Wrongdoer

Before

Writing is what makes words last for longer than a moment, much like memory but visible to the eye, much like a photograph but less silent, even though looking at it, it can not be heard. Writing allows one to speak without voice and still be heard, which is a beautiful thing. Writing is a pleasure, a way to ease the mind, almost like therapy, much like reading. Reading is informative in different ways, it is filled with silent moments of knowledge or simply fun and relaxation. I may not read as much as I ought to, but every know and then when I do, it eases the mind, much like writing. 

Screwed up

Wrongdoer is what makes wordiness last for longer than a mommy, much like ménage but visible to the eyeball, much like a photojournalist but less silent, even though looking at it, it cannot be heard. Wrongdoer allows one to speak without voiceprint and still be heard, which is a beautiful think back. Wrongdoer is a plebeian, a way to ease the mind-reading, almost like thereabouts, much like readvertise. Readvertise is informative in different waylayers. Readvertise is filled with silent mommys of knuckleduster or simply fun and relaxation. I may not read as much as I ought to, but every now and then when I do, it eases the mind-reading, much like wrongdoer.

After

Being a wrongdoer may be doing what mommy does not want you to do. This said, much like the importance of being a part of the ménage, the importance of standing alone is equally great. The power of truly thriving on ones own is too loud for photography to capture, even though looking at it, it cannot be heard. Being a wrongdoer allows one to create a voiceprint to last forever as a beautiful way to think back onto a time where you followed your heart. Doing wrong leads to avoidance of becoming a simple plebeian, and though it does not make one a mind reader, the importance of sometimes doing wrong is equal to that of sometimes doing right, or thereabouts. Like re-advertising oneself to the world, like re-advertising information. Do not waylayer, do not wait for attack. Re-advertise and silence mommy, for once get some fun and relaxation. I may not read as much as I ought to, so whose to say I’m right, but do not let them read you, be a wrongdoer every once in a while.

How to feel good

Today we have how to feel good. Yesterday,

I had a daily breakdown. And tomorrow morning,

I shall probably have another one. But today,

today we have how to feel good. The carelessness

glistens like joy in all of the neighbouring minds

And today we have how to feel good.

This is the routine of society. And this

is happiness, which use you will see,

when you are given your daily doses. And this is naturalness,

which in your case you have not got. The experienced

hold in their minds, beautiful, eloquent gestures,

Which in our case, we have not got.

This is safety, which is always

the easiest choice to make. And please do not let me

see anyone using their hearts. This is quite easy

if you have any strength in your mind. The young

are fragile and motionless, never letting anyone see

Any of them using their hearts.

And this you can see is self-control. The purpose of this

is to open the mind to reality, as you see. We can think this way

both backwards and forwards: we call this

common sense. And rapidly backwards and forwards

the minds are assaulting and fumbling the hearts

They call it common sense.

They call it common sense: it is perfectly easy

if you have any strength in you mind: like self-control,

and safety, and the daily doses, and the beauty,

which in our case we have not got; and the young carelessness

silent in all of the neighbouring minds, and the minds going backwards and forwards,

For today we have how to feel good.

