The Writer's Id Forum Here's a darker thread . . .

Ever wrote anything creepy or perhaps when you were in an "altered state" that just absolutely didn't seem like you? It seemed like a different voice? Like you were possessed? Was it just flat out raunchy? Or was it absolutely genius? Feel free to post it in the thread . . . We can all handle it . . . and we won't hold it against you. In fact, it might make us like you more (he he . . . ). ::cool::

O.K., I'll start us off:

Great little piece, my friend. I left you a review. ::biggrin::
What do you think of the artist and his/her id? psychologically speaking? What of the really weird stuff - like Surrealism or (some) Erotica? Do you think you hold back in your creativity to "keep face"? Is this a good thing or a bad thing? Is it a yin-yang thing?

I would say that I do, but not nearly as much in my artwork and poetry as I do in other things. As in collaborative group projects, for example, I am very careful as to what I say . . . I get too nervous, afraid of getting laughed at or shrugged off I guess. I've also had so many corny or offensive ideas for creations/stories/artwork that I will likely never persue . . . Still, the creative endeavors are pure therapy, pure therapy . . .

I think any artists ID is psychologically tied to their work. We can't escape ourselves and it is within that familiarity that we create what we do.

I personally don't think I hold back just to keep face. Reading my pieces on here should show that I regularly throw myself under the bus. There are places I go in a piece to convey a thought, and I sometimes wonder if I've gone too far. In this piece, that took place when commenting that going to that party as a dead Jim Henson was akin to going as a dead 9/11 victim. I wrestled with that line, and still do, as it is not my intent to disrespect those victims, but was my intent to show the reverie given to Jim Henson at that time, and what I felt was an appropriate analogy. Yet 9/11 content is still very emotional and taboo, so I struggled with other analogies and ultimately stuck with this one.

I do compromise though, I must say. I haven't used my real name, I obscure where I work and live in my writing. I mostly do that for protection/privacy issues as I am a practicing, licensed clinician.

Thank you for the review. You wanted Dark, and going to a party as a beloved dead famous man was a pretty dark humor place for me to go.

I wake up as if from a dream
But it seems my dream has followed me
The thing was not a dream you see
It was altered reality
In which I dreamed
as now I see
that free and me
will never be

- freedom

it was a hazy day...

Check this out, then. :P

surely there is more . . . the censors aren't always on . . .
p.s. how are you guys getting the code to stick the little links/tables in here? I found it for the contests, but can't find it per poem . . .

a bit sad . . . dreams can even seem strapped down . . . mine appear in my poetry often . . . Instinct and cyclic life can be interpretted as robbers of freedom.

Here's one created (believe it or not) through a poetry generator at LanguageIsAVirus.com (with minimal editing - believe it or not), a site inspired by William Burroughs.

We are invisible below the gods

Weird and desirous beside the mist
You see mammoth women below the grave
Awaken! The b*****d has come
I am dazzling above the ground;
You summon huge faces near the light.
Tighten up your wig! The birth continues;
We are invisible below the gods;
We excrete wanting children near the sky
Awaken! The King is gone
scared intangible
on the edge of the world
an old passport
Out of whose dream
the lover
wanders aimlessly
and finds road-signs.

i found this in my diary once. i don't remember writing it, but then again theirs alot of things i dont remember. kind of comes from being out of it too often.

I don't know what i see when i look in the mirror. i feel like everyone who i have ever met is standing behind me, knowing what i think when i look, judging me as conceited, just because i like something that i have seen. and then i think of what they say at school, of what even my own mother says, and i want to smash the glass, tear at it with my bitten fingernails and scream. jeffery thinks i'm beautiful. i know that he's wrong though. all those peole who say that i'm ugly or fat or disgusting or whatever, not that many people can be wrong can they? and if he did really think i'm beautiful he'd defend that. wouldn't he? it all comes down to one thing. i am not allowed to be pretty. i am not allowed to have guys drooling over me when i walk in the door, to turn heads as i walk past. i am not allowed because i am not popular. i'm a freak. i'm an outcast. i'm weird. and that makes me unable to be attractive. the popular girls can't be ugly, the freaks can't be hot, so they're not. heirarchy sucks.

i was about thirteen i think. (well that's what the date says: 24th September 2003)
i wouldn't trust that though, considering i dont even remember writing it...