Writings of the humble poet

[TrevorW]

Hello my friends and welcome to the world of TrevorW.
I warn you my friends, my world is a dark dark whimsical place where only the bravest of hearts can survive. However, should you choose to try such a feet I promise you...

you will be amazed.

This will serve as my blog of poetry here on Newgrounds. Please enjoy.

All of my life I have seen things from many perspectives and yet until 27 months ago I was unable to communicate my findings. The poetry came to me. Over time I progressed in skill and now I find that every poem is a first draft. My editing is so minor that it hardly exists. However, I promise you all my work is worth reading -- though I would never say I am an overly confident person.

I took this idea from a friend. The title is the only thing I kept of his (as a sort of respectful motion).

-----Burning Eyes ----
His eyes burn with lustful angst: they pry against her -
shredding at her bosoms, cloth strips falling to floor:
cold, empty floor. How dignifying for her it must be
to have leistering trickster cackling for her,
grasping for her virgin groan; yet,
not near - no, not too near - as to where man could take
such a thing. No, this pleasure is but not leisure,
but instead whimsical desire - but left for morrow:
indeed, this the lustful-man's harrow.

Sorrow, sorrow...

For he lack iron-bust and hide behind another's bust;
yet, he should be - and so shall he be - called a coward.
Indeed, for he know not the will of manhood, but in its stead
childhood, in all its shy-full trifle.
How, how - spiteful, yes indeed, spiteful be he
for he can so plainly see his want,
but lack will enough to seize beauty:
to take it - to will to take it, and then to hold.

To grasp it - tenderly
as if the world its self consisted of but he and his beauty:
she and he in an endless escapade around the promenade -
an endless dance in the court of Heavenly-body and soul.
Yes, his dearly desired grasped and held, filling every fiendish hole:
completion - groan and moan reflecting love in an endless dance;
dare say it, a romance.
Yet, not romance of worldly dance,
filled with signs of affection and honesty,
instead, - in truth's honest hand - couple grasp not hand in hand in dance;
but in leave of such, in touching worldly figure, divinity grasp divinity.

Yet, he have no spine - to will to a whim, whim to a will:
he stands lost in the shadow while suitors grasp at beauty
false-felt suitors from every direction, pulling - pulling, -
Shredding her virgin veil not in dreams, but in worldly honesty -
in privacy taking, but publicly marking. Each taking
a step of the dance until beauty stand both naked and fleet-less
in a ballroom royally grand - and he, so powerless, stand
not to protect desire, but to relish in desire to
a naked beauty. Pitiful this man
and dignifying the fault of man as she turns,
having taken notice long while past,
with eyes filled with but one demand:
Why? And this demand be an endless sorrow on the man.

[TrevorW]

I am a dark poet. Welcome to my world, though this is but one aspect.

In Visions, Afterlife

I drem't of death -
I saw it. Crimson jaw,
burning inferno: angels
clad in iron, burning
wings embracing black form.
These, my visions of doom
looming as all evil loom;
ready to take life, each day,
and place it within
rocky underbelly, - hell:
I say, Hell! Lands so rancid
the breath of utterance burns -

eats away at virgin flesh
and spits out screams,
as they, too, burn!

Cry out child, for visions embrace,
and call kin, screams of virginity -
burning, rotting: how they cackle.
Here a Jackal, there an imp, there, -
embracing throne,
constructed out of sin and bone,
lie Satin: master of the underbelly.
He, they call master here: none other.
Bow before he, who hinder light hither;
and question: Shall thee too embrace the blight?

I drem't of death -
I saw it. Horrid fight:
man against sin;
then, sins prevalence:
man's end. The end:
to hell they bellow -
to hell, in death.
Such vision, I see,
it blinds. I tare out my eye-s!
Yet, still, within vision resides.
Cruel fate, cruel: robbing me so,
of right and sight. Too cruel.
Selfish creed: to envisioned lands I go -
to hell. To hell; woe, woe, woes upon me.

[stimcrab]

You've been giving me constructive criticism, so I thought I'd return the favor! You're writing is definitely emotive, but I don't necessarily think it contains the eloquence that I sort of envisioned it having. Like I felt traces of Ralph W. Emerson and other transcendentalists (and some fireside poets). Some of it seems a bit cliched and overdone, but you could work on that by changing the writing, rhythm, or whatever else. Hope this helps!

