The Writing Thread
 

Any writers? Share your work... Songs, Poem, Shorts - anything.
I'll start off... (Keep in mind I am only 14 :p)

Blue on Grey

Was my birthplace my home? Was it my passion with an axe, my zeal? Those questions entered my mind. Was it right? Would it be loyal to human life - to kill?
The boat rocked slowly, timber oars dipping into the dank cool water. Fog set on the wet, and sails curled with the wind. I sat down on the wooden stool, beating the wretched ocean with my oar. When Captain’s faithful eye was gone, I stopped paddling. I swiftly reached for the sack underneath my stool and picked out my axe. I wanted to feel its evil, steely fear.
The axe was covered in blood, the paint of all evil. Duke William’s ship was now parallel to us; the would-be king sat firmly on a perversely decorated throne, standing high. William was a ravenous man, O, how I feared the sureness of his mission!So many times, when I entered the court of Normandy, I’d find William off hunting deer. William’s ship and the rest soon frizzled into the drizzly fog.
“That man over there, I am watching!” said the Captain. Yet again I picked my oars, ready to paddle the twenty-one freezing miles over the Channel. What did it mean to be a Frank? Why was I fighting with the neighbour, Normandy? That question remained unanswered, but it was the reason I was disowned from my village, Bac.
They expelled me. Claudé De Mande was now a traitor, seasoned and cursed in treason. My family kicked me out of my home. My lover discarded me and walked away; oh how I pined for that Alda, my one real love that I’ll ever have. All my problems started from one faithful deal - to help a woman to find her own true love. Matilda, William’s wife, lingered for another man and another life.
Matilda had hired me prior to the affair, cloaked in a deceptive veil of unworthy love. She pleaded for a new life, as she looked up to my solemn and understanding face. Her short stature was heavy and weary, her expressions vague and quite often pained.
I had to help her. I saw much of my own Alda in her beautiful nature. Yet, when she told me who she was, I felt a stain of guilty pleasure in my heart.
Of course, it was only right to fall in love with Matilda, and she bore me a child, much to Williams’ laconic but occasionally intense angst. After much love and adoration towards Matilda, I soon found myself in a rather vile case.
When I returned to my humble home months later, I was attacked by immoral rumors and rich accusations. Alda was gone; she was now well betrothed to the town’s drunk. I was the Queen’s culpable lover, and sitting beside me on this dingy boat was the love child.
Before my child’s birth, I met with Matilda and arranged an agreement. Under the moonlight credence, I watched as she comforted her large belly. Duke William was to be told the baby was his own. And, finally on that faithful spring night, some thirteen years ago, Alain De Mande was born. I was to take the child, and William was to believe it was his own son.
To ensure my safety and that of my son and of my own life, I became a Norman soldier. I took the given name Richard Demande, my son, Alain. With fear and hope, I built a humble dwelling deep in the darkest shades of a forest green.
And, so after many faithful years of modest hermitage, I received the very news which would situate me and my adolescent son on this ship.
The wind blew lightly on the decorated sail; the sewn image of a deer pranced lifelike in the wind. We had been on this wretched ship for at least ten agonizing days. It was in these past days in which I had seen numerous friends and colleagues rot to insanity.
As I rowed tirelessly, a felt an innocent tap on my shoulder,
“Father, when will we arrive in England?” asked Alain.
“When the crow calls, my son, our journey will end but a war will start” I told him.
The boat moved on in the cold, wicked silence. When the crow would call, we would land and fight. But then I pondered, could the crow that I had envisioned be shot at with a poison arrow? Could the boat have rowed the wrong way?
I had an eerie feeling of sombre fear, the night sky was rolling into inevitable and unwelcome light. Hours of rowing and waiting were nothing now, due to the fact that Captain Hugo had been drunk ever since we first set foot on this boat. I recognized the fear in other men, and that of Alain. The prospect of mutiny was rising, as captain Hugo walked about the boat, in his hand a flask of warm, brutal wine. Immediately I stopped rowing, the Captain’s eyes fixated right on mine.
“Richard De Mande! What is the meaning of this!” slurred Captain Hugo.
“It is the fact that under your spell, we are forced to row into the salvations of a nightmare!” I said, looking right into his eyes.
The crew knew there was a fight brewing.
“How do you expect to get to England without me?” said Captain Hugo.
“By stopping you, you sad, moronic dog!” The cheers of the crew went wild, but whilst I was soaking up the cheers from my victorious sermon, Captain Hugo unsheathed his prized sword. I looked upon Alain’s starving face, deprived of nurture and sick from need. The look of weak innocence was not just present on the young Alain’s face, but the rest of the miserable crew.
“Put down your sword Hugo!” I bravely said.
The whole crew faced Hugo, each member donning their own sword, swords which would never touch true battle.
“Hugo, we will rid this ship of evil and pray to God we end up safe” I stammered. “We will never make it home anyway, whether we find England or not”.
The crew cheered with my gravely true address. Hugo gave up; he had lost the only battle we soldiers would ever, thankfully, come across. My words were a symbol of hope, a hope for land. The crew watched as Hugo settled into the back of the ship, silent like the night sky. That night all the crew slept in prosperity and question, hoping that someday they would set foot on land.
In the early hours of the morning, when the stars were reverting back from the fringes of darkness, Alain sighted land. A mass of green stood neutral on the horizon. Our prayers had been answered; the deed of ridding the ship of evil had been fulfilled. We had come across a new land, unbeknownst to Normans or English alike.
And as I looked at the forthcoming land, I did not see a crow, but a white dove, calling for us. Then it made me think, was my birthplace my home? Was it my passion with an axe, my zeal?
No.
The end

