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-   -   Spoken Word; Unheard (and others...) (https://www.menewsha.com/forum/showthread.php?t=119459)

Shtona 07-27-2009 05:55 PM

Spoken Word; Unheard (and others...)
 
This is a spoken word poem. If you don't know what that is go look it up, I'm sure you'll enjoy the performances. Usually spoken word is, well, spoken, to an audience. I've performed this one several times, I'm just sharing on here to hear what some other people have to say...

I call this: Gingerbread Man.

Fuck it.

The words aren’t coming, the lines are running; my mind is shunning, the very cunning, of itself, who’s health is a wealth of declining lines and flashing signs, sporadic rhymes, and crimes of the heart, which is doing its part, for the most part, at least it’s a start. A wink of sleep as I think and weep, slink and creep into the room where my sleepy mind is slinking and creeping, winking out tears as it weeps over thoughts it can’t think. Roll over in bed, turn the page, look ahead, minimum wage, if I can’t engage the rage that breaks the cage that opens the gauge that frees the sage; inside of me. Look ahead, in spite of what I see, drowning in dread, in the vast, vast, sea, that encompasses the dead, and leads me to believe, that I am nothing. Something on the horizon, the sound of french fries fryin’, the image of a soul in the process of dyin’, this is the future I can’t be buyin’, into. A spirit that hears it, endears it, and fears it, the sound of success, progress, as I confess to the rest that I am the best, the boy who can pass the test, the man who can take up a quest, and ride into the west, on a horse, with no less than two guns at his fingertips. The sudden quips, that flash like whips, but go down like sips, of the finest mix. Witticisms that send organisms into the schisms of Transcendentalism; McCarthyism is risen from its prison in the history books of our youth. I stand here as living proof. Under this very roof. I speak only the truth.

And so my tangent, though elegant, has come under the scrutiny of mental management, and must continue ‘round, this foot-pounded ground, until it is found, by the sound infection of interjection, a process of dissection that will forever question the ever-changing, ever-ranging, and interchanging rules of the social norms, and media storms, mainstream porn, and political scorn. As I gaze into the haze, I plant my final phrase for your eager minds to graze on in the coming days. It’s a simple line, so take some time, to digest the rhyme, and if you’re so inclined, I give you permission, to have an inquisition, into the current position, of the collision of heart and mind. And so I think it’s about time: “You’re the exception to all of my rules…You’re the reason lovers are fools.”


No longer unheard if you follow the link: Me Reciting My Poem

There are a couple of skips in the recording because of the mic I used, but they're not too bad. Also, I recommend you open the page in another browser or tab and read along with it...

ZaK.86 07-28-2009 06:01 AM

Although reading spoken word makes my head spin a bit, I think this a pretty good. I totally get why you need detail and like spacing though.

Kudos. I'd love to see more.

Shtona 07-28-2009 06:07 AM

Yeah, it really should be listened to rather than read, but I haven't gotten around to recording it yet. Too lazy...haha

Here's another one I wrote recently:

Untitled (as of yet...)

Tell me storyteller, of magical worlds:
Of distant pasts and fighting knights,
Of dark plots, and secrets unfurled.
Tell me storyteller, until darkest night.

Teach me, Oh teach me, please!
The stories of a lover’s hate
And of servants rising from knees.
Teach me, until it is late.

For your stories have magical roots,
That take hold of my dreams,
And send me off to loot,
Before romancing the most beautiful queens.

Your stories fly me over mountains,
And run me through lush fields.
They let me splash through fountains;
Teaching me of powers to wield.

When I am no longer young
And searching for beauties to wed,
Your stories will grace my tongue,
And capture hearts, to be led.

For you see, old gray storyteller,
With your death, stories will fade.
If you were to live forever,
Bestow upon me, what I bade.

~7/27/09~

Shtona 07-29-2009 02:48 AM

Here's another one I wrote after waking up to a very bad day:

Most pain will
quickly walk away.
some will forever
with you stay.

And despite how long
and hard you try.
and no matter how
much you long to scry.

The future holds
only pain for you.
a pain that's long
and sadly, is true.


It's really simple, but to the point I think...

Shtona 07-29-2009 02:50 AM

I don't know if you can really call this poetry, but it's atleast poetic writing:

A Sleepy Rainy Night

The sound of rain is the sound of silence. A jumpy off-beat to the daunting normality of every day and night that leaves you wondering whether you should dance, cry, or succumb to sleep. The fat, wet, slap of thick drops of water hitting concrete echo through your ears resembling the crackling of a fire, or the snapping of twigs under your feet on summer walks; bringing forth past and present memories of time spent alone, with nothing to accompany you but the light of the sun and the stunning, though sometimes brittle, beauty of nature. The vacancy of this sound, this tolling of a million miniature bells, astounds the true aficionado of Mother Earth. It is a sound that wants nothing more than to be replaced by something else. A brief fissure in the fabric of time that yearns for the stitching of another material to bridge the gap. With rain come memories, and with memories come an array of colors, and sight, and sounds, all clamoring for their place in this opening; all filling the void that was nothing more than a vacuum of sound just mere moments ago. And for fear of these openings in our minds, and time, we sing, "Rain, rain, go away. Please come back another day."

