Writing Possession

U

Unique Username

...
Member
A conglomeration of my frustrations: greed · insatiable hunger · envy · defeat

It's a quick poem of introspective expression. Could have been written better. It had a middle verse – it was written last and did not suit the poem whatsoever, so it was removed. I might turn this into a shorts and/or poetry thread later, including scripture that is laughably old. It depends. Nothing else to say, really.
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Possession/Obsession

By: Unique Username

Avarice is a beautiful temptress,
Albeit a torturous plight,
Riddled with hollowed hatred,
Burdened by covetous blight,
I encourage its insatiable hunger,
I embody its unyielding delight
Upon caressing the scintillating tapestry
So temptingly bright.

Illusion blinds reason,
Misfortune begets despair,
Fingertips sift through ghosts
Exhausted by hopeless prayer,
Escape is a thesis,
A fantasy beyond my frozen stare,
As I glimpse upon a forgotten treasure
That was never truly there.
 
I like the word choice of your poem! :] You use a lot of advanced words as far as I can tell.
 
I don't know a whole lot, but imo, this poem is awesome.
Very nice word choice. I had to look up 2 words.
 
Nice poem! It has big words I don't understand, so it must be good! :D
I'm kidding. Nice word choice.
 
@Lol – Thanks. Integrating embellished vernacular within scripture is a cherished pastime of mine ;3

@Lucky Fire – Thank you very much.

Lucky Fire said:
What kind is it?
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Your guess is as good as mine. I only know that it is a simple alternating ABCB type of poem possessing 8 lines per stanza. I do not write poetry very often – if ever. The last poem scrawled by my apathetic hand was for the poetry contest in the Writer's Corner last year. Even worse, it emerged nine years after the one before that.

@Arcanine954 – Thank you.
 
Unique Username said:
@Lol – Thanks. Integrating embellished vernacular within scripture is a favourite pastime of mine ;3

@Lucky Fire – Thank you!
Your guess is as good as mine. I only know that it is a simple alternating ABCB type of poem possessing 8 lines per stanza. I do not write poetry very often – if ever. The last poem scrawled by my apathetic hand was for the poetry contest in the Writer's Corner last year. Even worse, it emerged nine years after the one before that.
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...You're welcome? :v
Regardless, you've got a purdy poem there. :3
 
I like the way this poem is really abstract without losing any ‘feeling‘. I hate extended ABCB rhymes, to be honest, but you pulled it off nicely. The only nitpick I have is that your metrum is off in a few places.
 
Unique Username said:
I never cared much for meter – English sonnets can go play in traffic.
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Best dismissal I've ever heard.

The theme is beautiful, the diction is technically flawless (though I'd vouch for "Illusion trumps reason" as opposed to "blind" out of personal taste). As someone weak in poetry to begin with, just seeing this around is enough to make me glad that I stayed around.
 
Pretty nice poem. I like the vocabulary and personification. I'm a little curious in why you didn't split this into stanzas of four, or at least have a period at the end of every fourth line. The commas throw the rhythm of the poem, (for me, at least), off when I'm reading. Just something to consider in the future.
 
Unique Username said:
Ouch. I didn't think I was that bad in poetry xD
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Sorry, sorry. Typo/Terrible wording; I was referring to myself (The "For" was supposed to be "As"). XD
 
@Serperior – Thanks. Your curiosity shall be fed; I wasn't exactly thinking about structure and proper format because of certain self-preservation issues. Unfortunately, those types of thoughts distract a writer from following protocol. Somewhere, a prosodist is crying.

@Blui129 – Thank you.

@Zyflair – Ah, okay xD
 
This a perspective I wrote in 2009. It reflects my current feelings better than the previous poem. I need to scream things out, you know? I would appreciate it if no one really picked this thing apart; this is basically my bare SOUL staring you in the face.

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The Window​

My eloquent breath decays upon the concrete walls of this toxic prison, the noxious plumes of pollution billowing against this painted cube like a plague. Its obsidian fog stains my lungs, my veins pulsating vehemently with the ire I harbour for this sickening place. My innermost sanctum is a delicate flower, every ethereal petal is ivory-coloured and gold-striped. I require love to thrive, yet my despondent heart does not feel the bristling warmth of it. I inhale the stench of dust and the bitter grit of sand, my glowing growth stunted by this inane residue. I cough against the poison, though subtle they may strike it infects my sensitive heart like a chronic disease; eternal is its wake lest a bright spirit lifts it away.

Why do I sleep in this den, father? The fox may commit a mistake by slipping beneath the dead leaves of a hunter's trap and indeed may be comfortable lying on its bed of dry hay, yet its heart is heavy and laments a sorrowful song because it knows what is to happen now. An augur may deliver a hint, but the fox is too clever for its own good. In eight hours, the grey dawn will shatter the sky. The wild guardians will cry a bereaved howl. A merciless shadow will swiftly descend upon the vulpine, two leather gloves grasping a steel cylinder. The fox voicelessly prays for hope, yet the damn thing never reveals itself. It curses its optimism - what a waste of breath. It is spent on a yowl, while my last breath will be spent on a baleful sigh.

I ponder upon the clandestine secret guarded by life, and worry myself to death for I am an unknown variable in this universal equation. What is my value? I am hollow, perchance – null, void, zero. A byte is erased by a heartless key, a graphite mark is erased by burning vinyl. What am I? Expendable. I am a colloquial soup consisting of primordial elements like magnesium, calcium and carbon. I may be lucky. I might have a slight fraction of gold and silver lodged in my wrist; maybe then I will be worth something.

Soliloquies never sound so morose until you have trudged through the slew of your regret. You begin to comprehend the depth of this slew, never having an inkling of motivation to crawl beyond the window of opportunity because the waters below it are tepid and familiar.

The window always haunts the downtrodden. You may yearn to live here because it promises to solve everything. You may ascend your vision to the heavens and observe this window glistening beneath the deceiving sunlight. You may fantasize what lurks inside this unknown realm, smirking at the surrealism of it. You lift your fatigued arm to caress the window, to touch its welcoming presence that teasingly beckons you. You recognize the foreign sensation of a happy heart fluttering within its skeletal cage. You swear that your feet have left the snowy earth, preferring to swim against the air. Your fingers quiver as they yearn to clasp the intangible reins belonging to destiny. A brazen triumph ignites beneath a blackened heart, thawing the icy cocoon frozen around it. It is different, this time. You are alive.

No.

You recognize the cold muck swallowing your boot, and it is then you realize that you never went anywhere.
 
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