May I take a moment to rant? And do you understand?

Whooosh





It hits me like


a brick


Self-proclaimed


poet nay artist





Futile words that hold


meaning only to me


Views that my eyes alone


can envision





The air rushes


from my puffed-out chest


My ink is barely dry


and regret spills forth


from my pen.





MY pen.


A fine pair we make


both delusional


and deceived into





thinking


we could





writeMay I take a moment to rant? And do you understand?
ironic,


isn't it?





.May I take a moment to rant? And do you understand?
I wrote this one my freshman year of college . . . I've been there, and sometimes revisit . . .





How Long?








How long do you think I'll keep my dream?


It's not as easy as I make it seem.


Words plastered on paper, on ream after ream.


I write some, create some, and try not to scream.





How long will it take to realize


The magic is only in my eyes?


Words are just words if they don't hypnotize.


As I write these words, I tell myself lies.





How long will I beat my head on the wall,


Knowing forever I'll not make it fall?


Words are my everything, my nothing at all --


From nothing to nothing, my words' shadows call.





How long until I lay down my pen,


Find a new dream, start all over again?


Words aren't where I'm going, they're just where I've been.


I know they must fail me, I just don't know when.





How long can I ignore the things people say --


Plug ears, cover eyes, hope they all go away?


Words are the devil, they lead me astray.


I must leave this devil, there's no other way.





How long will it be 'til I set myself free?


Let bygones be bygones, let me not be me.


Words can't control me, my brain holds the key --


My death, yet my dream-life -- my writing I flee.
Oh! Artiste! Thy pen flies


as the ink dries


on parchment electronic;


and is it not ironic





that you believed


yourself deceived





full of delusion,


but this, my conclusion,


that your mind and pen


lost and found again





enlighten us with your perception,


in your search for expression perfection.





So rant on brave Sin,


we will read again


all the words you write:


poet, artist, keyboard sprite!
The question is not is this new


because nothing is ever new


yes there might be invention


a twist of bon mot, or design


but in the eloquence of the persuasion


what message do we wish to decry


.... will verse be release, or a pen





ALL IS VANITY; a biblical poet cried out


lamenting that nothing gave pleasure anymore


because he choose to see it that way


the blackness is the nothingness


from which all light comes


in this contrast of dictum


... ...............................to which we all belong
Very very creative!


Ah, as I read of the pen, it makes me think about those pens from the MUCH older days, when people dipped the quill ( did I get that right?) into the ink as they write.


Ah, what a picture it poses, I highly reckon!


But be careful not to get hit too hard from that brick! OW!
You have just written the internal life of nearly every writer.





I've fully been there and I've lived this sentiment many times.





After I've written something I feel is good and then I plod through the next few misfires I wonder if I will ever write anything good again.





thinking


we could


write





(how dare we)





Very nice.
very nice poem. you vice here is loud, clear, and well understood.


when the wind blows, you never know what it brings along with it. probably that is the fate of poets.


your previous poem (murdered child), which I missed, is as powerful and painful as truth can be.
Pfft.


Sin you take things that have meaning to you %26amp; find the words to portray the meaning to us, things that seemed insignificant you give substance, often in a form that hits us like a brick.
You're a good poet ... you know it. (Damn it I rhymed.)





I think what happens is we post poetry (akin - in my mind - to throwing a little piece of your soul into the ether) and some a$$holes come around to step all over it.





Excuse my language, but that's how I feel right now.
Sounds like both you and your pen can write just fine.


I like how you used poetry to explore your confidence.


Keep writing, you have much to explore for yourself


and all of us out here in love with good poetry.
A tell-tale sign that a writer has achieved the ability to remain humble is when the smoke ';continues'; to erupt from the tip of their worn down pencils.
Wonderful poem which describes how many poets feel at one time or another. Obviously, you are not writing of yourself.
Three Words: I Love It!





(especially the last verse) - both delusional and deceived into thinking we could write.
Sin, you just described what I've been feeling for the past two weeks. I saw this happening as I read it.


Very good indeed.
You are lying to yourself again. Your pen does write and write well! We always have self doubt when we post something. A good write.
You wrote this. You can write.


I've never had the guts to write a poem.


Great expression.
who really is your worst critic...





you CAN write...this I HAVE WITNESSED


sorry, i'm yelling...





we could just go have a drink and mop up afterwards....
Stage fright, and after burn.


Better you speak to your self as your best friend.


You scribble a worthy pen.
i do, and i like it.





as well as this line from herf ^^


Words aren't where I'm going, they're just where I've been.
Are you your best critic, my dear?
Neonman said it....





Loved your work...
Write to me, darlin. write long and hard.
this is amazing. im glad i clicked on your question. bravo
that puffed out chest bit was a turn on.....ya got me ......seaman .....sx