Loving and loathing myself.
I am tired doing nothing.
Is that another word?
Words, too many woe is me words.
Where can I find the brutal stinging words?
Or the gentle humming tune.
I am a mixed bag of emotions, no words to weep on,
To ponder or to simply indulge my deepest self pity.
Who cares for it?
Just a choice like everybody else, decisions & beliefs to live by,
Consequences, yes consequences and conscience to follow you.
Sometimes the exact feeling is to poison the very paper you scratch at, others to lift you to a place beyond thought & wildest fears.
How do you just be?
Atone my ways; know my heart, I live and love but I am a lost child. To live is to give thanks.
2006-11-09 10:11:21 · 5 answers · asked by Bentele 3 in Arts & Humanities ➔ Books & Authors
you know it is the most awe inspireing "scratchings" that i have ever read. would you like it published?
2006-11-09 10:22:33 · answer #1 · answered by Anonymous · 0⤊ 0⤋
I really like it right up until "I am a mixed bag of emotions," which strikes me as the point where pretentiousness begins to outweigh poesis. You're clearly aware of the possibility of "indulging your deepest self pity," but the poem does begin to seem self-indulgent and solipsistic.
I have this problem with Bukowski sometimes, so at least you're in good company.
2006-11-09 20:27:34 · answer #2 · answered by Drew 6 · 1⤊ 0⤋
I like it! specially the last two stanzas
2006-11-09 18:21:08 · answer #3 · answered by --V-- 5 · 0⤊ 0⤋
Sounds like you're lost for words... lol!!!
2006-11-10 01:39:21 · answer #4 · answered by Aussie_Tania 2 · 0⤊ 0⤋
not bad.
one of the better pieces ive read here.
2006-11-09 18:20:32 · answer #5 · answered by idbangrobertplant 6 · 0⤊ 0⤋