One problem that I have always had with my writing is following through. I will have great ideas, I may even get started on them but I somehow lose steam and it never gets finished. I suspect it is a motivation issue more than anything else. There is a comic book series called The Sandman that I'm rather fond of. The main character is the anthropomorphic personification of dream (and is often referred to as just Dream). In his castle in the heart of his realm he has a library. These are not the books that can be found in libraries and bookstores in the waking world, they are the ideas that people have had, books dreamed up and never finished. I must have an entire wing. :lol:

Here is a poem that I rather like but suspect needs a bit of work. Any comments are . If something I've written either doesn't make sense or work for you, please don't be afraid to tell me. A thick skin is a prerequisite for submitting work for publication.


Acceptance

to the fairest...
a war
an orchid
my heart dripping my love over the sides of a platter
my patience
and ignorance of all the ways you have of making people feel small
doesn't matter
if you actually are the fairest
you are a disease in my mind
prickling and singing through all the corners
ranting and waving
drinking and sinking
lurching
gliding
spinning your silver web

I wish for no cure to you
not even glasses, for you are blind
thank anything and everything for this distance

wow your deep i do like it, to be sure are you talking about ignorant people that cant be helped and cant accept others and be fair because that is how i understood it :?:

Karma28314 Wrote:wow your deep i do like it, to be sure are you talking about ignorant people that cant be helped and cant accept others and be fair because that is how i understood it :?:

I was thinking of one person in particular that fits your reading of the poem but I think it can be expanded to mean anyone like that.

I'm one of those people who feel that poetry does not have any one particular meaning. I think the author loses control of the work the moment it is shared with another person. It is a combination of the imagery the author uses and the personal experience of the person reading it.

Thank you Karma. I'm glad you like it.

i do, and i get what you mean thats what i always thought, i feel that poetry can be interperated in anyway that relates to the reader to a certain extent ( if that makes sense) i do try to write sometimes, maybe i will share a poem with you but im not sure if its any good at all, sometimes i think i get abit too lost, because i often write when im full of emotion

I think I get some of my best writing done when I'm very emotional. I find that I need to clean it up a bit when in a calmer state but I think there are few things better for inspiration than strong emotion.

I hope you do post some of your stuff. I love reading other people's work.

I thought I'd post another poem. I was playing around with different forms and was proud of myself for getting this one to work.

Before we get to the poem though I want to say how glad I am that I joined the forums. You are all wonderfully kind fascinating people and I look forward to getting to know everyone better. This is a wonderful haven for us girls and I'm so glad it is here.

This one is kind of long.

This Mad Dance

At the edges, watching, waiting, haunted
wondering at each private glance,
confused at the ease, the elasticity
of this dance. Collisions of skin on skin
eyes meet and cross, windows passing in the night
he wanders and waits and dreams, this fool.

He glides across the streets, seeking fool-
radiant dangerous smile, eyes almost as haunted.
The air thick with heat from bare flesh, this night.
“That time, whenever he answered you, his glance
rested on me.” The wound shared equally on all my skin.
The blind mystic, large as the world: she tests my heart’s elasticity.

It burns, crisps black as it enters, destroying elasticity.
My tale sings to me of loss and now I become the fool
and this poison paints the pattern of its truth on my skin.
My mistake can be a shield, a telling of haunted
daydream. A story of an orbit around a glance,
a fine morsel to chew on every dreary night.

I cannot redeem myself for that night
the mood cannot rebound, we are poor for lack of elasticity
I look down, I think myself away, refuse to glance
in his direction. I know I am still this fool
from the first look, laugh and I am haunted
by the ragged edged sound, lost in my skin.

A diamond haze, glittering liquid guard of my skin
when the mind is lost, deep in night.
An atmosphere choked house, feared, haunted
a momentary gleam of the real and its elasticity
but the mind returns, habitual, an eternal fool.
Review the beginning in this circle with just a glance.

A rush of blood, a flash flood and down to the floor I glance
heat prickles and sudden brief cool flows over delicate skin.
Ever the optimist, the believer, the fool,
I look for a release- answer or idea for this night.
Must this be repeated? Time passing creates elasticity
leaving each of us irreparably haunted.

Perhaps it is germane to the fool to be haunted.
The glance pointed and stretched, masterful elasticity.
There is more to protect than skin this night.

now this one is amazing i love it and i can really relate the last line sums it up to everything i was thinking of, mwah i am becoming a fan of you :wink:

I'm blushing. Thank you!

My Goodness you're talented. If you told me it's a famous poet's creation I'd believe you. Awesome job. Can't wait to read even more. Your poems are indeed very nice. I just wished you'd achieve the success you deserve with your writing

i agree ramona it sounds so profesional