Blood-soaked Poetry by Redface

[Redface]

I decided to follow the lead of other writers here on this newly-christened forum to set up shop for myself in a single thread as opposed to cluttering everything by posting all my works in separate threads. So here's the deal: I will begin dumping my facebook poetry on here every week, and from henceforth I will post everything I write in this thread for your reading pleasure. I'd like to take some time to post some rules. Rules? Yes. It's my thread and I can do what I want:

1) Please be courteous and respectful. Not just to myself but to other commenters in this thread. No disrespectful language or arguing will be tolerated.

2) I want to improve myself as a writer and an artist so please feel free to let me know what you think, even if you don't think my work is any good. Just remember the golden rule of creative writing; "don't shoot down anyone's ideas unless you can come up with something better", or in this case try to be constructive with your criticism.

DO: "I liked it but I think it needs more work try deleting the second line or clearing up some of the language, etc."

DON'T: "lol this sux lol kill urself faggot" "Meh." "It was okay" (with no further explaination. Pro tip, if you think it's bland, I savor tips on how to spice it up.)

3) At the risk of sounding conceited, this thread is about me and my written work. Take the hint and stay on topic.

And those are the rules. I hope you all appreciate my work!

[Redface]

First on the chopping block: This was written early last year, and was one of the first pieces of poetry I've ever written. It was published in my high school's literary magazine, "Space for Rent". Like most of my poems, it has no official title:

As I pace along the earth
I look behind me and see
A trail of blood long and winding.
I am satisfied.

The world is a bare wrist,
And I am the razor blade.

I am a salesman
That peddles wares of war,
A product that men partake of most greedily.
The wholesale slaughter of their brothers
The destruction of their beloved cities
Wrapped in a pretty paper of honor and conquest.

The world is a bare wrist,
And I am the razor blade.

When I make my rounds
I see the fruit of my labours before me
Homeless men crowd the street like roaches
Women fight and bicker for bread
Children cry for their lost mothers
Mangy animals walk amongst the ruin
And die where they stand.
Their blood will fertilize the earth for a new beginning.

This world is my bare wrist,
And we are the razor blade.

[Sexylegs]

It sounds like it could be the lyrics to a song, man. I especially like the recurring lines of

"The world is a bare wrist
And I am a razor blade"

Post more stuff. I had a good ol' read of that last one, I want to see more of that.

[rifledark1]

Very nice.
I love that you were a bit more creative on the last verse, altering it into something that still fits the poem as a whole, and something you wouldn't fully understand unless you read everything before it.

[TrevorW]

This is pretty well thought out and rather musical. Nice work you have here.

[Redface]

It was a stupid idea to only post stuff weekly, since I already have a cache of works ready to share and I don't want my thread to fall off the front page. I must also stress that I am not satisfied with the "This was great, good work!" comments in my thread. Thank you for reading my work, and I appreciate that you enjoy my work, but I am here to grow and learn, so I would like to see more critiques and tips for improvement.

This is another early poem. It is another untitled poem, but on Facebook I titled it "Where Strides The Behemoth?" because it was inspired by the Mastodon song of the same name:

The buzzards are circling now.
I've been here for a while.
We were here when the dawn broke.
I'm here alone now.

I heard the trumpet blast
I witnessed the blood spill
I felt their bones break
I heard their mercy-cries.

It feels like days ago
but it's only been hours
I've been alone for a while now.
Don't leave me here alone.

I can't go on like this.
I can't survive anymore.
The buzzards are circling now
Don't leave me here alone.

[Redface]

This poem actually has a title. It's called "Poem I wrote on a napkin". I wrote it on a napkin:

If I could have one wish?
I want to feel her weight on me.
Just one wish?
That's what I want.

To feel her lips pressed against mine
Being blown away by the force of her love
And yet to be joined with her
One half of a perfect circle

I only get one wish?
All I want is her.
Her love, my only wish.
Make my wish come true.

[TrevorW]

At 1/30/10 10:37 PM, Redface wrote: This poem actually has a title. It's called "Poem I wrote on a napkin". I wrote it on a napkin:

If I could have one wish?
I want to feel her weight on me.
Just one wish?
That's what I want.

To feel her lips pressed against mine
Being blown away by the force of her love
And yet to be joined with her
One half of a perfect circle

I only get one wish?
All I want is her.
Her love, my only wish.
Make my wish come true.

This one feels more like a doodle than a show piece. Just a thought about a random girl, nothing more. Cute. Give it to her? -- if there is a her.

[Redface]

At 1/30/10 10:42 PM, TrevorW wrote: This one feels more like a doodle than a show piece. Just a thought about a random girl, nothing more. Cute. Give it to her? -- if there is a her.

