wekoronshei
American
I've been writing for a decade. It's hard to say that I have a particular style, though I am incredibly adept at abstract prose and, when the mood strikes me, rhyming verse. I am in love with language, and it is not uncommon for me to write in different ones, having taught myself several. Sometimes I write with a dark mood; sometimes I paint a picture of beauty and light. Whatever the case may be, I do hope you'll find something you like. / / Cheers.
I sat smoking a cigarette one day
on a bench inside the local park,
and some old, holier-than-thou type
came up to me, spouting some
nonsense about how "Those could ****
you, you know."
And I replied, concisely,
"Oh, I know."
"But," I continued,
"so do cars and guns
and terrible puns. So does
every poke, cut and scrape;
every bone you break;
every breath you take
and glass you drink;
every single thing you think;
every time you blink;
every scratch
and ray of sunlight you catch;
every pill you're swallowin'
and moment of sorrow you wallow in;
every religion you could be followin';
every word you speak
and meal you eat--
even walking on your own two feet.
So do hopes and votes,
popes and sore throats,
rhetoric and prose.
Everything kills, my friend,
though we only see it at the end--
and by then it's been too long
and we can no longer sing songs
of our discoveries and reveries,
and treasuries and pleasure-ies,
and best friends forever-ies.
The way I see it,
ain't no reason livin' if'n I'm givin'
two ***** 'bout all that;
I've already tossed in my hat."
Nov 22, 2011
Nov 22, 2011 at 5:34 PM UTC
Moonlit skies on this summer's eve,
take me in, though grant me leave;
I will explore you thoroughly.
On trodden paths near-forgot,
a bloodhound's howl, a hunter's shot:
a late-night symphony.
And we
paint the world with all we've got.
Though everything now strongly glows,
where we walk, no one knows.
Nor remains an eternity,
nor rain, nor calm bellows
that withers the spirit inside of me.
So away, now, and do perceive
those moonlit skies on a summer's eve;
whether weather's clear or not,
whether stars shine bright or not,
onward -- onward! -- in twain we'll cleave
the lot;
onward -- onward! -- in twain we'll cleave
the lot
of those who scant believe.
Nov 22, 2011
Nov 22, 2011 at 5:32 PM UTC
We were interstellar travellers,
children so interested in creating
our infinite microcosmic civilizations,
that we missed it. I saw it,
briefly, once, at night.
We jumped from rock to rock
in the grand pond of the
universe, swam between asteroid reefs
and through the turbulent vents
that were black holes. We
lived everywhere, nowhere,
all at once and for an eternity
at the fringes of galaxies,
and their centres (having burrowed
through the thick skins of dying suns).
We built, advanced, explored,
warred, and coexisted. We knew
everything. We thought.
We knew everything, we thought.
It began as a small blip,
an electromagnetic pulse at the
beginning of time which meta-
imposed itself into the rest of time:
a god, or something of
the sort, it grew and
shrank, and grew and
shrank; a heartbeat--
life. Death.
It ended as a small blip,
an electromagnetic pulse at the
end of time which meta-
imposed itself into the rest of time:
a god, or something of
the sort, it grew and
shrank, and grew and
shrank; a heartbeat--
life. Death.
From the former to the latter,
it sparked creation
and destruction
and advancement
and setback
and belief
and theory
and one
and none.
I saw it,
briefly, once, at night.
Nov 22, 2011
Nov 22, 2011 at 5:31 PM UTC