[TrevorW]

You sir are correct! I am very much into the trans. and the dark romantics. My style mimics their's. As always I appreciate criticism.

As for cliche, eh it is hard at times not to approach that lovely grey area. As for the overdone, I can see that. Time will tell if I can grow further. I've been writing for a little over 2 years and my style has went from nothing to this. I think in five years I will be much much further along.

[TrevorW]

Actually double post time. Time for a more Gatsby inspired poem...

"______" denoted a long line that was broken to fit nicely. I tried my best to do this and this may be an area that will be changed at anytime. This was previously published.

Womanhood - 1860

The sun soaks two great arches,
As a girl blossoms after many Marches.
Today, on her sixteenth year,
Womanhood finally draws near.
This, the day that a gown is adorned,
And a daughter is dearly warned:

"The world is a dangerous place, my dear,
So I ask of you to always stay near,
Until, that is, another man takes your hand
Before both the cloth and the land."

A grand band of no less than ten plays upon marble stairs,
As a young girl walks upon a stage lined with numerous chairs.
Walking, shaking, step by step, into her birthright.
Yet, adorned in jewels and gown, she is quite the steady sight.

The sun now blazes high in the clear sky
Turning her blushed face to the past, she waves goodbye.
For, as her gentle step reaches the center of the affair,
The countless guests, of much prestige gaze and stare.

The minutes seem to melt slowly as the event moves along.
The rituals, then the blessing: both move on and end in song.
A group of Sirens stand upon two high balconies, calling,
And on the floor stands a newly made woman, crying.

The tears run down her slender face in great amount
As she clings to the lingering memory of the Knight on the mount.
Not a fortnight ago, a man of great stature and might stole her heart:
Stole it because he had no right to it from the start.

Born of modest birth, the man could never pursue a woman of wealth.
However, a girl of no heir or wealth of her own is free to any man of health.
So when the eve to the end of her adolescence came,
_______she wrote her love in stone.
To this man, a man with no name, she gave the greatest prize -
_______her virgin groan.
Now, surrounded by men and women of unimaginable wealth,
_______she sees a ghost.
There, alone in the garden is her dear Knight. She runs to him,
_______from the echo of the great toast.
The sky has darkened and the air has chilled as night begins to take its course.
Then, a scream followed by a great thunder, so loud,
_______that none shall know the source.

What the young woman's eyes gaze upon would mortify,
And the feeling that she lives then would cause even the most sound to fortify.
Her taker is not standing upon the floor as all men do -
_______his feet float up, off the ground.
His dark-skinned face is cold; the tenderness of his hand - gone.
_______From a tree, his neck is bound.

Just as her knees go to give out and her heart as well,
A stern hand is placed upon her shoulder; It's her father; she can tell.

"My dear, this 'little accident' shall never be lived within my name.
Believe me when I say I could never allow such shame."

The words uttered in secrecy bend within the woman's ears.
The image she pictures becomes the worst of her fears.
Her own father stabbed her in the heart,
Making her forever a love lost tart.

The wind of the ghastly night peaks, and the band stops playing.
The transcendence is complete as the pendulum stops swaying.
For no more than a second, silence never breaks,
And, when broken, a generation knows what womanhood takes.

[stimcrab]

If you wouldn't mind checking out the short play I wrote, it'd be much appreciated. I wonder if the lit portal will have 'buddies' for LitCollabs! I'd be happy to have you as a partner.

Anyway, play can be found here: http://www.newgrounds.com/bbs/topic/1140 678

[TrevorW]

At 1/27/10 08:41 PM, stimcrab wrote: If you wouldn't mind checking out the short play I wrote, it'd be much appreciated. I wonder if the lit portal will have 'buddies' for LitCollabs! I'd be happy to have you as a partner.

Anyway, play can be found here: http://www.newgrounds.com/bbs/topic/1140 678

I did read it and I would love to work with you. Cheers

[TrevorW]

Time for a Shakespear inspired poem...or rather how they speak in the movies of his work.

