A Writer Rejected

This is a rant about the importance of not pigeon holing creativity. It is meant to be read loud and angrily...Basically like any bolshie English Northern lass having a rant!

It's not really love if you can't

compare it to a Summer's day -

it doesn't count,

it doesn't matter what you say

nobody cares unless you say it in the proper way.

Your art, your voice, your blah blah blah

none of 'em matter

it just doesn't fit our 'vibe'.

We prefer you to demonstrate through your diverse use of cliche

that gone are the days of originality.

Yes I'm f*****g angry.

Out of foaming spittle words are forming,

but ten syllables of profound are lost.

(But I will say this)

To pen the misty beauty of the morning,

and claim it as your own is to Art's cost.

Sonnets of bullshit as thick as old snow,

creating the same, nothing new to know.

What's the subject of your poem?

F*****g read it and decide for yourself.

What am I? Your literary babysitter?

Spoon feeding you the alphabet and telling you how 'S' should make you feel?

Ssssssh. Sssssssssh. Ssssssssh.

Forcing air through gaps in tense teeth

does not feel very stress free to me.

I only ssssssh in a last ditch attempt to claw for my own clarity.

But, if the sound of me expelling hot air calms you down then

what the f**k does it matter

that I was only trying to turn your bullshit down?

I tell you what I'll make an appeal:

I won't tell you what to feel

if you don't tell me what I'm not feeling,

Deal?

Art has drawn a line between these feeling of mine and yours.

A line where newness dwells

in an amalgamation of galaxies filled with

neurons of ideas and creatively charged particles,

new experiences,

evolving, colliding and transforming  -

the gravitational allure of one, changing the chaos of two-

the ASBO asteroid - cut adrift and menacing in it's lack of direction

find its Sun and becomes a planet in its own right and starts to

nurture life with empowered soil

Fertilising a variety of new spices,

where once there was only

the nothingness of space -

a happy mistake.

That’s how I feel anyway -

bollocks to you.

Author's Note

I am really curious if anybody actually has any idea what this poem is going on about? I know, but then I wrote it and I have a tendency to be a bit too abstract sometimes....Let me know!

Reviews

[keith]

'... what this poem is going on about?'

oh that's an easy one ... you said it yourself

'what the f**k does it matter
that I was only trying to turn your bullshit down?'
'That’s how I feel anyway -
bollocks to you.'

too abstract? honesty is never TOO abstract

[Writer at last! Sky ~]

After such a long, I have read something like this completely out of head not just box. But enjoyed it especially "nobody cares unless you say it in the proper way."

[Chase Dylan]

Holy mother of smoked mackerel... This is articulated with a finesse, and subtly lined loathing of the mainstream conformity, that astounds my metaphorically inclined mind... Whew, floored by the wordplay, and that last verse, wow... I struggle mightily with being asked what I meant, or being told it is just "too complicated" with my own writing, and this piece astounded me. Really big up's, I want to scream at the stars sometimes when I am asked to "babysit" an abstract thought. Seriously, loved this ever so much. Again, that last verse... A planet forming of its own volition and creative spark... Then jubilantly rejoiced in unique confusion. You are very talented...

[OhSnapShley]

I would like to assume this is about finding your own place, doing as you wish and not letting anyone else's opinion or interpretation get in your way of what you want to say. Nicely put either way. I liked the imagery in this as well.

-OhSnap

[michelle]

phew! not too abstract then! thanks for the feedback!