Help me

Traver DiDiminico

At the bottom of a clear mistake
I swim with small fins in a big lake
The light filters down dispersed
Intensity fading like my hopes
And yet, I find comfort here;
The rocky bottom is not unfamiliar.

I've heard tell of a man with ability;
Intelligence, an arm and ability.

FUCK this poem!
FUCK poetry too!

Poetry doesn't feed me, clothe me, pay my rent.
It doesn't quiet the voices in my head.
I cannot expain myself in words, in phrases, in similies and metaphors.
When conscience comes to call
I cannot claim ignorance.
I am responsible.

Felicity

exACTly!
what in the living shit is so great about poetry?
swirling vortex of words flying past your eyes
making you think about too many things
some of them real
some of them fantasy
some of them i'm not sure about at all
fucking nitpickers taking words apart
counting goddamn syllables
tapping out the rhythm
with their idle fingers
what is the point in imagining that the words
are coming from the mouth of your lover?
that their luscious truth/lies could fill your ears
with that voice you long to hear
crackly/sexy/whispering
do you want me to........ now?
why let yourself soar with emotion
or cry to the depths of the demon's curse?
why even believe in anything anymore?
because there's proof
in words that have passed before
there's a touch recalled
and the smell of lusty breath
there's hope once the eyes have met
even though there was deceit and anger

because true love never,ever dies
it simply doesn't
and who but lovers
can ever express their extremes
in the rhythm of words
when love transcends the mere body
longing/full of unrequited passion/hopeful and aching

you're right
fuck that

FinsburyParkCarrots

The only people who ever got a crust of bread out of poetry were the fili of Ireland, writing for their aristocratic Irish patrons. And then the English turned up and kicked them into destitution.

For me, poetry is about the processes of crafting new ways to say the unsayable, rather than the product of the writer's self-satisfaction or wealth.

Amaterasu

Big grin

pearlmutt

I’m fat on the
Fili-mignon
Of metaphors

The morsels
Of meiosis (my-OH-sis)

Better than psychosis

Ha, ha
Instead of
Halitosis

Honey
Is better
Than money

When the bee
Is to be
Or not to be
My poetry.

sevensins

"When conscience comes to call
I cannot claim ignorance"

really like that line, very nice poem

Traver DiDiminico

FinsburyParkCarrots wrote:

The only people who ever got a crust of bread out of poetry were the fili of Ireland, writing for their aristocratic Irish patrons. And then the English turned up and kicked them into destitution.

For me, poetry is about the processes of crafting new ways to say the unsayable, rather than the product of the writer's self-satisfaction or wealth.

Of course, I feel the same way. This poem was about the frustration of trying to say the unsayable and a general gut check on my self-pitying outlook on life right now.