Brotherhood (A Tragedy)

Calling - desuetude, impoverished by destiny:
I stand secluded in shadows, raped by devil's rapier -
shrouded in devilish mass. Stabbed, stabbed! Pierced -
haunted in life - through embodiment of steel - by such
as brotherly love, love dipped in nature's sweetness
(or perhaps bitterness). Indeed, love so sweet
both face and other share wisdom in its truth -
such is my brother, two faced.
How I love thee brother, Love!
But, don't forget brother, dead, dear brother:
Devils turn at but the wind's whim, un-calling
and un-patterned. Lustful, winds existing ever lusting -
the Devil, too, presided as such.
Thee be but one thread placed on the Heinous loom
to create a flattering weave of lies and decent...
not kingly my brother, not kingly. So wish it so,
but brother stab true love for flattering cloth
and to follow shall be only woe.
Woes you my brother -
I cry for you: stabbed in the back, poisoned by treachery -
and fear I say, lechery, - for devil's never love.
Devils know not of brotherly love -
fare thee well brother.

[megakill]

There is something about this poem...

I feel such a personal vibe from it, as if it were modeled after your own life. You clear hatred for the double life of the brother seems to flow through-out, and yet the hatred of the poem still rings true.
Your vocabulary is inspiring, yet I fear some may struggle to understand your plight.

None the less, I enjoy your work, and though my vision may be inaccurate, it still speaks to me in a very personal manner.

Well done my friend!

[TrevorW]

Thank you and rest assured that I in fact do not even have a brother. I took the perspective of my character. I am not crazy...sorta. Also, I am sure you got the message. You have a good head on those shoulders.

[Kajenx]

Burning Eyes
This is beautifully written, and has a great deal of interest, but at times I just get lost in the words themselves and lose the meaning of the poem. I'm not sure if this is bad, because eventually I come back to the meanings of the words, but then I feel like I need to go back and re-read so I can understand it.

I think the problem is that it's so old fashioned, so I'm not used to it. It's great that you can write this way, but is there a way you can update it so it feels familiar and contemporary, working on both verbal and conceptual levels? I know this is quite a lot to ask, but I mention it because I have the same problem with my painting. I tend to make things overly classical in a way where people can't relate to it as well.

In Visions, Afterlife
This suffers from the same problems, but in a more obvious way. I feel like this one flows a lot better, maybe because its ideas are expressed more quickly, but the subject matter feels like it's referencing a dante-era poem rather than expressing any real sentiment. Do you really have the same sort of gripping religious faith that those poets did? I don't think we can really relate to that anymore. Perhaps you could find a more personal vision of hell that would strike a deeper chord in it's honesty.

Womanhood - 1860
Because this is a period piece, it felt more like it belonged in this style. I'm a little unclear as to what exactly happened, though, and wonder if it could be more clear. If it was meant to be abstracted a bit, then that's fine, but I feel like it was meant to tell a story I didn't grasp fully...

Brotherhood
Same again, although this one seems to indulge in the idea of words without meaning and works better for it.

Since you like challenges (as per your Jazz thread) I'll give you one that I think will push you in a new direction. Not saying I know best, I'd just like to see what you do with it: Write a poem about one specific thing, like the color of a leaf you saw, or a crack in the sidewalk, something completely meaningless so you can indulge yourself in wordplay describing it. You cannot use any retro language though. That's not to say you can't be lyrical, I just don't want to see any thees or thous or wherefores.

I'll be following your stuff, I think. Oh, and I'd love to hear your thoughts on my thread. :3 I don't have a lot there yet, but I'm hoping to be consistent.

[TrevorW]

I will freeverse this. Starting at 11:50, finished at 11:54

The Liar

Eyes may be what man calls empathy,
though I question the truth. Truth --
what truth is there in words? Lies:
they so readily lie to me,
but eyes -- tender tender eyes --
they know no lies. Foreign language
in those lies to these eyes,
to those eyes, to all eyes.
Lies to eyes, eyes to lies: a dance.
A display of darting eyes
across the world -- scanning it
and understanding it (to their ability)
and expressing what is taken.
Taken. Kept, held onto
and loved. Loved --
never given back to
you.

