Writing

[Marcus.arc]

This is my first ever... Wrote it almost 12-13 years ago..

I grew up fast on a working class street,
First thing I learned was life don't come cheap,
Technical school it was a waste of time,
Cleaning Cars for some factory line'
Got my first tattoo when I was 15,
The rebel had lost his teenage green,
I'd taken a stand for an outlaw's life.
Scarred deep in my soul i would strife,
i chose to Stand up to the Pain itself
Breathin can't see anythin else,
Burning from days n nights scroll,
i became a soldier of gold,
I fought tooth and nail, every inch of the way;
I got scars...all in one sway,
I was in love even for keeps that time,
but she was never gonna be mine,
I am only one of a kind,
As rock'n'roll is still on my mind,
I am ready anytime for a fray,
I am Marcus - The Game.....come lets Play.
you are the contender, so you choose the rules,
don't worry about the game as you will play to Loose.


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[Marcus.arc]

A piece I wrote a few years back...

Call it Besieged

Disdain, Deranged, Defected.
Not the first time and i'm sure its not the last.
This is the thing i am sure of, the one thing i know.
Living inside broken lines, A disruption of the lives
Burnt inside...veins fuel the fire that burns inside
Running blind and all I see...Is darkness around
Let me ask you a question, do you know what's wrong with me ?
Who can give me an answer ?
I'm better off cutting my own throat
In hope for once that someone might hear me
I know I can atleast count on the mess that I've created inside me
the me inside of me, the one that no one can see, the me i strive to be.
I am so alone, and i'm afraid of what I have become to me.
Who knows what i want?
Who knows who i am now?
No one knows what i've become.


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[rodia77]

ANGEL & DEVIL

There's a little devil deep inside of me
Who'd do everything to make you bleed;
It's your blood on which he feeds.
It's your blood that makes him live.

And then there is this angel deep inside of you
That you always hold onto,
Who takes you to the moon whenever you're blue;
It's your smile that gets him through.

Your devil and my angel go and dance . . . and dance--
(Or was the angel yours and the devil mine?)
See? With these two together the story gets tense,
With these two together you always get prime time.

It's a pair and it's a gang, these two--
They tear you up and blow me apart,
They cross the lines of life and death and me and you -- they do,
And then they bring us to the very start.

November 20 2004

[skywatch]

What a pleasure to see this thread again! I had forgotten. Thank you, rodia77! Lately I have been thinking a lot in short simple poems. Probably reading too much T'ang dynasty Taoist writing. Here's one that I like from a few months ago:

31 Dec 2023


Miraculous morning
fog embracing closer silence
giant ocean distant purring
leaf drip song on cushion ground
tree frog’s tentative scratch
balance here on hillside tracks
eyes alert for mushrooms

[is that my watch]

I do from time to time mainly children's story's but I having been writing one that not sure what yet only done a paragraph or so it's called dark heart and also doing a short story called the windswept bee. but I have to be in the mood to write and of late not finding that mood

[is that my watch]

The windswept bee .

burt the bee was late home mother told him to get back before the gust started and he was stuck in them getting blown all over the place just missing a windscreen or three and now he had got blown into a letter box where he was then posted through the slot like a pizza leaflet, and so winded and tired he lay on the table like a old flower bud or that was what the big angry man must have thought he was, until he started to wiggly and buzzy.


next thing he knew he was in a old potnoodle pot being thrown into the hedge where he bumble and tumble and bouncy to the very dark wet bottom, landing with a oufo on a smelly old sweet wrapper and now he was lost, late, and in a not very happy mood.


that was until!... he saw the ivy path .....

to be continued

[tribe125]

I write little books for the local history society. ‘The Windmills of Appledore’ is a mighty work featuring much diligent research. ‘The Dead Boy On The Heath’ is a gripping tale of child labour in the nineteenth century, told with a relish for macabre detail.

I always knew I’d get published one day.

[rodia77]

This one was actually written as lyrics to the melody that I somehow came up with in my mind.

IN THE MIST

Hey
You seem to have lost your way
And when you turn around
There's no turning back
No, there's no way back

The fuzzy shapes of what you see
The fading sounds that you can hear
The ghosts of people you could be
They only feed your fears

But you're going the right way
You know you're walking the right paths
And no one could do this better
And in this place, in this time
With all the screaming around
You know there's no one to do this better

Brave
You've never tried to ask for help
Your voice wouldn't break through the cold
Now seeking any trace of home
Have you ever had a home?

Dark
You've always loved the dark at heart
Now that you've found your light inside
It doesn't seem to light a thing
It's useless in the mist

And you're seeing the wrong things
But you're doing the right things
No, no one could feel it better
With all the chasers behind
And with no one beside
You know there's no one to take it better

You don't care
What kept you on the track, it's gone
Yes, you're on your own
You're all alone in the mist

But you keep your direction
You continue to move on
'Cause you know no one knows it better
With all the air to breath
And with no hope beneath
You've got no one to make it better
No, you've got no one to make it better

7 II 2001

[skywatch]

Sure, I'll play again. I have been writing more poetry, and actually toying with publishing a small book if I get enough good ones. This one is a true story from last month:

A block of old marble rests at the top of our driveway
Left here by previous tenants
I like to think it came from the corner
of an old bank building
or the cornice of some other neoclassical
public edifice
weathered and blotchy on the once-polished face
pointing skyward, fading to gravestone gray
stepped edges indicate sculptural lines
perhaps art-deco ornamentation
One side ends in a jagged crack
maybe a remnant of demolition
The rough texture of that rended edge
has softened with age and dirt


Last week I noticed a change
on this old bone from an extinct leviathan
Placed carefully atop the darkening polished face
three fresh turds, carefully extruded
by a passing coyote
My mind’s eye traces the expression
on the face of that hungry prankster
while squatting with intention
a sparkle in its eye
and a slightly smug lipsmack of ownership
as if to say, “I ate that rabbit, you schmuck,
the one that hid under your steps.
Now see if I don’t come back next week
to sniff out what else you’re hiding.”

[Raza]

I forgot all about this thread. I’m currently 53,500 words into a novel I’m writing. Taking a little break because I’ve been sick and it’s hard to summon that creative energy, but I’m hoping to get back into it within the next couple of days.