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Literature Text
My Writing's too structured,
This I know to be true,
Laced with cliched rhymes,
I need to know what these words can do.
See what I mean?
I need to experiment with prose
and not constantly plan where every word goes.
This is going to harder than I thought
I need some uneven lines,
Time without a scheme,
Upsidedown words without any clout
Man, this stuff is hard to figure-
Out with the rhythm
Out with the counts
Out with the structure
Out! Out! Out!
Ok, that sounded a lot like Dr. Seuss.
Let me try once more:
Words are flying around and, with a drunken pen in hand, who knows what I'll write. Lines swimming through the air, all trying to make it into this pen's drunken rampage. Helping my thoughts straighten up, only to end up skewed in ink transfer. (Three cheers to the poets who've mastered prose - their pens must be inebriated whenever they write). This feeling, it's new, of flying, fleeting freedom. With this pen's last drink the boundaries of structure come crumbline, not sure where to stop. But wait, I feel the change now, it's slowing, sobering up. My pen's lost its voice. Now my woefully uncreative mind, I can see, is starting to pick words by choice.
Please pen, please. Drink soon again.
My writing's too structured,
This I know to be true,
I tried to break free,
Now, tell me, how'd I do?
This I know to be true,
Laced with cliched rhymes,
I need to know what these words can do.
See what I mean?
I need to experiment with prose
and not constantly plan where every word goes.
This is going to harder than I thought
I need some uneven lines,
Time without a scheme,
Upsidedown words without any clout
Man, this stuff is hard to figure-
Out with the rhythm
Out with the counts
Out with the structure
Out! Out! Out!
Ok, that sounded a lot like Dr. Seuss.
Let me try once more:
Words are flying around and, with a drunken pen in hand, who knows what I'll write. Lines swimming through the air, all trying to make it into this pen's drunken rampage. Helping my thoughts straighten up, only to end up skewed in ink transfer. (Three cheers to the poets who've mastered prose - their pens must be inebriated whenever they write). This feeling, it's new, of flying, fleeting freedom. With this pen's last drink the boundaries of structure come crumbline, not sure where to stop. But wait, I feel the change now, it's slowing, sobering up. My pen's lost its voice. Now my woefully uncreative mind, I can see, is starting to pick words by choice.
Please pen, please. Drink soon again.
My writing's too structured,
This I know to be true,
I tried to break free,
Now, tell me, how'd I do?
Ok, so I don't normally update poetry, and I don't write very much of it, but I decided to see how the dA crowd reacted to this.
This is probably the only poem I've written in the last year, but I submitted it into my school's literary magazine, then got an email from a teacher asking if they could submit it into a contest. I said they could and it ended up winning, which is pretty cool.
Uh, not much else to say - tell me what you think!
And I didn't take the preview picture, it was already on my comptuer.
This is probably the only poem I've written in the last year, but I submitted it into my school's literary magazine, then got an email from a teacher asking if they could submit it into a contest. I said they could and it ended up winning, which is pretty cool.
Uh, not much else to say - tell me what you think!
And I didn't take the preview picture, it was already on my comptuer.
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