| Wasting Time |
|
|
| 17.12.07 | 1.08am |
| |
Its odd...
Wasting a little free time,
seems like nothing is happening at all,
nothing is out of line.
Still though so busy,
working 80 hours a week,
never sleeping or dreaming,
I feel so suddenly weak.
I don't know what to say,
don't know what to do,
keep plugging along day by day,
looking for something new.
Kinda wonder if this is what I want,
well certainly it all seems great,
I know I should not be complaining,
because its more than I've ever imagined,
hate to see it dissipate.
Gotta find out what I want in life,
whatever that might be,
sometimes I just want to stay out of trouble,
but some days I want to be free.
Most free time I lay around,
wondering what should I do?
Then I get angy at myself,
just wishing that I knew.
Somedays I know I should go walking,
get back in shape,
seems though I have to be afraid now,
because the streets here aren't so great.
Know I'm finally trying though,
kinda getting things done,
just need to utilize my time better,
wait for the summer sun.
|
|
| |
|
create * |
| |
| |
|
|
| 21.3.06 | 9.00pm |
| |
Dreaming today as I realized what I was forced to neglect all along,
always living with uncertainty,
I remembered this today though,
I'm sad it's never been used,
I guess I could make this the starting point,
to write poems, and my views. |
|
| |
|
2 creations | create * |
| |
| |
|
|
| 28.11.05 | 3.31am |
| |
mood:  confused
|
A little something, to fill the void, fit in anywhere,
a little something written, for the few who might care.
A little something, something to pass the time,
filled with nothing, nothing for this line.
Time seems nothing, nothing as days go by,
time is nothing, nothing until you realize,
realize that somewhere there is life,
life somewhere in the past,
the past, riddles your mind with thoughts amassed.
The past, makes you insane for what you've done,
insane, crazy for your life and sins,
the sins of which you have none. |
|
| |
|
create * |
| |
| human avacados |
|
|
| 17.8.05 | 3.08am |
| |
~.¸¸.·*´¨`*»★ the blank page 16.8.05
a blank page
. . long-waiting
. . for words to fall
. . out of their haunted way.
the words
. . tumbling, melancholy--
. . needing a square to stick--
. . fly right by, never knowing
. . what it means to fit.
deplorable blindness in all things.
~.¸¸.·*´¨`*»★ apples 16.8.05
what do I care for decency? let me
fall out with you, most tragically
scattering dreams as a matter of course,
offering the apple of my own remorse
most spitefully.
~.¸¸.·*´¨`*»★ garlic 16.8.05
crumbs on the cutting board,
rancid drips in the crisper drawer,
the smell of garlic on dry cold palms,
all that's left of her
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . and that warmth of home. |
|
| |
|
create * |
| |
| ungracious sulking |
|
|
| 17.8.05 | 12.42am |
| |
~.¸¸.·*´¨`*»★ 3.12.04
no one sees her sitting there,
spelling L O V E from her
crusts of bread. And no
one sees her heart, breaking
to make it cohere. |
|
| |
|
1 creation | create * |
| |
| sentiment at its best |
|
|
| 8.7.05 | 1.49am |
| |
~.¸¸.·*´¨`*» ★ Birches | Robert Frost
( read allCollapse )
So was I once myself a swinger of birches.
And so I dream of going back to be.
It's when I'm weary of considerations,
And life is too much like a pathless wood
Where your face burns and tickles with the cobwebs
Broken across it, and one eye is weeping
From a twig's having lashed across it open.
I'd like to get away from earth awhile
And then come back to it and begin over.
May no fate willfully misunderstand me
And half grant what I wish and snatch me away
Not to return. Earth's the right place for love:
I don't know where it's likely to go better.
I'd like to go by climbing a birch tree
And climb black branches up a snow-white trunk
Toward heaven, till the tree could bear no more,
But dipped its top and set me down again.
That would be good both going and coming back.