I've always enjoyed writing... but if I shared any of my work of late on here I'd be banned! :laugh: (It's related to my latex fetish...)
I once wrote a new, comical version of "The Odyssey", based on Homer's "The Iliad" (or, more accurately, a synopsis of "The Iliad") about five years ago. I re-read it a few months ago and fell about laughing at my own obscure sense of humour! (Remember, I'm perfect in every way - check my profile! :lol:) Anyone interested can email me ([email protected]). As a side, it probably helps to watch the movie "Troy" first (a most enjoyable movie, as long as you like long movies like me) before reading the story...

I write poetry, but there's only one I've ever posted online as yet. Patti Smith is my biggest inspiration :D


She walks towards him
Looking in his eyes
Staring in his face

She reaches out
To touch his perfect face
As wings unfold

Gasping for last breaths
Rolling, as leaves press into bare skin

Wind bites their faces
Locking their embraces

Still
They lie, heavily breathing
Hands touching
Finally, sitting upright to smooth their razorblade wings.

i'm in the process of writing a poem/song (not sure how it's gonna turn out)

what i have so far:

little mistakes make something beautiful
it sits there like a diamond in the rough
somehow i knew, my diamond was you
and our something beautiful was love

:o how is it?

Ooh, I'm expecting great things to come of this! :nod: Keep up the good work!

This is some of the best poetry I've come across - "The WASP", by Jim Morrison:

I wanna tell you 'bout Texas Radio and the Big Beat
Comes out of the Virginia swamps
Cool and slow with plenty of precision
With a back beat narrow and hard to master

Some call it heavenly in it's brilliance
Others, mean and rueful of the Western dream
I love the friends I have gathered together on this thin raft
We have constructed pyramids in honor of our escaping
This is the land where the Pharaoh died

The Negroes in the forest brightly feathered
They are saying, "Forget the night.
Live with us in forests of azure.
Out here on the perimeter there are no stars
Out here we is stoned - immaculate."

Listen to this, and I'll tell you 'bout the heartache
I'll tell you 'bout the heartache and the loss of God
I'll tell you 'bout the hopeless night
The meager food for souls forgot
I'll tell you 'bout the maiden with wrought iron soul

I'll tell you this
No eternal reward will forgive us now for wasting the dawn

I'll tell you 'bout Texas Radio and the Big Beat
Soft drivin', slow and mad, like some new language

Now, listen to this, and I'll tell you 'bout the Texas
I'll tell you 'bout the Texas Radio
I'll tell you 'bout the hopeless night
Wandering the Western dream
Tell you 'bout the maiden with wrought iron soul

Here's the song, from L.A. Woman - http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3zayq41CZhc. Enjoy!

