X-Sabre Posted March 11, 2007 Report Posted March 11, 2007 (edited) As I awaken, my eyes open to the truth. Just one more day, another lost memory, Confusing me, grinding my teeth till I chip a tooth. But still can't see through this haze of mediocrity. I ask myself questions, to discover the root. Everything around me seems to go up in smoke, and when I ask for help, no one could give a hoot, so I guess I'll just sit back and have a toke. Why do I keep getting stuck in this rut? Where in this world is my way out? How many more situps to get rid of this gut? They blame my faith because it isn't devout. No matter what I do, it always seems to backfire, Like a misloaded gun blowing up in your face, Or believing in a man who is known as a liar. At times the questions they seem so vague, a bit of this, a bit of that, and everything between. They follow me and hound me just like a plague but with that my vision has become so keen. As I stare through this fog, it suddenly lifts. In the distance the answer becomes clear. Through all the temper tantrums and fits, it became clear that my place is not here. semi finished.. needs serious editing and criticism. Edited March 25, 2007 by X-Sabre
X-Sabre Posted March 25, 2007 Author Report Posted March 25, 2007 bumping to bring back to page 1 now that it's finished enough.
Loki Wyrd Posted March 30, 2007 Report Posted March 30, 2007 As I awaken, my eyes open to the truth.______________Awakened, my.. Just one more day, another lost memory,__________/me disapproves of the nature of this line Confusing me, grinding my teeth till I chip a tooth.______Grinding my teeth, fugue in confusion But still can't see through this haze of mediocrity._______Sight obscured through... I ask myself questions, to discover the root.________"Throw us a metaphor; I'd stick with the smoke one and tie the paragraph around it " Everything around me seems to go up in smoke, and when I ask for help, no one could give a hoot, so I guess I'll just sit back and have a toke.________...at this point, the apathetic stoner in me speaks that in order to find poetry in your life, you must distill the bounds that define you. Figurative language is at it's best when it's something alive something fresh. Why do I keep getting stuck in this rut? Where in this world is my way out? How many more situps to get rid of this gut? They blame my faith because it isn't devout. No matter what I do, it always seems to backfire, Like a misloaded gun blowing up in your face, Or believing in a man who is known as a liar. At times the questions they seem so vague, a bit of this, a bit of that, and everything between. They follow me and hound me just like a plague but with that my vision has become so keen. As I stare through this fog, it suddenly lifts. In the distance the answer becomes clear. Through all the temper tantrums and fits, it became clear that my place is not here.
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