One could do worse than be a swinger of birches. |
|
| |
|
create * |
| |
| poems from anon |
|
|
| 8.7.05 | 1.42am |
| |
~.¸¸.·*´¨`*» ★ poems from mr anonymous 7.7.05
Let me tell you what I think!
I'll tell you what I think,
about life and mistakes and misfortune,
draining down the bathroom sink!
Yeah, I'll tell you what I think,
about family values and all it's emptiness,
suicide and shotguns, yet they still find no link.
Another dose of what I think,
fucking harsh reality,
in a world that never blinks.
So many things that are thought,
but then some days maybe not...
sometimes a sweeter side seems gentle,
life becoming brilliant, minds no longer mental.
Sometimes it all seems nice, not letting my time rot,
but only seconds later, it's time already forgot.
An abbreviation of people,
a condensation of sin,
conversations of righteousness
revelations begin.
Sanctity of mankind,
satanism of kin,
atheists and nihilists,
acts that make one cringe.
Sour patch sore eyes,
sleep flaces suckle tin,
sick sorry morbid angel,
sucking sucking... grotesque falling in.
Weird fucking fumbled fascination,
Sorry! Sorry! still can't win,
screaming, slimy solemn murder,
merry excess binge. |
|
| |
|
create * |
| |
| a sonnet for my mood |
|
|
| 28.6.05 | 12.09pm |
| |
mood:  lonely
|
~.¸¸.·*´¨`*» ★ Sonnet 43 | William Shakespeare
When most I wink, then do mine eyes best see,
For all the day they view things unrespected;
But when I sleep, in dreams they look on thee,
And, darkly bright, are bright and dark directed.
Then thou, whose shadow shadows doth make bright,
How would thy shadow's form form happy show
To the clear day with thy mush clearer light,
When to unseeing eyes thy shade shines so!
How would, I say, mine eyes be blessed made
By looking on thee in the living day,
When in dead night thy fair imperfect shade
Through heavy sleep on sightless eyes doth stay!
. . . All days are nights to see till I see thee,
. . . And nights bright days when dreams do show thee me. |
|
| |
|
2 creations | create * |
| |
| poems from anon |
|
|
| 23.6.05 | 1.48pm |
| |
mood:  tired
|
~.¸¸.·*´¨`*» ★ poems from anonymous friends 23.6.05
This poem of sadness controls me within,
this poem, driving me to madness, killing, killing!
This poem, bleeding across the page, dripping off my chair,
this poem, punishing my body, ripping out my hair.
This poem, tearing out my heart, leaves me wishing, leaves me wishing for
a fresh start.
Dreary eyed from another day,
sit here not sleeping, not spending what I've made.
Awake again writing long stories, stories from my soul,
looking at the sunshine, playing Rock & Roll.
Maybe someday I'll go wandering,
wandering again, shooting more photography,
play board games and win.
|
|
| |
|
create * |
| |
| life |
|
|
| 27.5.05 | 12.54am |
| |
mood:  floored
|
so, I figure this is about creation. I want to create a life worth living. what other creation is there? the simple life, that spark I seek, lies right where it ought to be, right where no one will see it. that would mean I travel there alone. I feel them scatter and head for lanterns I can't see, and the fine line between simple and empty, breaks. |
|
| |
|
create * |
| |
| familiar poem |
|
|
| 2.5.05 | 2.01pm |
| |
mood:  dark
|
~.¸¸.·*´¨`*» ★ battered
it's the rock that i throw that hits your head
it's the scream from my mouth that makes you dread
it's the silence long after that you can't abide
as you batter my soul out of breath from inside
it's your knife that i let mutilate my skin
it's your voice, all your malice rising from within
it's your fingers that find my blood running hot
but your mind is blind with a raging thought |
|
| |
|
1 creation | create * |
| |
| quothe |
|
|
| 2.5.05 | 2.01pm |
| |
mood:  contemplative
|
~.¸¸.·*´¨`*» ★ Untitled | Edna St. Vincent Millay
I shall forget you presently, my dear
So make the most of this, your little day,
Your little month, your little half a year,
Ere I forget, or die, or move away,
And we are done forever; by and by
I shall forget you, as I said, but now,
If you entreat my with your loveliest lie,
I will protest you with my favorite vow.