There's always a "her". Comes with the territory of being a poet.

[TrevorW]

At 1/30/10 10:47 PM, Redface wrote:

At 1/30/10 10:42 PM, TrevorW wrote: This one feels more like a doodle than a show piece. Just a thought about a random girl, nothing more. Cute. Give it to her? -- if there is a her.

There's always a "her". Comes with the territory of being a poet.

I could spew twenty love poems for a girl I simply in vision. Self-perspective being the limitation is moot when a free my draws the pen across the paper -- my perspective is a fleeting. Eh.

Women :)

[megakill]

I cant help but feel like you've rushed some of your work.

I enjoy your poems, but i see potential in you that has yet to be realized.
By far, your first poem is my favorite, especially how you claim to be the razor, while the world is a wrist, in need of cleansing.

My advice to you, is to open your mind, and take your time. Judging by the name of your thread, you intend on writing quite depressing and dark poetry, and yet you still need distinguish yourself.
The best work comes from the heart and soul, so when you feel depressed, thats when you need to pick up the pen.

I hope this helps, ill be looking out for your work!

[TrevorW]

At 1/30/10 11:47 PM, megakill wrote: I cant help but feel like you've rushed some of your work.

I enjoy your poems, but i see potential in you that has yet to be realized.
By far, your first poem is my favorite, especially how you claim to be the razor, while the world is a wrist, in need of cleansing.

My advice to you, is to open your mind, and take your time. Judging by the name of your thread, you intend on writing quite depressing and dark poetry, and yet you still need distinguish yourself.
The best work comes from the heart and soul, so when you feel depressed, thats when you need to pick up the pen.

I hope this helps, ill be looking out for your work!

Good words. In the end Red I would say visit the world of the dark romantics and of the tragic writers. Then visit country music and the works of religious figure (Dante, ect), and finally visit Emerson and twain. You will pick up a rich vision of darkness, with but a hint of disdain for human nature.

[FUNKbrs]

Your worlds are simple and one dimensional.

You do a good job of writing in first person. Wait a minute, that's like complimenting someone on not falling over skating in a hockey tryout.

Don't just go "Ok, it's a post apocalyptic/preapocalyptic world and.....:"

It's more like "The apocalypse is happening and noone even notices"

Or....

"We live in a golden age and noone even notices"

Or....

"We live in a world of tumultuous change, and people are focusing on the wrong things"

Or....

"People think the apocalypse happened, but they're all wrong."

It's not supposed to be just how things ARE, but rather, what things are compared to what people THINK they are, and the conflict between those two viewpoints.

Also, very rarely do people die in wars or by suicide with a razorblade. Most successful suicides use cars going off of bridges, or hanging, or jumping off of high platforms like bridges or buildings. More people die of eating too much bacon than they do of gunshot wounds. Avoid cliche's, or you'll find yourself writing a poem someone already wrote... and wrote BETTER than you.

[TrevorW]

At 1/31/10 01:22 AM, FUNKbrs wrote:

Avoid cliche's, or you'll find yourself writing a poem someone already wrote... and wrote BETTER than you.

Hard, but true words.

[Redface]

Wow! Uncle FUNK hated my poetry! Okay, this is good. I'm finally getting some good notes and I feel like I'm finally making some progress here. I'll dump some more of my shitty/sappy love poetry now. For context, everything I've posted so far were written in high school. So there you go:

I do so love your hands, dear
How much like snowflakes they are
Small and pretty and so very cold
Oh, how I love your hands, dear

Why are your hands so cold, dear?
Could I heat them with my love?
Hold them over the fires of my passion
Let me warm your cold hands, dear

Why are your hands so pretty, dear?
Do you wash them in rose water?
How soft and smooth they look
Let me kiss your pretty hands, dear

Why are your hands so small, dear?
So small and petite, like you are
So delicate and fragile, yet so perfect
Let me hold your small hands, dear

[TrevorW]

At 1/31/10 06:16 PM, Redface wrote:

I do so love your hands, dear
How much like snowflakes they are
Small and pretty and so very cold
Oh, how I love your hands, dear

Why are your hands so pretty, dear?
Do you wash them in rose water?
How soft and smooth they look
Let me kiss your pretty hands, dear

Why are your hands so small, dear?
So small and petite, like you are
So delicate and fragile, yet so perfect
Let me hold your small hands, dear

Yep take out that one stanza and we have something creepy. I approve. I like the form you have with this one. Good job.

[Redface]

I haven't had much luck in romance:

When you first saw her
did you know
that she would be
the one?

