"'Cause I'm a million different people from one day to the next..."
Bittersweet Symphony
Doesn't that pretty much describe me?
I hate writing and especially writing poetry. And unless the poet has been dead for 50 years, I don't like reading it either. The reason that I write poems is because I can't paint. Also, it is fairly easy to call yourself a poet. There is no actual skill required, just a basic command over a language and the strange urge to put your innermost emotions on a piece of paper.
My poems are usually pretty freaky and unromantic. Occasionally, they are depressing.
I'm not depressed. I used to think that I was, but then I realised that I was probably just looking for a way to make myself miserable. My poems are straightforward stories. If they aren't, I was quite possibly WUP (writing under pressure)
Does anybody ever read these pages?
Because this makes me sound like a bitter idiot who thinks she knows everything. Hey, so be it. Maybe in this moment, I am. I cannot think about a million people and what they think of me. I cannot even think about myself. Or what I think about myself tomorrow.
I'm here, spending a very small part of my life on telling an empty auditorium about myself. When you read this, I'll be a different person.
Quite seriously, does anybody care?
Bittersweet Symphony
Doesn't that pretty much describe me?
I hate writing and especially writing poetry. And unless the poet has been dead for 50 years, I don't like reading it either. The reason that I write poems is because I can't paint. Also, it is fairly easy to call yourself a poet. There is no actual skill required, just a basic command over a language and the strange urge to put your innermost emotions on a piece of paper.
My poems are usually pretty freaky and unromantic. Occasionally, they are depressing.
I'm not depressed. I used to think that I was, but then I realised that I was probably just looking for a way to make myself miserable. My poems are straightforward stories. If they aren't, I was quite possibly WUP (writing under pressure)
Does anybody ever read these pages?
Because this makes me sound like a bitter idiot who thinks she knows everything. Hey, so be it. Maybe in this moment, I am. I cannot think about a million people and what they think of me. I cannot even think about myself. Or what I think about myself tomorrow.
I'm here, spending a very small part of my life on telling an empty auditorium about myself. When you read this, I'll be a different person.
Quite seriously, does anybody care?
- Last seen on Aug 21 11:56 AM. Member since January 11.
- I'm a dusted garnet poet for 1 comments.
- I am a 20 year old girl (Great Britain)
- When I'm not writing, I'm a student of theatre and creative writing.
- I have 1 comment, 5 poems
My Poetry
1 - 4 of 5
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It was a hallucination
That ruined his reputation -
Early when the morning comes
The sun ascends the sky14 lines, 1 comment, March 28. In London -
In the middle of the chaos
Where the world is spinning fast -
In Toronto I met Phil
Who loved playing guitar
