’s all I have now. I do hope one day you will choose to recognize what I have given you.

I was once a king, and once the leader of a utopic anarchy. (...)"

II. The first thing I ever wrote (that I still have) is a snippety piece of writing inspired by the tale of Jack and the Beanstalk. It was a first person fragment and in it I was the giant. I would clean myself in the rain, dry myself with cloud and give Jack everything that he wanted because I was not the evil giant people rumoured about but in fact Jack's best friend. I wrote it at 6 years old and won a cute literary award for it.

"Fee-fi-fo-fum, I smell the blood of an Englishman."

Illustration by Arthur Rackham from

a 1918 English Fairy Tales, by Flora Annie Steel"

It's interesting that I realize now why I have this subconscious connection to this tale. In a screenplay I'm currently writing, parts of the story are quoted as a parallel to the main plot. The giant in my case are two immortal twins who look evil by their actions though they merely want to survive while the protagonist, by abusing her magical powers, is sending them into inexistence.

I fell upon this writing survey originating from an unknown chain. I decided to post each question on seperate posts every few days or so.