Feste

Don't think of it as the end of the world, think of it as the literal end of a day. The closing, the culmination of efforts and the representation that it brings. You aren't destroying the end of the world -- that would be awesome. You're just destroying what's left of a "day"

It seems to me the flow's a tad wavy at first, however, the end picks up beautifully. All in all very awesome job -- and a YouTube performance to boot!

Something I wish to steer away from is the presence of a forced structure in my works. I understand structure to be a viable device in developing a poem's core, but only when it truly matches the shape of the work itself -- alas these works ache and moan around the frame. Mind you, these are all older pieces, but something of a game I wish to play with them is shattering their structure a bit while still keeping their general themes and moods - plastic surgery, if you will. Suffice it to say, I've spent far too long scribbling matters of prose that my poetry has garnered something of a, dare I say, "template." This may also be the rough outcome of my lack of literary exposure of late. The Pen now resides on Firefox's "Quick Tabs," so perhaps my furry companion will remind me to click it from time to time and prove helpful in alleviating these oft-aggravating symptoms. But, as I remind myself to the original purpose of this, what was meant to be short, addendum: If you are able to conjure some form of device, tool, or crude-mechanism that would assist me in deconstructing my works, please direct me towards the nearest retailer from which such an item may be procured.

Viewing and Pondering This balcony. This Basement. I'm here behind this window -- Watching and wondering These idle dreams; These empty scenes; They lay upon my pillow -- Watching and wondering This prison cell. This rusty cage. When will I free them from -- Watching and wondering A hopeful eye? Or a grim disdain? When will I see them -- I'm Watching and wondering The jet floods in, the topaz fades Through turquoise fields, over azure plains Under ruby fires, amidst garnet flames And I'm watching...

Bittersweet There's comfort in the coldness, of knowing only pain; like the burning of charred flesh, and tear drops in the rain Wearied woes and worries plaguing one small heart are off and on and tear the world apart There's solace in a somber song of knowing just the Blues; of performing only Requiems, and composing for the doomed. There's joy inside of every goodbye of only bidding farewell of letting go of all you'll know, of saying, "See you in hell!" Sullied Cynics and Sarcasm can be dangerous things. Hateful, yet, wise; enlightenment madness brings There's peace beneath the darkness; in surrendering the fight in succumbing to the shadows and being blinded by the night.

Stay thy Stay Stay thy Hand, lest it strike me Stay thy tongue, lest it lash me, Stay the love, lest it shatter me, Stay thy stay, for it abandons me. Thus the roles of our game make exchange; The board spins around; The pieces rearrange. Now you are all, save but one: You are serpent, Savior, Queen -- But I am for the Pawn; under none. I should embrace this starlight -- I am free! Alas, my stars shine darkly on me.

Euphoric Guilt Pinpricks and Needles; A silent Gryphon's Gaze. Pinpricks and needles, Destroy the end of days. Pinpricks and Needles, Shadowed and surreal. Pinpricks and Needles, All that I can feel. A knife, ever cold, draws on my heart; Your selfishness, forever, tears us apart -- Pinpricks and Needles.

This is going to be one lump collection of some of my older stuff, more so "for your consideration." Please, chew, snack or even gnaw on these a while, and lemme know. Some of it is stuff I've since locked away, some of it is stuff I'd like to see improved one day. Be warned: It is a lot of stuff. For ease of browsing, I'll make them all separate replies. But first, a random thought to digest -- an appetizer of sorts: To what end does an inkless pen exist? Is it much like a hammer with no chisel? Able to mark stone; shatter it, yet leave no art? No; though a pen can tear paper, there is more finesse. Is it much like a brush without paint? Able to gentle stroke canvas and leave not a trace? No; a pen is durable, unhurt by its own motions. Thus the question is begged once more -- Wherefore should a pen lacking ink be graced with an existence? An answer so plain, I must speak it twice: Finesse. A pen is a sword, and though it aches to speak with blood, a fencer must test the mettle of his mind, the sharpness of his wit, and the endurance of his hand. Much like a practice foil, an inkless pen has purpose -- there to contour the stance of the hand; the grace of the mind; the delicacy of the wit. So, my friends, take up arms, and test your mettle!