I love writing!!! :D

Here is a poem I wrote about a year ago:

I LOOOVE Jim Morrison, such a weird & wonderful poet, I remember listening to An American Prayer & thinking this is soooo cool, so I bought both Weird scene's inside the goldmine LP's back in the late 70's.. Jim Morrison , Jimi Hendrix, Fleetwood Mac Rumour's & Tusk is what I listened to mostly:thumbsup:

Jim was a weird genius. I think that writing is really a good thing, to express yourself, and to share things you can't say, actually. That's why I love writing, but I write in french so you'll never know! They're some pretty good writers here, and I'd like to read the "Iliad" parody :laugh:. Keep writing everybody :thumbsup:

Love that. The beginning reminds me of "Nightbird".

Thanks! :D I never thought about that, but it does resemble it haha

great idea for a thread :thumbsup:

Great writing all!

I'm waiting for Danielle to come and take this thread by storm. She is a great writer! :nod:

I love the beginning of your song, StreetAngel95!

I just found this that I wrote for an exam about two years ago. The Question was Describe a Person you admire.

The lights dipped into a haze of cigarette smoke and the bright, peeling posters were hidden, almost as if tins of black paint had been thrown at the walls. The air was thick with the smell of sweat and beer in the auditorium. Cigarette smoke stuck to clothing and skin, causing the noses that weren’t accustomed to it to wrinkle slightly.

When the spotlights flicked and blinked on, Chris Stein, Nigel Harrison, Jimmy Destri, Frank Infante and Clem Burke seemed to have materialised magically in their positions beside a guitar, bass, keyboard and a huge drum kit surrounded by at least 10 cymbals, ranging in size from those as small as a vinyl record to one as big as a serving platter.

The crowd were like wild dogs. New Years Eve, 1978, and the Oakland Coliseum Arena was packed. Eager fans desperate for the show to commence. Then, the general buzz of the crowd erupted, starting by a single wolf whistle, into a roaring pit of testosterone and adrenaline as Debbie Harry strutted, sexily, to her microphone. For those in the front row, her sweet perfume, like honey mixed and mingled with the hot metallic smell from the overdriven amplifiers. A huge grin stretched across her face, revealing a row of straight white teeth from behind her perfectly crimson, heart-shaped pout.

In a voice like liquid, she addressed the crowd,
“All right you cheeky monkeys, who’s ready to party like it’s 1979?!!” The crowd roared, some men wolf whistled while others stared, open mouthed.
“Okay then,” she continued seductively, “this one’s called Pretty Baby”

The first bars began to ring out and Debbie turned, sweeping her one shouldered blue dress behind her, flashing her toned calves to the front row, momentarily overpowering the metallic smell with her sweet feminine scent.

In turning, her thick, backcombed, two toned – peroxide blonde and naturally dark brown – hair bounced around her shoulders, brushing her neck and exposed back. She reached up to flick it out of her eyes.

Just notes before she had to sing, she spun gracefully back round on the ball of her blue, slip on heels, clenching her painted toes to steady herself as dress, scarf and hair whipped around behind her, causing a refreshing gust around her ankles.

Underneath her neatly shaped, arched, brown eyebrows, she batted her eyelids over sparkling green eyes, lined with thick, smudged black eyeliner and copious amounts of shimmering purple and cream eye shadow and lashings of mascara.

“Stars live in the evening, but the very young need the sun, uh-huh...”

Her rosy cheeks highlighted her high cheekbones and neat jaw line as she sang. The men and women alike were uncontrollable, whistling, dancing and jumping all at once. One man in particular was overly enthusiastic. Clad in a Sex Pistols ‘God Save the Queen’ shirt, black drainpipe jeans and red converse sneakers, he moved his head madly to the music, his brown curls bouncing around his ears. He held a plastic pint glass above his head at arms length, every now and then, spilling amber drops.
Before he knew what was happening, Debbie had reached down and taken the beer from his hand. Raising it to her red lips a small drop spilled and rolled down her right breast.

