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Writing Death


Amorphous
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[color=crimson][size=1]Plucked from a vine
I lye down
For a death
Of great prospect

Yet of none that comes to mind
Simple series lined in architecture
The architecture of life
Swamped of decay and cyanide

A poison the seeps through
My eyes of burning blood
Caress of the deadly flood
The touch of a great wounded bud

The flow of life that was so
Never meant to be under towed
Lays down for me
For me and nothing else but me

Death
Death
Death
Death

Death is thy support
Of another failed architecture
Die, short
From the fountain of life

My hand could reach
But I could not feel
The brush of my life
Against the searing wheel

More tears well up in my eyes
As I sit in the corner waiting
For the acceptance of the sword
A ritual suicide concealed to hide

Plucked from a vine
There I lay
For a death that sat in bay
Death himself waited
For the prospect of
The weeping life
Never crossed
His simple mind
In retrospect this I do not lie.
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Guest sonicdivision
im a little teapot, and i hope you die
please cut me, woe is I
i'm a depressed wannabe stuck in this body
the cut on my arms no wonder no one likes me

give me a knife and I'll tell you a story
about that cut, woe is me
i've been boring people for years, trying to get tears
shut up bitch, lets make out. go and get me a beer

i saw you at that party once, anti-social whore
you dont like drunks
stop being a boring arty fuck
try being normal, you may gain friends, with some luck
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[color=crimson][size=1]Excuse me? That was quite a rude post. First of all I'm not a depressed person. Though I was depressed last night that is none of your business. I'm actually quite content with my life as it is now. I even have a girl friend that I would do anything for and she'd do the same, we've been together for 2 years now.

I'm not an anti-social person either because no matter where I go I'm always talking to someone. My actual friend count is pretty high as well, though I don?t want to brag.

I do not cut myself... in fact I'm highly against it. I am because I've seen why people do it and it's for the stupidest reasons I've ever seen. Hell I even help other people with there problems. Anyone that does cut themselves I really don't have any sympathy for because I did offer to help them in the begining anyways.

And I don't seek for any type of attention, because it doesn't matter that much to me if I get attention or not. I don't need attention to feel needed.

Now kindly get the fuck out of my thread.

P.S. I?m sorry, that may have been inappropriate to this thread if a mod reads it. But I feel obligated to kick this person out for being so rude; I may not have any better reason, but that was uncalled for. If a word will harm him so much as to take more rebellious action against me he should have never said anything in the first place. Please stop stereotyping people as well, I just write well when it comes to those types of subjects.

EDIT: On a second glance at his user name, it says he is banned. But I will leave this up here anyways, so hopefully people won't do the same thing.

I would also like to point out that I had taken the un-censored areas for granted by doing that and I encourage other people to [u]NOT[/u] follow what I have done. [/color][/size]
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I think it's a great poem, but to me it doesn't really seem like a depressed one. It flows very nicely. Maybe it's just me but it seems more like a strange awe and appreciation of death...maybe...

Oh well, I hope you can take a look at my poem and see what you think, it's seems to be quite difficult to find criticism around here.
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[color=crimson][size=1] Ok this is my latest poem... but I think I'll make a new topic eventually once I Really start getting good... hopefully people will reply to this and DerelictDestiny... I will get around to giving you constructive crtisizm eventually.

Schizophrenia Is Alone In The Dark

Rest in peace
Forthcoming the ashes
Feeling with the sheath
Contorting lashes

Purposes of the bleeding
So help me god
I am in pain and seething
I am only a master to the dog

How tasty the crimson
How tasty the blackness
How tasty the leather
How tasty my black heart is

How I loath the darkness
Yet I love the Stygian-est
But wait the darkness
(all the same, how repetitive)
Isn?t it all seeping into us?

Maybe my mind is separate
Maybe I?m all messed up in it
Because that is what I hate
Me, Myself and I
The one I didn?t hate was you

You and You and You
Only though that one is but me
So dark and cold. Is what I am
So bleak and I?m so sold

To a life that I like to call
A present state of hell
Raped of my eyes
Where has my soul been sold?

Each eye that I had
Lost each half
Of my pure substance
Till I was no more

Raped and left like the devils whore
A tainted touch that can never be cured
A schizophrenic vision being poured
Out of my fogging mind. I herd

The Cattle of my devastated field
The wolfs they had pleasure in the kill
So full of hateful zeal
And Yet in my mind, I am the wolf to my own society

Though I know it?s my own delicacy;
A Funny thing a delicacy known as purity
In my heart that feeling isn?t securely
Tightened like a bolt, flashing of lightening
Completely being rendered of burning flesh, frightening
Such to the point heightening

A piece of marble blood drips down my chest
I lust to have that blood... that drips down my chest
So that I will drain myself of the taste
That was tangible
In my once before suppressed
Case of un-corporeal-ality-less

Yet each mind speaks to me in it?s own way
One through my touch
One through my sight
One from a poisonous knife

And they like to let it all cascade from me
Pretending to be me... a facade
So that I can see everyone that stands in my way
And I know I hate the world that stands this day

So I stay in the blinding, flashing darkness
Where I always seem to fade... into myself
And away...[/color][/size]
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[size=1] The first poem was well done. I read it a while back, but never commented when I was planning to. It shows a good use of diction (word choice), and all that good stuff.

I seem to like this second one more though. Although there's some textual errors--such as the possesive of "it" doesn't have an apostrophe s, but is just "its," and lightning doesn't have an "e" in it I believe, and other such things. But those are fine. I actually think they add to the poem.

Overall, for the length of this second poem, it reads well, flows well, doesn't have much starting, then stopping, then starting. So I thought it worked well. I liked it better than everything else I've read from you so far (which probably isn't too much).

Keep writing! That's the best advice I can give to a fellow poet.[/size]
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[color=crimson][size=1] Thank you to everyone here for commenting on my poems. It's actually quite surprising since I've never really got comments until now. Maybe it's just my skill has been improving finally which is great.

Mitch, that also means a lot coming from you it really does and that was only around my 7th poem. I haven't wrote much as far as poetry goes. Anyways if you guys like this stuff here is another poem for your enjoyment which I just wrote.

A Painted Light Of Blood Suffering.

I see suffering around the corner
Painting a light and malicious hoarding
Panting a light, cascading and soaring
In it comes darkness, bleeding, coaxing

Me on in a famine blood depth
Entering I love the sewer depth, and kept
My mind from tasting the death
The little sign that proves it can be arabesque

And the blood that litters the wall
It tells me lies and pleasure of great all
So that it can have its way with me, makes me fall
So that I do fall upon a common grave corridor and my hall

Of dead body stench, blood suffering
Such a contempt in the nothing-ning
Savorless the flawless stuffing
Full of crimson leather coughing

Me into the entrails of my mind, barter on the fact of time
Let me rot and slowly decompose letting my hands wrap and bind
As though a cutting flow perceived thine eye on this swine
And here I do call for thy wisdom, simple yet defined

A painted light with a corner of blood suffering
As malicious as a carnivorous wind lighting
My tender flesh, upon the firing
Of complexity of darkness and blood suffering,
A painted light, another painting, always suffering.
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