I had a thread a long time ago, but it pretty much died since I wasnt contributing to it at all for a while. So I am going to try to stick with this one, updating it regularly.
I think I will start this new thread with a poem I wrote last week.
A blank façade Covers a complex painting Vast and solid Internally filled with riddles I cannot find purchase On its silky smooth surface But when I manage a handhold I will be face to face with her soul
A Were I not human, I would say Give all your sorrows away. Don't hold to griefs that cloud your past Live each moment as you would you last.
If I had no feelings, I would advise To ignore their prods and petty lies What's done is done and it may have hurt But stand up, child, brush off the dirt.
Yet I am only human, flawed and frail, My sorrows write my life's rich tale, To release my griefs and my regret Would be to erase my being, my soul forget.
Emotions, weakness, bring true strength Wisdom gained through pain, at length Shown through actions, hateful and kind Passed, the legacy of an ancestral mind.
I know naught, but what thou hath told me. I have grown sheltered, yea, verily, No parcel of will or hope to lead me. I seek adventure, divine release from this monotony, To sail blue seas, borne of Posidon, O'er tides and swells, to reach the horizon. To battle with creatures, nay, monsters abroad Ye children of demons, creations of gods. Smote by sword, baptised in blood, Pretty dreams of a peasant son.
Dormant, waiting to be awakened, She rests. Held in an indefinite slumber, She dreams. Reality is based on perception, She sees her life Through a warped looking glass. She paints her canvas With broad strokes And crooked lines.
Once wakened, the artist will no doubt burst forth with shining, exemplary brilliance and creativity. Paint your canvas well, Tigerspice, paint it bright.
I can see the horizon, it is I. The world is within my circumference, The ocean sways in motion with my thoughts, The stars realign to escort my dreams. The Earth spins only as I do, And when I stop, all disappears.
There is a boat, it floats alone. I drift along in it, forever approaching my horizon,
So I am doing this thing called a Poetry Slam at my school, and this is one of the pieces I've written that I will be reading on Wednesday. It is a competition, and the top two "Poetry Slammers" get to go on a trip to Philadelphia, Pennsylvania to participate in the National Poetry Slam. Please give me your feedback.
He had a smile on his lips But embers burning in his eyes. His razor-blade fingers Would cut into her wrist.
He disguised his black heart With whisperings of sweet nothings And hid his need for control Beneath a veil of concern.
"Love hurts," he would say.
She would lay awake at night saying, "This pain I feel is a burden of love, at least I'm not alone."
And she would explain away the bruises Until she had herself convinced That the mark upon her face Was from walking into a door
And the broken glass Glittering red in her skin Was the result of her own foolish mistake.
Even as her blood Would sluggishly drip onto the floor, His snarling face would soften.
He would gently take her Into his arms And whisper the words,
"I love you."
So she would forgive him Because "love hurts."
And she knew the hands That had come crashing against her Were also capable Of wiping away her tears.
And the sharp words That exited his mouth Would be erased By the press of his lips Upon her temple As he tells her he is sorry And he won't do it again.
But how many times Can someone say they are sorry Before the phrase loses its meaning?
His once reassuring hand Upon her shoulder Now felt like a claw Digging into her back Holding her captive.
And she could no longer overlook The multitude of scars Tallying up faster and faster Upon her skin.
Every fight etched into her body, An unwilling record of their "love" That she had to hide Beneath long-sleeves and makeup So the neighbors Would not get suspicious
And she began to hide Behind a smile So he would not realize Her dawning horror And the transformation of her love
From a burning flame
To a fiery hatred
Until one night When he raised a knife And she raised a gun
She looked him in the eyes and said, "Love hurts, right?"
I spent the day at the Chattahoochee Writers' Conference and Workshop. I got to read several of my new poems, and I met a lot of cool people and had a ton of fun. My state's Poet Laureate was there, though I have to admit that he wasn't exactly well received; so were a few published authors, such as Teresa Davis, Shay Youngblood, and Joshilyn Jackson. Here are some pictures, and later I will post a few poems that I had to write as part of the workshops I attended.
Me reading my poetry:
My friend Jeremiah reading an erotic poem from an LGBTQ book