Comments
Is it really true that poets die earlier? Im freaked!!
Written By moonshadows on Apr. 9, 2008.
5 Comments
Report Note
+ Clip This
A poem to lighten the day(maybe not hahha)
This world is twisted.
Filth,scum,black scum squeamishly
squelching out of its heaving pores
gasping for breath it never seems to get enough
of oh city life, urban times
night life flashes neon and dry blinding ur eyes
tall skyscrapers never fail to mesmerize
stress in thick cups of coffee strewn over the garbage bin
filled to the brim with its kindred
newspapers deplore injustice, condemns the wrong
when just next door past repeats itself
another homeless person, innocent of sins
kicked out on the porch by cigar wielding demon in smart suit,
moustache bristling... yelling " Vermin, filth!"
absently wiping his big brass knuckled Gucci shoes on the carpet,
soot and flour never mixed and so did class.
moonshadows
Written Apr. 9, 2008 / Report /
Blessing or Bane?
Words tumble over one another, rushing
out of my mouth...
Wish it were rosebud shaped, cupid's bow, a memento of good times passed
Wish i was a princess, castle in the air
Hopes blown in silver bubbles, globules of moonlight floating in midnight sky...
A thousand shards of rainbow in my ice-cream.
But i wonder, sucking on my straw in my empty coke can,
Is that a bane or a blessing?
Through a looking glass from plainer pastures, a blessing indeed.
But to the canary doused in kerosene,
gilded cage, styled grandeur, petite diamond shoes,
dimples at east and west and tears that collect on the cusp of rosebud lips...
Is it blessing or bane?
moonshadows
Written Apr. 9, 2008 / Report /
My life is a winding road
my life is a winding road
gossamer petals float on too-still water
eyes turned inward, a searchlight during a storm
looking for oil to pour on troubled waters
searing pain blinds me, crimson tears,
split gossamer and water.
I know not where i am.
I know not who i am.
Strangers with beautiful faces, contorted faces, masked faces glide by...
Softest china silk rips into neat ribbons, as sword slices.
They don't care, they don't give a damn.
I am a pebble, a rock, a part of the flag in the sky.
It's hard to tell friend from foe,
when flouncy wigs and telltale signs of lies lurk everywhere...
Atop generous bosoms topped with vacant, happy faces...a facade.
my life is a winding road
Ozone42
Written Apr. 9, 2008 / Report /
I'm answering your topic question here.
I don't think it's the rule, but I don't think it's uncommon either. Any type of artist tends to live more passionately than your average bloke. There's a different level of intensity of feeling and experience required for artistic expression. I'd say everyone can achieve it, but artists have that turned on more often or more strongly.
It would follow that living and experiencing things more intensely may contribute to an earlier demise. Of course it doesn't necessarily mean that, but I can see a tenuous connection.
leliathomas
Written Apr. 10, 2008 / Report /
I sure hope not. :P
I think it depends on each person.
moonshadows
Written Apr. 11, 2008 / Report /
Hmm yeah that makes sense but still the thought that poets die earlier is still very scary. I'm a poet and i don't really savour the thought of me dying before my time. But if you look at poets and writers throughout history, many of them had mental problems, committed suicide( ala Virginia Woolf, Silvia Plath) or were consumed by diseases like the Bronte daughters...