Poetry: Why I Suck at It.

It’ s apparently national poetry writing month. I had no idea, otherwise I would be taking part in with most vigor, but it seems that I’ve missed my chance to enter in on time. Aw shucks, and I have no plans on starting late, NaNoWriMo was hard enough.

Anyways on to today’s subject. Poetry. Why I suck at it.

Well take a look for yourself.

“Lies stain the page as his red eyes float over the page. Black webs of deceit spin themselves into existence, as beads of sweat slowly drop from his brow and onto the page. The page is black, with black writing, and black smudges. As his sweat hits the pages they sink through as if the page was nothing more than a mist. His tire and his effort are never felt by the page, but his horrible pride and pity wash onto it leaving another black stain, on the black page of black marks and black smudges. More and more does he repent as he does all he can, as more and more beads of his bright red sweat seep onto the page, he knows that what stains the pages now is no longer merely his sweat, but he continues to wish, continues to try and hope that all that he has put into will be returned to him. He knows not what he has started this for, nor does he know why he continues, yet he still does. His eyes never drift from the page even as the bright red sweat begins to pour through the page, never truly making contact. He cannot stop however as he continues, simply draining himself of more and more of his strength, of his energy, of his ability. However, now he knows, as the red sweat he bleeds begins to rise so high off the ground that the page has no choice but to be stained. He knows why he continues to stare, he knows why his gaze will never soften, and it is nothing more than his own folly, his own terrible mistake that causes him to sweat a crimson sheen that now stains the black page, of black words, of black marks, of black smudges. The red and the black mix on the page, one becoming the other, all whilst he stares, unable to move because of his own ill-fated mistake, he knows that he is powerless to stop it. The red sweat begins to rise as the black is slowly melted away, only a memory now, and yet he continues to sit looking at where the red stained page now sits under the red sweat. Even as the crimson sea begins to rise up to his neck, he continues to stare, continues to sweat, as more and more red joins the sea. It is chocking as the sweat rises to his mouth, and he the sweat comes back into him, comes back to where it came from. He is unable to react, unable to scream, as the red fills his mouth, his throat, his lungs and his heart. The red mingles with his very being, it mingles with who he is, and it mingles with his soul. He is unable to stop it as slowly he is unable to tell when the red ends and when his body begins. He is the red, as the red is him. He is no longer a “he” but the red, the red is no longer just the red, but it is also him. The red has become stained. The pure red has become stained. The pure crimson red has become stained. The pure crimson red has become stained. The pure crimson red has become stained. The pure crimson red wept.”

When ever I want to write something deep and interesting. This is usually what ends up coming out. I’m a man of many words and I usually find my poetry transforming from poetry and into something more a kin to spoken word. Still, in the spirit of the month I’ll try to condense that into something like poetry.

“Spinning lies stain the page.

The words speak of a different age.

One when I knew what I said was true.

Now all I want to say is that we’re through.

Red engulfs me.

My veins they bleed, crimson.

I know not the words that I need to say.

Instead I say the words that dig.

Dig myself a hole.

From which I’ll fall.

Those spinning lies trap me.

I’m lost. I’m gone.

I don’t deserve to be found.”

I don’t like it. Meh. It’s not horrible… I guess.

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