I would indeed that love were longer-lived,
And oaths were not so brittle as they are,
But so it is, and nature has contrived
To struggle on without a break thus far---
Whether or not we find what we are seeking
Is idle, biologically speaking.
~.¸¸.·*´¨`*» ★ Renascence | Edna St. Vincent Millay
All I could see from where I stood
Was three long mountains and a wood;
I turned and loked another way,
And saw three islands in a bay.
So with my eyes I traced the line
Of the horizon, thin and fine,
Straight around till I was come
Back to where I's started from;
And all I saw from where I stood
Was three long mountains and a wood.
Over these things I could not see:
These were the things that bounded me.
And I could touch them with my hand,
Almost, I thought, from where I stand!
And all at once things seemed so small
My breath came short, and scarce at all.
But, sure, the sky is big, I said:
Miles and miles above my head.
So here upon my back I'll lie
And look my fill into the sky.
And so I looked and after all,
The sky was not so very tall.
The sky, I said, must somewhere stop . . .
And--sure enough!--I see the top!
The sky, I thought, is not so grand;
I 'most could touch it with my hand!
And reaching up my hand to try,
I scremed, to feel it touch the sky.
I screamed, and--lo!--Infinity
Came down and settled over me;
Forced back my scream into my chest;
Bent back my arm upon my breast;
And, pressing of the Undefined
The definition on my mind,
Held up before my eyes a glass
Through which my shrinking sight did pass
Until it seemed I must behold
Immensity made manifold;
Whispered ( read onCollapse ) |
|
| |
|
create * |
| |
| diary poems |
|
|
| 24.4.05 | 7.17pm |
| |
mood:  unnerved
|
~.¸¸.·*´¨`*»★ the death of a trinket 24.4.05
miss' perfumed fan spun wide
sailing untangled untouchable above the lawn
monument-high
and seemed cut loose;
gentlemen lurched forward raylike panic
beating their desires along the paper wing
buffeting in the wind.
. . . waistcoats contemplated oblivion
. . . trying to catch with nothing
. . . what meant nothing;
. . . silence resounded as the sheet
. . . tumbling stuck in a fir
. . . peirced and strained like love.
quick now; her hand is free
but O! gone
~.¸¸.·*´¨`*»★ pieces 17.3.05
pieces of myself come away in your hands,
did you notice?
~.¸¸.·*´¨`*»★ temple 23.2.05
in a paper craft I light a candle,
encourage it afloat, and feeling it out of reach
I lurch to see it leave, sending autumn ripples
to lap the ruins where my heart lay late;
they strike with indifference.
. . . . . . . . . . . . . before long
. . . . . . . . . . . . . I fold another
. . . . . . . . . . . . . and crush it. |
|
| |
|
4 creations | create * |
| |
| |
|
|
| 24.4.05 | 5.18am |
| |
Well, here it is,
a perfect little domain,
a nice place for people to write,
maybe play some games.
A great little place,
but what was the name?
I somehow keep on thinking that song,
nah can't be purple rain!
heh I'm just kidding,
it's a great little place,
maybe soon we'll find some people,
this community can grace. |
|
| |
|
2 creations | create * |
| |
| |
|
|
| 24.4.05 | 4.56am |
| |
Here goes,
another pathetic critique,
another lame recital,
of how I feel so weak.
Here goes,
another dumb ass quote,
a stupid little poem,
a stupid person wrote.