[TrevorW]

Ack time difference.
Correction to meet NG clock
Started at 54 ended at 58

[Kajenx]

You know, it wasn't what I was expecting at all, but I liked it (which is probably the best result)! Your poems are full of ideas, and they dwell in the realm of thought rather than the physical, which is probably why I had a bit of a hard time relating to them because I do things sensually. I think knowing that distinction, though, I'll be able to read your work more easily.

[TrevorW]

My goal in life is to define the human mind. All of my works focus on the struggle that each person lives through out life. I believe that true happiness is an imperfect impossibility, and that man is stuck in a constant approach -- it is human nature to want more and thus true happiness can never be had.

I also feel that people tend to over look the hardships of life in favor of the good times. And if they do look back at the hard times they tend to do so in a way that borders complaint/ looking for sympathy. There is little thought of the chaotic reality that is the human mind and soul.

[TrevorW]

Here we have a few quickies...

Mark of Forgery

Eyes see it, but eyes don't dare to care.
No, eyes pry at instead of cry for
young girl - of no more than 15 years-
stripped naked by forgery: raped!
So young. So very young.

Raped; torn from dignity.

Caressed by strange eyes,
but familiar hands - her hands.
His whim through her hands
And her bleating eyes staring -
dead. Tortured and lost: starving.
Cruel eyes peering through brass looking glass
as the young girl pries off her dignity
layer by layer,
left to lie awake tortured by her own reflection.
(A stranger in the mirror.)
And alone - completely alone.

---------------

My Music box

It's my music box.
My music box
fills my room with such wonderful
music - o' music.
How I love the music
from my music box.

Give it a twist
and give it a wind,
and watch the music
come from behind!
The same right kind
that tends to remind
broken hearts of love lost
and
love-struck sweethearts
of all they left behind.

Yeah, it's my music box.
My music box
fills the room with such wonderful tunes
I want to get up and dance into the night -
o o o o' that's right, it's my music box.

Give it a win-d.

--------------------------

Whispers

I hear whispers this day.
From within humble tomb,
lay witness: too lovely; whom
I dearly call Mother. Dear Mother,
patron of my life and...guidance
in confusion: eyes and ears.
Yet, slipped away - gone, that day.
No longer grasping at collar..

Mother: gone, Mother. How? -
Leaving kills, but my pain - its worse,
yes, worse I say. Worse. Then, still,
you come from deep grave,
unless I live naïve; and then, such would be grave.
For I too, then, would slip into grave, - this day.

I plea you dearest Mother, remain silent this day
and next - forever more: Quiet, hush.
Hush you now Mother,
for I know you not;
not this way; not in this life, now. Gone.
Now remain gone. Leave me to grieve
over humble grave: indeed I plead,
yet still, I hear whispers.
Whispers. Whispers! Calling -

---------------------

[TrevorW]

Necrophilia is fun.

In Death, Love

Hold my lustful angst
hand in hand as I plead a simple demand.
I tear at you lovingly, dear love lost;
bringing mine own closer to yours
as I plunge love through grey-toned skin.
Ripping at flesh as love wrecked havoc
upon timid heart: fluttering straight to hell.
To Hell! - straight to the depths of tormented life
and even darker semblance of love -
my demented torment.
Residing in my aging soul and skin
(Rip the skin off, and rest in peace)
I tear at your dim form, both mine and Thine,
dear love: I can't kill you.
Can not hurt you more than -
you have already been hurt.
I love you now
as I loved you before.
Rotting flesh means nothing compared
to aching heart (mine shatters, continuously breaking).
Aching! Rotting! My reality
your ambiguity - lustrous love, tormenting temptation,
(true) loving relation.

[TrevorW]

This one was mimic-ed after and inspired by "Can you be still enough?"by Evark
Though the idea somewhat comes from another poem of mine, the rest is all new. Think masochist.

I'm a blind beggar

...and when life beats me down
I find my reflections longer - bitterly so sorrow.

...and when I gaze into mirrors
I see a shallow skeleton of a man - begging for reprise.

O' the demise of a daunted man, haunted
in that loathing becomes loving: hatred's related.

Relate, sedate, postulate, remind, rewind,
pain, bain, brain - dead. Bed...

cozily in my bed I dream. Reflecting, and re-reflecting
on a dream, a reality: a sorrow morrow.

