- Jul 25, 2010
- Reaction score
"Do not go gentle into that good night,
Old age should burn and rave at close of day."
I honestly edit these poetry threads on multiple sites.
Believe it or not, I don’t really carry all that much pride.
Things just come to me, whether they work, I just write.
I see words as strings, as threads, interwoven in rhymes.
Letters connect in sentences then in each and every line.
I escape, text in my head within darkness and in the light.
Which is utterly meaningless, nonsense, madness in a blight.
The truth is I publicly post this as a way to open up my mind.
Words are written while letters are dancing, twirling as they fly.
From a keyboard to a screen and onto the stone of this website.
You don’t have to like me though.
I can be hot and I can be cold.
My words can cut to the bone.
I can be...one O so troubled soul.
Why do I keep rhyming?
Why are words turning?
Why are words curving?
Why are words burning?
Why are words blurring?
Why do I keep bleeding?
Why we keep believing?
Why are words…lying?
The truth is
There is a lie
But no periods.
What is the meaning of it?
Is it clinging, clanging, this?
Mean anything? Everything?
Why is that keyboard trying?
The sound of its keys pressing.
Hitting. Striking. Clicking. Typing.
Like rain on glass, pitter-pattering.
Thudding—spacebar is thundering.
Fingers like lightning, dancing on a board.
Sound of a violin yet it’s singing in a chorus.
Cello, horn, drum, later a guitar to take a floor.
Writing words—I sometimes need a thesaurus.
Lyrics are like liquid; like the fine wine of language.
Even though I recognize that I am often just rambling.
In this third line, I realize I am quite stuck in the opening.
Of any poems beneath, this is intended to be introducing.