Here goes another sad example,
of what this world's become,
boring, dead and obvious,
is everything we've done. |
|
| |
|
create * |
| |
| |
|
|
| 24.4.05 | 4.50am |
| |
mood:  bored
|
I have,
the strangest mind,
the oddest ways,
wierdest actions,
saddest days.
Oddest times
nicest thoughts,
chipper rhymes.
I have no ambition,
not a care,
no good knowledge,
yet always fair.
I have,
cruelest dreams,
least of all caring,
to the world it seems... |
|
| |
|
create * |
| |
| |
|
|
| 10.4.05 | 5.11pm |
| |
mood:  sore
|
I've never been so depressed in all my life,
but I say that every day....
each time worse than the last,
when I see the sun, just want to play.
I think now becomes time,
for something to pay,
but what?
I have nothing to say.
Now becomes time,
Now seems the place,
Now I feel declining,
as I crush in my own face.
now is that time
now is that time...
now is a disgrace,
now I feel wishing,
someone could keep pace.
Now I forget how to cry,
just like days past,
now seems emotions,
that neever seem to last.
Now seems pretty numb,
as I write this sad poem,
feeling pretty dumb.
Now seems I'm puzzled,
stick my pieces on the wall,
now I think wondering,
what's the point at all?
Now I sit here saddened,
sitting in the room,
my knees all cracked and broken,
parylized since noon.
Now seems the time,
to write this thing forever,
so no one can ever read,
now seems a time pretty clever,
to watch my body bleed. |
|
| |
|
create * |
| |
| speed poems ★ march 05 |
|
|
| 31.3.05 | 5.17pm |
| |
mood:  mischievous
|
the improv poetry of </a></b></a> safeasmilk
★ 31.3.05
A poem for the blues,
when my reality is the news,
feel seemingly lost,
expressing no views,
can't find a way,
to choose what is true,
can't find a way,
to find something new.
★ 30.3.05
Need to pull something through my veins,
need to keep going, run through rain,
need to put down all these pains,
I sit here, sleepy, feeling strain.
★ 27.3.05
I wonder how quick this will come,
15 seconds,
then add some,
20 now... typing slow,
probably never read this,
off to bed I go.
★ 27.3.05
too sleepy to talk,
too tired to sleep,
did I already write this before?
well here's an extra for you to keep.
★ 25.3.05
Tired today,
forever tomorrow,
brightened last week,
eternal sorrow.
★ 24.3.05
whimsical wonderful powerful words.
must get something done though it seems absurd
★ 23.3.05
What's going on?
What's going when?
whos that over there,
stepping on my pen.
What's hiding round,
breaking on the ground,
ink on the floor,
like a red, bloody gore.
★ 22.3.05
(add poem here)
★ 22.3.05
Mountain dew
bubble stew
gif building,
something new!
★ 19.3.05
Hope all is well for you,
hope good days seem strange,
hope all the troubles in your mind,
hope they can be rearranged.
Hope you have a good spring break of course,
hope all the best,
hope you can be happy with things,
without all the rest.
★ 9.3.05
For some reason I envision boulder,
1 somethingsomething sleepytime way,
vast roads and mountains
skies never gray. |
|
| |
|
2 creations | create * |
| |
| quothe |
|
|
| 22.3.05 | 2.07am |
| |
mood:  blank
|
I felt that blank incapability of invention which is the greatest misery of authorshp, when dull Nothing replies to our anxious invocations.
Everything must have a beginning, to speak in Sanchean phrase, and that beginning must be linked to something that went before. The Hindus give the world an elephant to support it, but they make the elephant stand upon a tortoise. Invention, it must be humbly admitted, does not consist in creating out of void, but out of chaos... it can give form to dark, shapeless substances, but cannot bring into being the substance itself.
Frightful it must be; for supremely frightful would be the effect of any human endeavour to mock the stupendous mechanism of the Creator of the world.
~ mary wollstonecraft shelley, introduction to frankenstein |
|
| |
|
create * |
| |
|
|
content