Stock

Traver DiDiminico

It will happen
It better
Hours like this
Are unreal
It has to stop
IT HAS TO STOP
Please...

JesusTheTerrorist

Traver DiDiminico wrote:

It will happen
It better
Hours like this
Are unreal
It has to stop
IT HAS TO STOP
Please...

It will happen,
It must
An hour like this,
Unreal
It has to stop
It has to stop
Please, I beg
It must

What thinks you?

If you don't mind me asking, what did you feel when you wrote this, and I hope you're ok. I think the original is effective and I like it. It's clear you write with a flow, and from real emotion.

Ali

Go Traver...tell off who you must...just write on!

allison

Traver DiDiminico

JesusTheTerrorist wrote:

If you don't mind me asking, what did you feel when you wrote this, and I hope you're ok. I think the original is effective and I like it. It's clear you write with a flow, and from real emotion.

It's called "Stock" as in taking stock of my life. It's about so much beauty that I cry. It's about my inability to reconcile my life with the majesty of my spirit. It's a cry for help when I know that no one can--I am a result of me. It's the verbalization of a belly flop into an empty pool with a rocky bottom. It's giving up the ghost only to find out it's not mine to give. It's a crude attempt at expressing 37 cuisinarted emotions that I didn't even understand before the blading. AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH! AAH! It's about stepping back, looking around and thinking, "You've got to be kidding me." I don't know. I may never. Ain't life grand?

Ms. Haiku

Traver DiDiminico wrote:

It will happen
It better
Hours like this
Are unreal
It has to stop
IT HAS TO STOP
Please...

And the pain becomes more intense
as the contractions increase.
1 2 3. . . 1 2 3 . . . 1 2 3
she says over and over to herself.

Her mother wears a sweater.
Her sister wears a sweater,
and she sees icicles hanging near the porch.
She wears nothing, but sweat.

She's not willing to go under
for an epiduraled scheduled.
1 2 3 . . . 1 2 3 . . . 1 2 3
She's willing to endure
just to hear a howl.

ISN

It's about so much beauty that I cry. It's about my inability to reconcile my life with the majesty of my spirit. It's a cry for help when I know that no one can--I am a result of me.

and then what.....you don't reconcile yourself to oblivious temperance and routine, or to life's vagaries.....you reconcile yourself to your honesty.....to being honest with yourself, even if it makes you sad, and your unhappiness urges you to conform, to pretend.....you don't conform......you recognise that beauty in everything, which in itself is painful, and like Icarus you reach for the sun.....I'm only trying to persuade myself.....as I write this for you.....that there is a pinnacle of perfection that the soul strives for.....like a kind of alchemy of tests and refinement.....and it's only when we make choices which have integrity, and when we are true to ourselves, even if we are scoffed, that we can reach this pinnacle......there's nothing pointless about life.....even your majestic spirit knows that

Traver DiDiminico

ISN wrote:

and then what.....you don't reconcile yourself to oblivious temperance and routine, or to life's vagaries.....you reconcile yourself to your honesty.....to being honest with yourself, even if it makes you sad, and your unhappiness urges you to conform, to pretend.....you don't conform......you recognise that beauty in everything, which in itself is painful, and like Icarus you reach for the sun.....I'm only trying to persuade myself.....as I write this for you.....that there is a pinnacle of perfection that the soul strives for.....like a kind of alchemy of tests and refinement.....and it's only when we make choices which have integrity, and when we are true to ourselves, even if we are scoffed, that we can reach this pinnacle......there's nothing pointless about life.....even your majestic spirit knows that

bullseye. I have a front row spot on the bench in your choir. Often times I find that my writing is completely at odds with my conclusions. Kind of like the poem is my cathartic vehicle, my written thought process that got me to where I am. However, the end result is with me and not conveyed in the poem. I think this is how it should be. I don't want to put morals/definite statements/proclaimations/lectures,etc., at the end of my poems. The reason I mention this is that from time to time I sense that some people's responses to my postings address me rather than my work. As well-intentioned and natural as this may be, I post material here to share that cathartic process, the art itself, not because I need affirmation, guidance, or worry (again, I understand the intention and it is most noble and appreciated, but damn it if I don't try to call 'em as I see 'em). I'm afraid that I am cataclismically failing to properly express myself, but I have complete faith that you guys will understnd anyway.

Cheers.

P.S. - ISN, my first two sentences are in responce to you, the rest is sans direction. Let me just say that your post plucked all my right strings.