#self-criticism - Hello Poetry

"Come on page, where do the words fit?" In the puzzle that is my brain, i ask as at The table i sit My hairs have split, like cheap ****** Remy But then again maybe my idea bulb isn't lit. "Come along pen, why can't you write?" We've been up with this piece since last night I ask myself again, this is really starting to frighten me, i know i might be pressuring myself too much, But that's where the best moments come from, in the clutch. "Come on heart, where's your spark? You usually flutter in the act of creating art!" But alas no wings flapping, and no adrenaline rushing like a spotted chameleon Just stone faced cynicism like a gremlin

0

Mar 22, 2017

Mar 22, 2017 at 11:25 PM UTC

neroameealucard

Pressure

"Come on page, where do the words fit?" In the puzzle that is my brain, i ask as at The table i sit My hairs have split, like cheap ****** Remy But then again maybe my idea bulb isn't lit. "Come along pen, why can't you write?" We've been up with this piece since last night I ask myself again, this is really starting to frighten me, i know i might be pressuring myself too much, But that's where the best moments come from, in the clutch. "Come on heart, where's your spark? You usually flutter in the act of creating art!" But alas no wings flapping, and no adrenaline rushing like a spotted chameleon Just stone faced cynicism like a gremlin

12

I **** at writing poetry, but I do it anyway Because life is an absurd struggle in An impersonal universe, thus rendering All efforts ultimately meaningless, If that's the case, why shouldn't I write bad poetry? If we are to, as Camus says "imagine Sisyphus happy" Then I'll keep rolling this metaphorical Boulder of frustrated creativity up the Mountain of artistic expression, in the Misplaced hope that just maybe, One of these times, instead of rolling Back down and adding one more instance, To that large pile of abject failures that I've accumulated throughout my life, It will stay at the top, rendering me Successful, and making one of these Jumbled word salad tangents into Something that's actually worth reading. ...probably not gonna happen, though.

0

Mar 12, 2016

Mar 12, 2016 at 3:28 AM UTC

iliveinyourhead

Hokum

I **** at writing poetry, but I do it anyway Because life is an absurd struggle in An impersonal universe, thus rendering All efforts ultimately meaningless, If that's the case, why shouldn't I write bad poetry? If we are to, as Camus says "imagine Sisyphus happy" Then I'll keep rolling this metaphorical Boulder of frustrated creativity up the Mountain of artistic expression, in the Misplaced hope that just maybe, One of these times, instead of rolling Back down and adding one more instance, To that large pile of abject failures that I've accumulated throughout my life, It will stay at the top, rendering me Successful, and making one of these Jumbled word salad tangents into Something that's actually worth reading. ...probably not gonna happen, though.

20

I am not adequate I'm never enough For my own expectations Which are incredibly tough My imperfections and flaws Are pointed out, for sure Mental slave drivers don't pause From their enduring hurt Yet these expectations are invented by me Nobody else says I'm not enough From this mental state, I'd like to be free I'm tired of this self-battering stuff

0

Dec 14, 2015

Dec 14, 2015 at 8:30 PM UTC

rising-up

Enough

I am not adequate I'm never enough For my own expectations Which are incredibly tough My imperfections and flaws Are pointed out, for sure Mental slave drivers don't pause From their enduring hurt Yet these expectations are invented by me Nobody else says I'm not enough From this mental state, I'd like to be free I'm tired of this self-battering stuff

12

Losing the difference in the grand design Without a kiss from another kind or the oral tradition It's been months since I last looked behind and felt sorta lucky Or last imagined myself in a bed with a girl who likes me Some soft perfume in your eyesight fills me up with some raven desire to take control of how your time unfolds My genes are bruise steepers they're valiant cut keepers and in my soupy potential I'll find I've wasted too much time.

0

May 3, 2014

May 3, 2014 at 4:05 AM UTC

nathan-burgess

Sinkhead

Losing the difference in the grand design Without a kiss from another kind or the oral tradition It's been months since I last looked behind and felt sorta lucky Or last imagined myself in a bed with a girl who likes me Some soft perfume in your eyesight fills me up with some raven desire to take control of how your time unfolds My genes are bruise steepers they're valiant cut keepers and in my soupy potential I'll find I've wasted too much time.

21