The excitement still hung in the air as the last bars of the final song faded out, Debbie Harry addressed the crowd for one last time, in her smooth Jersey accent,
“Thank you so much guys. I’ve been Debbie and we’ve been Blondie. I hope you enjoyed yourselves and much as we did!”
And all was black.

thank you so much!:] unfortunately, i'm pretty stuck here. found it's been hard writing about love if you've never had a boyfriend....

haha i know what you mean..

here's one that i did for school..its a found poem that i made from Night by Elie Wiesel its called Shattered Alters but i made it a little different by adding lines that aren't in the book (guess its not a found poem then)

Why do you wear the yellow star?
I don't know.
It's not lethal...
Of what then did you die?
Why did i live?
I don't know.

In a world frought with peril
the joy in his eyes, gone...
He no longer sang.
They refused to listen.
Why didn't they listen?
I don't know.

He walks with his eyes cast down,
avoiding people's gaze.
Why do you pray?
Why do I pray? Strange question...
I don't know.

Oh God, master of the universe,
in you infinite compassion
have mercy on us.

Why did he do nothing?
Does he not love us too?
I don't know.

The alter was shattered.
The wall coverings shredded.
the walls themselves bare.
What happened here?
I don't know.

.....I was gonna just keep lurking around here for a while and not post, but I absolutely cannot resist this thread. My blog, for anyone who is interested: http://danidennis.blogspot.com

Some recent stuff (no idea why they both end with "hour", but hey...):

_________________________________________________

My Eleventh Hour

I caught my own breath in my hands
and took the time to breathe it back in--
sweet and satisfied, stale and strangled,
spangled with lavender and sour milk
and what it means to be nationless.

Tell me you smell something different.

Tell me I'm bound to what I give
but never to what I am given;
that I can choose when the balloon pops,
when my corpse falls earthbound;
that the rushed and eager touches
I collect under my bed
can be quilted into
a sickening new height of love.

I can't remember who told me
that I wasn't young anymore.
It might've been the stout cashier woman
who proclaimed me a thief when I
slid a Snickers bar into my pocket.
It might've been my Playboy Mommy:
she warned me of the sins in my blood,
of her own obsession
with a woman's power to unveil.
Or maybe God told me on the day
when he made me suddenly
wretchedly
unequivocally alone.

On this ancient earth, I'm rarely glad to seem young--
until I'm tangled in sheets
and limbs I can't get out of,
until the simplest mechanisms of
a beating heart lose their intrigue
in my stoic desperation for blood.

Tell me you smell something different on my breath;
Tell me I can choose to be boundless.

_________________________________________________

Witching Hour

In September, he found his witching hour,
while the rest of the house was asleep
and I was the only one left
to switch out the records for him—

To sing “teenage wasteland” with him,
to top off his rum for him,
to light his cigars.

In September, it was cool outside
but his body stayed warm.
I sat in the cold with him,
rocked in the wind with him,
my eyes following the furious sway
of his body with him.

But he wasn’t furious with me.

Baba o’Riley excited my father.
“Doesn’t this get your blood going, honey?
“Don’t you just need to hit something?”

I watched him dance with it,
the heavyweight bag flying seamlessly
between his fists.
I watched him with frozen veins,
with all the need in the world
to sit still, to never hit anything
like he could.

He took his last swaggered punch
and I jumped to break his fall—
clinging to hands that know
my blood all too well;
haunted by a breath
that once kissed me goodnight.

I really like parts of this. You're an intensely emotional writer, which I LOVE (probably because I write the same way.... :laugh:).

Well...I'm just impressed. (The first one was kind of complicated for me :D)

The second one was excellent, but the first... just absolutely fabulous! :nod: I'm all envious of her abilities now! :D

Thank you so much! I was thinking of that while reading your first poem, that we have a similar writing style. I can't wait to read more of yours :thumbsup:

-_-'. If only I could understand everything in this beautiful English language. Reading English Poetry takes too much of my energy. Come on, Danielle, you're almost French, you could translate it to me :D

Thanks you guys-- you flatter me. :p

I love this thread, though, and I wish more people would post stuff!

Keep posting your material Daniell.

Invisible Blood

I was never fully satisfied, chasing you
on heels that weren’t yet broken,
dodging the defenselessness you allowed me to feel
like it was a bullet soaked in a plague.