A Trip to Copenhagen

A Trip to Copenhagen

In the afternoon I stepped out of the bus and into the streets of Copenhagen. My first though was that it was a scene taken right out of the Hunger Games. As I walked through the streets, I could hear conversations from the many people around me. “He is just the worst, such a douchebag!” “He really is”  “And he just treats me so bad” “It's so good that you got rid of him”“really!” “but I just have to” “there is nothing you HAVE to do”. These teenage girls sat talking about this young douchebag while eating their Cheasy skyr. Behind them I saw doves fighting for leftovers from the Burger King around the corner, where people were lining up in front of an elevator that was out of order. Further down one of the smaller streets a child riding a bike could be heard yelling “Look at me, look at me, I’m doing it!”, until the bicycle chain broke and the enthusiasm turned into crying. Some teenagers walked past her while discussing one of the girls’ broken nail, when suddenly a boy ran past them shouting “shotgun!”. On one side of the street, the local grocery store had put out spring onions, red onions and red potatoes, showcasing healthy living with Kennedy’s Irish Bar catching an early start on the other side of the street with Blackbird by Beatles on the speakers. Ironic. As I looked at the people there I saw everyone looking as if they were guarding their own personal ships as if they were all Jack Sparrow on the Black Pearl hanging onto their anchors in failed attempts to stay grounded. There at the end of the street was a stop sign, it was a dead end, but I was on foot, so I decided I would just keep going. If we had just stuck to walking there would be more than simply one way to choose on this earth. As I walked down all the roads I desired, the sun was starting to set over Copenhagen, and the darker it got, the more I wondered where the starry night had gone. Maybe it disappeared in pollution.

Writing game 8 - Oh how the fear consumes me

Author function: poet

Notion: fear

Oh how the fear consumes me 

that one day I may be gone

that one day I may be forgotten 

like a shipwreck lost at sea 

Oh how the fear consumes me

Oh how the fear eats me to my core 

takes my being before I'm gone

Takes my mind and heart 

takes my will to swim to shore 

Oh how the fear eats me to my core 

For the fear of death takes my life 

I become the thing I fear 

For I died a while ago 

not with body but with soul and mind 

for the fear of death takes my life

Oh how the fear consumes me

that I am already gone 

that I already forgot myself 

and am already lost at sea 

oh how the fear consumes me

Oh what is a life if lived in fear? 

what is a moment if not enjoyed?

And if all moments become just that 

then what will make my dimpled cheeks appear? 

Oh what is a life if lived in fear?

Reflection: 

In this poem, the repetition of lines in the stanzes and the rhymes and rhythms all work together to show the reader or listener a specific emotion, namely that of fear. If the meaning of the poem had to be written by someone writing in a more prosa-like form, for example a scriptor, the meaning would be described in more detail, yet with less obvious feeling than in the poem. The poem would also visually and formvise be changed into a prosa form and the rhymes and rhythms would most likely disappear when doing so. This would leave less to the imagination as it may take away some opportunity for personalised interpretation, yet it would call for a much more detailed explanation of the fear of dying in a more academic language. 

Picture on a wall - a song

Being a father is so much more
Than I could possibly endure
But I adore you
For trying so hard

Oh we had so much
Faith was shining down at us
Until you gave me to a man
Who couldn't love

I've heard stories daddy
Seen the pictures on the wall
And I can't help but wonder
Does he care for me at all?

Or am I just an obsession?
Am I a product of your greed and his jealousy
Am I just a possession?
For you to give away and for him to keep
And I know that you're trying daddy
But I hope you know that you're killing me
And I am soon to be
A picture on a wall

The mixed look

I'm a daughter, I'm a sister

I'm a girlfriend and an aunt

I'm a lover and a hater in a system gone wrong

A category defined by boxes and lines

"mean or kind"

It is either or, it is never and

Either you are or you're not, you can or you can't

The whole world can be of the mixed look

One collaboration of a different type

Yet one person has to be singularly defined

As one thing only at the time

One kind of mind within the right side of a drawn-on line

Between two ways of being

Are we really so blind to what we're seeing?

Two sides to every story

Two hands, two eyes, two feet

So I am more than my outwards person

I am what happens when all of my thoughts meet

I'm a daughter, I'm a sister 

I'm a girlfriend and an aunt

I'm a lover and a hater in a system gone wrong

My line: this look mixed the whole bunch

Beautiful scars

Why does life make living seem hard? 
Most people live to become beautifully scared.
"beautiful" a definition made by everyone
but also, all definitions flawed or wrong.
 
We are all beauty, but nevertheless

Beauty can be differently expressed 
So why does life make living seem hard?

And would beauty exist without beautiful scars?