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Sky

Even as a small child, I was obsessed with fiction and storytelling. Before I knew how to read or write, I passed the time by telling scary stories to my sister and cousins, convincing them of the most outrageous things, and often instilling fear, which would keep them awake at night. I often got in trouble for scaring family and friends, and telling tall tales so well, that my listeners believed them to be true. Reading became a hobby in third grade. I started with R.L. Stein, was reading Stephen King novels by fourth grade, and was up to Edgar Allan Poe, William Golding, Anne Rice, and H.G. Wells by 5th grade. My passion for storytelling, coupled with my passion for reading, naturally developed into a writing addiction. I loved playing with words, enjoyed grammar, and liked writing from strange perspectives. I wrote short stories, long stories, and fictionalized diary entries based on my own life.

I tried to keep an accurate diary or journal, but simply writing redundant facts of what I'd done that day seemed so boring. I didn't enjoy writing in my journal, and never bothered going back to read it later. It felt pointless and dull, though I wanted to document the details of my life to refer to later on. One very strange day, I was upset over something that seemed extremely important at the time, though I can't recall what it was now. I had to write it down, but basic descriptive language simply wouldn't do. No traditional account of "this is what happened" and "this is how it made me feel" could every describe what I felt that day... and so I wrote a poem. Perhaps the first poem I'd ever written, at age 14. With poetry, I was able to describe my feelings, my experience, my state of mind in a much more unconventional and accurate way... and I enjoyed writing it! It wasn't just a redundant statement of what had happened, but an experiment with words, twisting and manipulating the English language to suit my current state. It felt also very personal, for I am perhaps the only one who could have truly understood what it all meant. And I enjoyed reading it days later. From that day, I began keeping journals where I would pour my mind into its blank pages each day, in poetic form. I've been a poetry addict ever since, and despite my optimistic and happy-go-lucky personality, my poetry tends to be on the darker side. Perhaps this is how I express the inner darkness that is contained within us all.

::03:03:08::

::: Something Little and Abstract :::

It’s a small world, here in my life.
Surrounded by small people, minor tragedies, and little victories.
The lives of my heroes as small as my own.
My birth, my life, my death.
Just details reflected on the bigger picture.
Less than a pawn in this great game we play, I am just me.
Lost and distraught, fumbling with my little thoughts.
I’m fascinated with myself, and this life will keep me endlessly entertained.
I’m fascinated with this small world, and it will keep me endlessly detained.
Jumping through hoops and not seeing the truth.
A painting so big, to any mortal eye, it would seem abstract.
The picture only clear from a distance of eternity, on a time-line of infinity.
Where colors can be heard, and sounds tasted.
Fooling ourselves with this prospect of death, this prospect of heaven.
A place set at a distance of eternity, on a time-line of infinity.
This place, from which our former lives look as minuscule and petty as they truly are.
Abstract pieces come together to form a simple portrait of purpose.
It’s a small world here, in my life.
Trying to paint a simple portrait of purpose, and ending up with something abstract.
Unable to interpret my own little existence, I still try to decode the world and beyond.
Surrounded by small people, minor tragedies, and little victories.
My birth, my life, my death.
I’m just a detail.

Written by: ~ Sky

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