But this Achilles found her weakness
when something in her ankles snapped
and she surrendered to the ground
apologetically.
I clung to you in spite of myself,
a tendril clasped for dear life
to the understated softness
I never thought you’d unveil.

You work only by the moonlight,
working only with your hands:
silently, I watch you wrap your fingers
around my limbs
like an irrepressible vine,
attend to my reservations
like they belong to your own blood.

Blood—
an indelible tie of which
we can never be fully conscious;
the endless space we make in our womb
where ends don’t ever have to meet.

I’m on this earth to share the bonds
that warm my aching body,
here in skin and bones to watch
all of these bones break,
absorbing all the life you have to give
so that I may one day
give it back to you.

Dani, for some reason I thought of Stevie at the end of singing
Rhiannon on the Mirage video when she surrenders to the ground.

You're just showing off now! :p
Seriously, though, that was absolutely brilliant! :nod: I can hardly wait for the next piece!

To fight or to fly?

Ethereal light breaks the dark canopy
as she glides between the claws of bracken.
Her babe, a rag doll, limp in florals
thorns - chestnut as the horse she left aside the brook-
tearing delicate silk, floral and chiffon.

To fight or to fly?
She flies.

Streamers whip her calves as her feet tear the undergrowth
she glides no more.
Stumbling through tendrils, she clings to her babe,
Both too silent to hear one another’s last fleeting breath.

As they float to the carpeted ground,
Skeletal leaves break their final fall.

Oh how I wish I could write like this... envy is written all over me at the moment...

Yay tendrils!

I bolded the phrases that I really like.

Also, thanks you guys. :) That was a really hard piece for me to write for emotional reasons and I was worried that it would only make sense to me!

Well, we just started the poetry unit in LA Honors - YAY!

and our homework tonight was to write two free verse, short poems::

what i got::

A melodic enchantment
Fills her soul
As hope, magic
Fill her heart
“Dreams unwind, love’s a state of mind”
The Gypsy Woman sings to her,
And then that simple harmony is all she wants –
a luminescent sparkle in a crystalline night.


AND....


Death, the cruelest of plagues,
a blanket fading into the dawn, for days and days.
I cried alone, a time ago
and of the terror, silent bodies would not know



as i said, they were supposed to be short and sweet. they're not my best, but whatever

I try to write something whenever i can..or whenever something pops in my head
I wrote this one yesterday morning at 2am because i was sad mixed with a few other emotions..

My head's above ground
there's rocks all around.
grab one
make it count...
I wont scream
and i wont shout.
just take me out..

Well done, all of you. It's hard to write, but for those that can, you kinda must. And poetry is such a dying art. Please keep it up!

I write for a living, which doesn't leave as much time for my own creative stuff as I'd like.

I am working on an essay right now about my mother's death that I think is turning out well. I can post it here when it's done, but only if y'all want to read it, since it's not a poem or a song.

I'm writing a book. I'm the ghostwriter. It's the true story of a woman who was married to a serial rapist. She didn't know this until after their divorce. It's a fascinating story, filled with shocking elements, vengeance, fear, psychopathology, & stupidity.

I hope she & I can get most if not all of the book written by the end of this summer.

You better post it. :)



I love how 11,000 posts later, you still pull **** like this out of your sleeve... :)

What about international intrigue, is that in the book?

Don't get too close to this project brother.

I may do, I may do. We'll see how feel about it when it's done. I've rewritten it way too many times already, haha.

Smile
 

Feeling kind of sad
But is it all really that bad?
Someone told me to smile more today
I wish the pain would go away
It's hard for me to hide
You can see it in my eyes
My face says it all
I feel so small
Thank God Stevie can make me smile
Tho I haven't seen her live in a while
She'll never leave me or go away
In my heart she'll always stay :nod:

Just now made that up...

No seriously!!! I am going to be working on this project. We hope it's a tawdry best-seller!

I am writing a haunting short story.
It's about this young, workaholic woman who acquires a house from her millionaire father's will. It turns out, that the house was for the young womans mother, whose husband was an unfaithful scammer (the millionaire). Only in the end - she realises that it is the ghost of her mother.