Poetry thread

I won't lie, I'm pretty fucking depressed right now so I thought I'd write a sort of poem to get it all out. I haven't done this before but I figured I'd give it a go.

Post poems, discuss poems, do whatever you want, I don't know. Feel free to reply about this one or not, I just wanted to put it somewhere

I just chose a random image from google, sorry

You think you'll find the answer at the bottom of a 20 pack of Marlboro Golds.
Will you fuck.
You think you'll be happy after 8 blue pints.
Will you fuck.
You think you'll feel better after a 3 hour practice session.
Will. You. Fuck.

You throw yourself into thing after thing after thing, thinking they'll distract you from the pain of going on, and none of them do.

Immersing yourself in content plans, blogs, route trees, footwork patterns and guitar tabs, yet all that happens is you begin to despise more and more things in the world.

Things you enjoy become twisted, cancerous entities which haunt your dreams and make your days a chore.

And you know the most fucked up part?

The one thing you expect to bring you solace, to make you happier, to lift you out of the perpetual mood of feeling like shit only tightens your chest and waters your eyes.

Blinking back tears while writing emails, scrolling through twitter lists and analysing draft prospects becomes a kind of status quo.

Sitting on a garden wall, lamenting things in your life which are bad, good, and in between while hot lines of salt streak down your face.

It's not that you actually want to die.

It's just that you don't want to live the life you do.

After spending an entire day coughing to cover your shaky voice and telling yourself to man up, you end up sat in bed scrolling down her Instagram and crying to Nicest Thing.

All through the Sheepskin Tearaways, the High Hopes and the VCRs, all you can think of is how much you want it gone.

There isn't a way out, though.

You can't fuck up 2 years in seven words.

You just can't.

So you sit, with a grey cloud above you, holding yourself tight and wishing you would stop caring.

That cloud's always pissing it down in your head, and you're getting soaked in sadness, which comes from everywhere.

Take me out is fucking ruined for you, which just tops everything off.

You wake up and go straight for a meeting with a cocktail of nicotine and Carbon Monoxide.

Smoking out the back door, not feeling the cold wind biting into your skin.

Not like the pain would make a difference - you just don't give a fuck anymore.

Conversation 16 almost pushes you over the edge. It's not even that sad of a song. Yet, like the slave to punishment you are, you stick high violet on repeat, drown yourself in nicotine and weep.

Smoke and tears aye?

Fuck off.

While this America settles in the mould of its vulgarity, heavily thickening
to empire
And protest, only a bubble in the molten mass, pops and sighs out, and the
mass hardens,
I sadly smiling remember that the flower fades to make fruit, the fruit rots
to make earth.
Out of the mother; and through the spring exultances, ripeness and decadence;
and home to the mother.
You making haste haste on decay: not blameworthy; life is good, be it stubbornly
long or suddenly
A mortal splendor: meteors are not needed less than mountains:
shine, perishing republic.
But for my children, I would have them keep their distance from the thickening
center; corruption
Never has been compulsory, when the cities lie at the monster's feet there
are left the mountains.
And boys, be in nothing so moderate as in love of man, a clever servant,
insufferable master.
There is the trap that catches noblest spirits, that caught – they say –
God, when he walked on earth.

This isn't meant to be page poetry, right? Maybe spoken word poetry.

Advice: hold onto that passion, make things a little less 'pointed' (ie. detach your personal baggage)

Unironically, a good start. I hope you find some relief from your anhedonic depression through writing. Keep going forward, don't dwell on the negativity in your life (but this neednt mean you ignore it, embrace it, take strength from it)

oh, and read Blake.

Spoken word, wanky, poor English, northern teenager poetry, yeah

What hath been wrought,
Thence, leave thee wept;
Forever left to rot--
Forsook by promises unkept,
Losing all thee sought;
How long you've slept.

r8 my attempt to looking into Blake's style

In forge’s flame I frame my art
And see in it a fiery dart
In quenching soak I frame my soul
A hardened wick, a drench-dark coal

Who forged these flames I press’d against?
Who gorged this canyon I represent?
Who burnt my pen, and burnt my scroll
And let this horrid belling toll?

A toll! A toll! Of lightning bronze!
A cracking sky of endless dawns!
I pierce my breast with holy pike
And churn into a lamb tonight!

The Oaken tree reframes the sky
The spoken glee renames the sky
As hope in me imbues the eye
The hope in thee is more than I!

Gargoyle
I heard a gargoyle sing.
He choked back tears
Of rain that scalded his horns;
I sang with him.
O’er masonry cracked.

I heard the gargoyle sing.
It was late in the night
When the moon had left us alone;
We talked about our families
Through fogged windows.

I climbed out those skyline panes.
The two of us shared our inhuman pains and
He told me to fly with him.
He cried for it.
We both crouched on the guttering and
We fought tears through stuttering.

I heard that gargoyle sing
Our tune of tears

as i read this, i thought of a better gargoyle poem i could write, but decided not to because it would make you kill yourself with envy at my flippant and effortless superiority.