[megakill]

At 1/30/10 02:08 PM, TrevorW wrote: Necrophilia is fun.

Very true.

This is a sick and twisted poem, and yet its the purest of all. To describe how love can overcome death itself is a monumentous task, which you have completed in the darkest of ways. I still sometimes stuggle to come to terms with your use of language, but i applaud your mentality.
Very well done!

[TrevorW]

Mega, for you I will post a poem that is easier. Though it is more meaningful that such simplicity should ever warrant. I don't want to confuse you all the time, thats why I say this is for you. [A friendly joke of course]

This is old.

Little Girl

Why, little girl, I know your story.
I know your daddy left you on the merry-go-round.
Left you with a heart that even today continues to pound.
Left you with rosy cheeks stained with tears.
While the end of the day nears.

Gone off to the bars again.
You wonder where your daddy's been.
Yet, you know as well as I.
Now would be as good as any time to cry.
For your daddy is never coming back.
He got in his Cadillac - and on you he turned his back.
He left his "daddy's little angel."

Why, little girl, I know your story.
Your momma was a drug addict.
She had a loving heart nobody could predict.
One day she would be the mommy you always wanted,
And the next you were the daughter unwanted.

Until that fateful day.
That she was taken away.
Gone forever by the work of God.
Some would say your love is odd.
But you loved your mommy with all your heart,
And it hurts being apart.

Why, little girl, I know your story.
You were left in an orphanage.
With a scraped knee needing a bandage,
And a heart needing a hug.
Yet, all you got was a shrug - as you were swiped under the rug.

No more loving eyes to gaze.
Now that you live in a maze.
Trapped in the cold.
Something your momma never told.
How you wished for someone to hold.
Instead of another heartless scold.

Why little girl I know your story.
You never made it out of that place.
Instead a dream you chose to chase.
If only your momma would have told you.
You could have done anything you wanted to do.

Instead you took the back door out.
And now, to nothing you will ever amount.
The rope hangs from the ceiling.
In a room with the paint peeling.

Why, little girl, I know your story.
The lights turn on to a girl hanging.
With a smile not complaining.
Going home to your mommy.
Never leaving her again.

[megakill]

At 1/30/10 11:52 PM, TrevorW wrote:

Little Girl

Ah truly remarkable! Such a descriptive tale of love and loss between ones own family is worth of applause!
I feel i should grieve for the girl's demise, yet im sure in death she will thrive. This poem brings to life very real emotions that people of all walks of life can relate with.

I too grew up without my biological father, and have never really seen eye to eye with his replacement, so i can identify with many aspects of your work.

Im looking forward to reading your next poem!

[TrevorW]

At 1/31/10 12:01 AM, megakill wrote:

Thanks mate! Sorry about your loss. For me, I have a complete family. Though this poem was inspired by the wonderful song "Concrete Angel"

Well I will post one more poem here. This single poem will hold a familiar character through the bounds of my writing. So with no further...wait...I...present....

Sorry if the breaking is skewed. This poem has been re broken so many times to fit in forums that I have lost the original breaking...I am not digging out the book it was published in to find out. Again this is old.

The Reflection of a Blind Beggar

Sleepless nights put me on edge.
I can feel myself weaken at the knees on the brim of sanity's ledge.
The whispers from the voices deep within my head,
Constantly calling as I try to drift off within the warmth of my bed.
Keeping me awake regardless of how many pills I take.
Some side of my persona deems to forsake.

Again and again, the voices cause me to awake.
Always a pain in my head, as if stabbing through my skull,
a shadow has pressed a stake.
With every strenuous moment, I feel my sanity leaving.
With every stir, I swallow down my screams until
I'm no longer breathing.
I lay motionless. Maybe then the voices will figure that I have passed
of a heart attack.
Yes, and then they shall leave me and never come back.

Sadly, I know this is all in vain. The voices know my every
thought,
And the protection I sought simply must be bought.
Yes, an offering to the hellish voices that plague my life -
to trade for my prize.
Yet, there is but one thing that the voices wish to have:
my untimely demise.
Truly not to such a surprise that such a fiendish want
would be what's sought,
Yet so greatly had I hoped that what I had foreseen
would be no less than naught.

