Who wants to read my crappy poetry? That's right, you do!

[Joekababazae]

I kinda write poetry sometimes, and I thought I might share some with you fine people.

This one is called "The Pain"


A twinge of synapse, the tiniest change, ripples sent out, his future is set.

A strange behavior, abnormal condition, a desperate thought that there was hope for him yet.

An existence unstable, a comfortable lie, when asked of his psyche, they replied he was fine.

An invader takes root, blind to the pain, he quickly ordered the child to fall in line.

Time passes with unease, a worsening condition, disease poisoning a mind full of hate.

A new sun rises, shifting location, a different setting promised a clean slate.

Many ears were lent, professionals called, the boy still unable to vent his frustrations.

A situation crumbling, perpetual fear, they silenced his screams with many medications.

A surreal terror, constant agitation, columns of reason ripped from behind.

Trapped in his head, thinking only of himself, a worthless product of his broken mind.

Seen as a defect, he stumbled through life, mental wounds refusing to mend.

Stuck on this earth, forever a coward, in a daze he awaited for his untimely end.

[IdentityPoltergeist]

I like your style and rhythm here. This seems like a real working-out of some conflicting feelings. There's hope but there's no hope. The future is set but there is change. Cling to hope. I don't buy into ideas like fate and doom and destiny and soul mate. Create new ripples .

People who write someone off as "fine" when obviously they are not feeling so "fine" aren't really hearing you out. They are dismissing you for their own personal agendas. Either because it suits them to ignore your needs and feelings and make you feel distrust in yourself or because to admit that you aren't "fine" is to admit that they are not "fine" and uncomfortable truths start to emerge. Fine is a pretty meaningless word anyway. It's the mundane response we all grumble to one another when asked "how are you?" when no one obviously cares (you can tell by the way they continue walking at the same pace as though they didn't ask you a legitimate question) and we always say "fine" when was we really mean is "life is horseshit, I'm feeling insecure about my penis size, I'll never get a decent job, inside I'm still a little boy and I just want to cry and be held lovingly and be told everything is going to be...fine."

Keep writing, even if you hate it later (I go through these phases of love-hate with my writing), it's a creative, healthy outlet to vent your frustrations. Cling to the hope.

[Joekababazae]

I call this one "The Wolves". I wrote it back in May during a very rough time but I'm very proud of this one despite it being really fucked up.





A new beginning, a circle desired, she walked into the night with friendly ambition.

She was welcomed by wolves, lured by chaos, quickly she lost her naive inhibitions.

Poison she drank, laced with ill intentions, she fell into blackness, helpless and weak.

They took her upstairs, devoured her whole, when she awoke, of this she would not speak.

She stumbled blind to the place she called home, violated, hurt, and so very alone.

She went about her days, nervous and anxious, forever quiet, silent to the bone.

She knew not where to go, with whom she could confide. She fell into despair with no one to trust.

Studies declined, friends were avoided, all this a product of the wolves' vicious lust.

No more could she take it, thoughts bottled up, a professional was just who she needed.

To the therapist she went, steps dripping with fear, afraid her words wouldn't be heeded.

To the woman she spoke, words flowed like tears, a pain unheard, a scream unspoken.

The woman vowed action, swift retribution, and assured her that she was not in fact broken.

Sirens wailed, lights flashed bright, the wolves put in chains, removed from their heinous lair.

A slap on the hand, a stern word or two, it seemed that of her plight, no one would care.

She went on with her days in fear, avoiding the shadows, reassured she was not.

Closing the door, she crawled into bed, regretting all what others forgot.

The worst of thefts caused visions distorted, she felt ruined, forever denied the feeling of love.

She sat there unmoving, deep in contemplation, her thoughts then turned to the heavens above.

One final task with morbid intention, with rope in hand she walked to highest most visible tree.

In the morning they found her, discovered in terror, her anguish apparent, hanging for all to see.

A horror that could have been avoided, a senseless act of self-inflicted slaughter.

She was laid to rest far too soon, infinite pain, parents left to bury their beloved only daughter.