I plan on extending it and flushing it out with more detail. There's certainly a story behind this work, and it's one that finally needs telling.

A Fool's Ballad: An Ode to a Requiem of a Nocture -- A March in C Minor This court, this king, this bitter fool; And for you, I am. This joke, this prince, this wizened fool; and to you, I am. This song; a retort; an outcry of sorts, This retort; a song; with your fool, play along, This time; this place, I'll not dry your face, Sullen may be, a queen done wrong. Play along, I'll play by harp! Sing along, I'll play by lute! A silly song of yearning in swamps; Aha! a toad! how quaint, how cute! This court, this king, this jovial fool; And for you, I am. This farce, this prince, this saddened fool; and to you, I am.

I'll be adding more stuff for everyone. Thanks for the feedback, definitely a great confidence boost that I needed.

It's a matter of having the material to post. I could front-load a ton of my past works, and I may do so at some point, to see changes over time. That's my first original piece in almost 5 months. Tense writer's block broken, as cliche'd as it sounds, by a girl; which is what this poem is actually about. Which is interesting that you mention medication, for my "sickness" and my "medicine" come from the same source.

Yes, the poem has a name, no I won't post it because I feel cheesy just having written it. =/

Shaky. Intoxicated and influenced; Inspired and Nauseous. Broken. Exhilarated, Enthralled, Excited, Engrossed, Enthused-- Queasy. Order words of proper acquainted un the with; Gargling gibberish; Spewing Gems. Sleeplessness, recklessness; A muse quite drugged. When you make me less nervous, From my lips, great poetry may part; Until then, um...here: Just take my heart.

Yes, just a plain white box. You are now confined within its walls, privy to all the strange projections; the bewildering thoughts; the restless worries. It is here that I dwell. You may ask yourself who I am. And indeed I would hope you should. You think in abstracts, which is certainly what this is, but does answering who I am lead you to understand why you are here? Did you already forget? You're in my box. I'm quite curious, myself. How did you get here? Well, no sense troubling ourselves over the trivial. You are here for a reason, though yet unknown, and we should still make the most of your visit! What is this place? Why, it is a box. You are rather unimaginative; talking down on a box. I mean, you must be if you're stuck inside of it. Somewhere in your realm of technicolor dreams, vivid landscapes, pastels, markers, finger paints, Crayolas; How did you end up inside a realm with four shades of gray? Are you like me? Did you once sail the turquoise fields? Dance on the Crimson Skies? I've slinked through Tangerine Forests, and laughed among Sapphire Winds. I'm too proud to admit that those things left me. I'd rather believe I left them. The colors faded and fled; I was left with mere lines. A simple book to color. But no where was there an artist; accomplished or even budding. I once even begged for a pudgy-fingered child to molest my pages with abusive strokes, so that I may taste red or blue or even that sickly shade of green once more. Before long, even the lines faded. The pages were blank. Nothing directed me. A field of off-white paper became paler and taller. A blinding white box. That is what it became. I've only assumed that I'm trapped, of course. I couldn't see an escape, so here I sit. At least until now... But wait, you had to have come from somewhere! From whence have you come?! Are the fields still brimming with turquoise?! Do my forests still stand?! What?! They don't? I thank you for your honesty. It's painful, but the truth is nice when you've been lied to constantly by yourself. So where did you come from? I've done nothing but talk; I've given you no chance to speak. You're my what? Eh-ma-jin-ay-shun? oh... oh? OH!!! WHERE HAVE YOU BEEN?! What is this? A pen? What am I to do with this? Create? How do I scribe my colors with a mere black ink?! Wait! Where are you going?! What am I supposed to do with the pen?! COME BACK! Don't go... I guess... I guess... Yes. That is what I do. This pen is merely a key to the world.