With nothing left to ponder, I am left as a being ever distraught.
With not even a shred of my hopes remaining, I feel as if I have
nothing left .
If only a shred could be caught -
one small fragment of my once-prosperous life would be enough
to suffice, but the voices won't allow.
My life was ripped away, piece by piece, as I grasped hold of it;
I held until sweat beaded onto my immortal brow.
The sins piled, and my shoulders began to weep -
weighted down by the burden; the weight they hold is my own.
My fear, my undying dread, for the unknown was my undoing -
this I did on my own.
None held my hand as I stumbled down the path to the
underworlds grasp.
Now I remain to cough and rasp
For any amount of pure air I gasp, air untainted by a sinner's
firm grasp.

The voices that haunt are nothing more than my sorrow's reflection.
Regardless, I do not understand; I have done nothing
of such infamous splendor to deserve this - to my recollection.
I beared the weight placed upon my two shoulders
with devout understanding,
And yet I am subject to the voices, ever so demanding.

I press my hands to my ears to silence my fears,
But with a great shudder, followed by a stream of tears, I scream -
the voices cheer,
Their roar increasing every second, getting louder and louder,
until I lose my baring
I fall only to awake to an angry Master looking down at me,
glaring silently. Staring.

I beg the cruel reflection to pass on, for to my crime
I truly have no recollection.
The shade presses onward, coming closer with every shortened
breath I take; I pray for God's protection.
Instead of bright light, a shadowed arm clasps my own,
so cold as his touches my own.
I beg the image, as it pulls me closer to its gleaming red eyes,
to allow me to atone.
Yet, to what my great crime was, I still have not the slightest clue.
If only I knew what I did - or still do.

I am pressed against its breast,
my heart ready to burst from my chest.
Only now can I truly see that the darkened figure is
none other than me.
My demise shall come to the persecution
passed down by my own gavel.
Truly the worst of fates - to hell - I shall surly travel.

[Kajenx]

Lol, I can't help but feel like a lot of your stuff is ranting. I mean, look at this part:

"It's my music box.
My music box
fills my room with such wonderful
music - o' music.
How I love the music
from my music box."

That sort of thing should be avoided at all costs, I think.

But I liked "Whispers" and "Little Girl." They seemed to have a lot more to say. Still, something is tugging at me as not right about your style of writing, it feels a bit like you've settled into a formula, so while the first few poems I read were great, after that I don't feel like I'm reading anything new. I know you said you don't edit your poems much, but maybe you should? Try spending a little more time on one of them to really refine it to a point of simple clarity and elegance. To me the greatest works of art balance great complexity with great subtlety. You have the complexity, but it lacks subtlety.

Also, please don't take this as an insult, you have a good grasp of poetic language, I just think there are some clear ways to improve from where you've settled in.

[Shabbo]

Hey thanks for you're posts on my thread, you're writings are far superiour though, I'm going to make the rest of them much better!

[megakill]

At 1/31/10 12:07 AM, TrevorW wrote:

The Reflection of a Blind Beggar

your pace and rhyming pattern in this piece is simply sublime! I can see you took what funk said to heart, and have turned out yet another epic tale!
Bravo my friend, bravo!

[TrevorW]

At 1/31/10 10:14 PM, megakill wrote:

At 1/31/10 12:07 AM, TrevorW wrote:

The Reflection of a Blind Beggar

your pace and rhyming pattern in this piece is simply sublime! I can see you took what funk said to heart, and have turned out yet another epic tale!
Bravo my friend, bravo!

Actually that poem is the oldest out of them all xD thanks

@Kajenx

You may be right. But rest assured, I am in the process of dumping that style all together -- it's old and clunky. I guess I got to the point to where I was seriously spending no more than 10 minutes on any of the works in here. That is except for Little girl, Womenhood, and Reflections, which are all older, they predate this method of poetry.

Hm. Something to think on.
Well at any rate here is a poem I did to Evark's style. You will recognize it.

I'm a blind beggar
...and when life beats me down
I find my reflections longer - bitterly so sorrow.
...and when I gaze into mirrors
I see a shallow skeleton of a man - begging for reprise.
O' the demise of a daunted man, haunted
in that loathing becomes loving: hatred's related.
Relate, sedate, postulate, remind, rewind,
pain, bain, brain - dead. Bed...
cozily in my bed I dream. Reflecting, and re-reflecting
on a dream, a reality: a sorrow morrow.