Sleep is sudden, and welcome, on rainy nights such as this...

Shtona 07-29-2009 02:54 AM

Once again, this is loosely related to poetry, but I think it belongs here more than on the main forum:

A Melancholy Miracle; A Melancholy Dream...

I picked her up.
I hugged her.
She hugged me.
I kissed her.
She kissed me.
I held her.
She held me.
I loved her.
She loved me...

and then my eyes opened, tears already formed and flowing freely down my cheeks and onto my pillow. That undescribable feeling built in my throat, just behind my nose, and I weeped. I cried. I sobbed. My mouth formed words, but my voice went unheard. The room only echoed the sound of the sniffs and occasional coughs. I cried some more...

and let her down, holding her tight, the warmth of her body crept into me, melting away the strangling ice in my chest. The life around us meant nothing. People walked by, looking at us in jealousy, pain, enjoyment, indifference, and we didn't notice. The wind tousled our hair and pulled at our clothes, and we didn't notice. The sun set and we were alone on the city streets, and we didn't notice...

and my eyes opened again, red and bulging with the force of my tears. Small whimpering sounds built in my throat, building slowly into strangled moans of anguish. I turned my head to escape the blurred and blinding bedroom, burying my face into my pillow. It was wet, and I didn't notice...

the trees, the birds, the sun, the wind, the smell, the leaves, the grass, the path, the roots, the life in the woods surrounding where we walked. Her voice, her smile, her laugh, her pale skin, her hair as she walked, her laugh, encompassed everything. It was beautiful, no, stunning, no, surreal, the way she moved, the way her hands played out the stories she told. We sat on a bench we passed, talking for hours, telling jokes everyone had heard and laughing at them anyway. I slowly worked up the courage to finally...

wake up.

Shtona 07-29-2009 02:58 AM

Something else I wrote on a sudden strain of inspiration:

Melodious Inquiries

Sweet, sweet voices caress my cheek,
leaving me unable to speak.
Short breathing between each touch,
I could only imagine as much.

Stories dance through my mind.
Vivid soliloquies that aren't hard to find.
Half formed tears fill my eyes,
Smiles unfold, gazing at my prize.

Dissonance upon dissonance,
Upon assonance upon arrogance.
Under the pressure, locks shudder,
Fueling my fears like dense thunder.

Shtona 07-29-2009 03:00 AM

Another half-poetry-thing...I really don't know how to classify these things. If someone knows, or wants to take a shot at it, please let me know ^_^

Writings of Ephemera

Sleep is this distant place across some great divide that only lasts a short time. An ephemeral place, hidden behind mountains and between clouds, that brings out your inner-most desires, screening them in front of your rapidly moving eyes for you alone to see. It casts its lines and nets into the sea of your subconscious, grabbing hold of all that it can, then throwing its catch before the ever watching eyes. You wish to sail. You wish to cast your hooks and pull forth your wants. You wish to sleep.

Yet, you are doomed to walk the rocky shores that border your subconscious. The stones you tread on are smooth and glisten after years of the tide passing over them again and again, and do nothing to support your weight. They slip under you, throwing your body off in multiple directions, adjusting your center of gravity into akward positions, threatening to toss you to the water, but never allowing you to reach it. You yearn for that sweet surrender into unconsciousness. It evades you still...

Shtona 08-03-2009 08:19 PM

Small update: I set up a link in the first post to a recording of myself reading the first poem. It's a spoken word poem, which is typically performed, so I figured I'd 'perform' it for people to hear, instead of read.

I'll probably edit this out once I decide to post up some more poems...

Shtona 09-04-2009 11:17 PM

Healthcare Debate Spoken Word: What I See as of Late...

You see, I am different from you, and in my opinion, we’re through with your single minded, over budgeted, and redistributive point-of-view. We are through with your experimentation, that has caused this nation so much frustration, and lead it to take a vacation from its very oldest of roots. We are through with the dampening of the noise that has led to us being poised and ready, to raise a voice in steady, pulse with the heavy rhythm of this country’s view. So you see, I am through, with you. I’m through with sitting back in silence, even when violence erupts. And so I say science can cut through the red tape. Cries of defiance can jump over the gates, that hold us captive in our very own states. And although massive, they do nothing to deflate the cries of aggressive people that have come to hate being passive. And as of late, I am beginning to see classic examples of what this country should not be.
Politically anorexic people that have been given ample opportunity to find sample after sample of evidence left by the left wing, telling those with common sense they are going to lose everything. They are going to lose everything, if we lose this healthcare debate. This is what I see as of late.


Follow this link to here it performed, along with the first poem in the thread:Clicky for Poetry!


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