[TrevorW]

Blah, excuse me for reposting and double posting, but the poem was lost in that brick.

I'm a blind beggar

...and when life beats me down
I find my reflections longer - bitterly so sorrow.
...and when I gaze into mirrors
I see a shallow skeleton of a man - begging for reprise.
O' the demise of a daunted man, haunted
in that loathing becomes loving: hatred's related.
Relate, sedate, postulate, remind, rewind,
pain, bain, brain - dead. Bed...
cozily in my bed I dream. Reflecting, and re-reflecting
on a dream, a reality: a sorrow morrow.

[Shyheart]

When you said 'only the bravest souls will survive, etc. etc., you will be amazed, I have worked on this for 27 months,' and all that meaningless babble you said beforehand,I figured your work would be good, or atleast semi-good.

And then you say that you aren't overconfident. Fuck, I could atleast put off the paragraph beforehand as a joke or something if you didn't say that. You are a total pretentious asshole. "Humble poet"? Maybe you should reread what humble means, because it isn't overzealous motherfucker, it's modest or inferior, not "I'm going to flat out say I'm great."

TBH whenever I see you post in a thread, I instantly feel that you're putting yourself above everyone else as a writer and it's almost solely for this exchange. Yes, other people are not all that great and yes you are better than alot of people here but atleast they earnestly acknowledged their flaws unlike you. Whenever I see you posting it almost feels as if you're trying to mentor everyone else- and I mean that in a totally bad way because this is a peer based forum where everyone is equally amateur. But since this is more of a qualm with you as a poster, I digress. And trust me you're lucky I'm foregoing this, because I could write fucking pages about why I am totally intolerant of you as a poster or critic.

Burning Eyes: This is the reason I'm flat out saying you aren't a poet. This isn't a poem. It's a bunch of half assed lines thrown in at random with little regard for anything that makes poetry a difficult form to write in. Completely disregarding any meter, prose or rhythm, or any other real poetic elements, it's just a bunch of jumbled up pretentious mush that would do better in any form- make it an article about whatever the hell you were writing about, make it the moral of a story, or if you really want to stick to your guns and make poetry, completely abandon this poem and rewrite it to fit atleast one standard poetic form, because as it stands it's just a bunch of paragraphs with fucked up line breaks.

In Visions, Afterlife: More pretentious garbage forewarding another pretentious poem. Same problems as the first, but atleast this one was written at the very least somewhat better, with some semblance of rhythm, although any other common themes and elements from poetry are quickly ignored in favor of another pretentious load of crap that sounds like it's coming from a 15 year old girl at a poetry slam.

Womanhood- Holy shit you actually can write something decent. Frankly as far as I've read this is the only work you've put out that makes me confident you have atleast some ability to write out poetry. Good rhythm, decent prose and rhyming, a little weak in the middle, but overall strong.

Then you have "Brotherhood (A tragedy)" And it's back to pretentious. Frankly you apparently know nothing of how Shakespeare wrote; yes, there are elements from shakespeare's writing, such as the wording style, but overall you know nothing of what made his workings unique, such as iambic pentameter or any of the logistics of his work. There's a reason his work is heavily analyzed and is still to this day prompting people to find new meanings to his work, and it's because it's inimitably deep, written incredibly and powerful. You'd do well to never try to write in his style again without some serious self analysis.

I'd go on with your other poems, but frankly the level of pretentious is about to give me a total fucking aneurysm. So yeah, this is now totally on the table. Feel free to take this to heart or totally ignore this labeling me as a misguided detractor or what have you, but frankly I believe you should stick to writing.

[TrevorW]

I so full heartedly hope that I do not come off that way to everyone. I mean if you dislike my work fine, but if I honestly come off as a jerk I will simply leave. I honestly thought I was helping people, but if I am not there is no need for me to stab people with my "horrible" comments. Though I will say that you are the first to ever hate my work -- I appreciate that, it's humbling.

[FallenRevival]

At 1/31/10 11:41 PM, Ass-Crumb wrote: I like dick

Woah. Flame much?