Did you fall in love with her
before she even spoke to you?
Were you convinced
once she did?

And did you know
that you wanted to be with her
when she grabbed your hand
and smiled?

And when you look into her brown eyes
and stroke her auburn hair
do you know what it's like
to be happy?

Have you kissed her yet?
Have you told her you loved her?
No? Then you should know
She doesn't love you anyway.

[Redface]

Not to mention, they're always in short supply:

A happy moment
is like a cyanide capsule;
small and insignificant
fitting in the palm of your hand

It is unremarkable
at first, but when
you pop it in your mouth
the fun truly beings.

Your body convulses violently
you've never felt anything like this
and when the sensation passes,
you'll never know a feeling quite like it.

[TrevorW]

At 1/31/10 07:20 PM, Redface wrote: I haven't had much luck in romance:

When you first saw her
did you know
that she would be
the one?

Did you fall in love with her
before she even spoke to you?
Were you convinced
once she did?

And did you know
that you wanted to be with her
when she grabbed your hand
and smiled?

And when you look into her brown eyes
and stroke her auburn hair
do you know what it's like
to be happy?

Have you kissed her yet?
Have you told her you loved her?
No? Then you should know
She doesn't love you anyway.

Mate, this just feels like you broke a couple sentences with random usage of the enter key. It's also kinda...eh, generic love people. Try to metaphorically twist this into something neat. Explain your emotion through means of visual effect, or something. Try things! Love poems can be really cool if you risk it.

[Redface]

I hate my old poetry. This is an example of why:

I dreamt once that I saw her
in a sun-drenched white room
and she, dressed simply in a white nightgown
was more radiant than the sunbeams themselves.

We kissed tenderly before
she sprouted her wings
and flew,
stealing the light from the room with her.

A beautiful seraph
she left me in darkness.

I hope that one day
I may have that blessed dream again
where we share that same kiss
or that she will appear in my waking hours.

A beautiful seraph
appeared in my dreams and stole
the light from my world.
And now, her beauty will haunt me forever.

A beautiful seraph
I shall never see her again.

[TrevorW]

You've grown! Be proud.

[Redface]

No comment, only regret:

Little sister
with the scars on her arms
and the bruises under her eyes
Be you the creator or the destroyer?

When the mud and the blood
hide the pink of your dress
from the eyes of others
Are you the mother or the maiden?

I've seen you, sister
with tears streaming
as you picked the flowers in the field
and put them into your hair

I loved you, sister
when you held my hand
and we walked
into the dead forest

Are you, little sister
the Champion of these ungrateful men?
Or the heretic
who will destroy them?

Will you, little sister
know when you must
decide, little sister:
Be you the champion or the heretic?

[MonkeyV]

At 1/28/10 12:26 AM, Redface wrote: It was published in my high school's literary magazine, "Space for Rent". Like most of my poems, it has no official title:

I don't have time to think of proper criticism, so I'll just say that I liked it, and I heard the band Pain of Salvation singing it in my head.

[Redface]

Jezus, I've been slacking with dumping my old poetry here. Mostly due to lack of interest, I guess. Everything I've posted so far is all old stuff. I haven't written any new poetry since about the end of last year. I kind of like this one, though:

I've kissed your chapped lips
and felt your desire pressing
against the roof of my mouth.

I've seen the hunger in your eyes
and have tasted it on your skin.
I've noticed the dried blood on your shirt.

Like a broken statue,
or a torn painting
you are damaged despite your beauty.

Like a wounded animal,
trapped in a box
you yearn to be free.

Like a bird
beating
against its cage.

I've seen the sadness curled along your lips
as you grabbed your keys
and walked out the door.

Heard the dying dreams in the tires
peeling
out of the driveway.

Felt the crushing despair
in the house you left empty.
alone

[Redface]

Once I finish dumping all my poetry, I'll post the short story I wrote. This poem is another one inspired by the music of Mastodon:

Teeth coated in blood
Standing eight feet tall
Fire in his eyes
evil in his spirit

Here comes the Minotaur
I unshieve my blade
ready for his attack
Thus charges the Minotaur

Hear his battle cry
black are his eyes
arms thick like branches
This half human abomination.

Together locked in battle
until the sun sets.
The victor stands triumphant.
Here lies the Minotaur.

[Redface]

Bing:

My love

like

the rain

in a drought
falls

only

where it is needed.

My pain
travels through me
crashing
violently, rippling
destroying
my world and others.
like earthquakes
devastating
me

My love
like the rain
fills the crevices

drip

drip

until there are no holes
no canyons of pain
only oceans of

drip

love

Drip by drip.
Love fills me

drip

Bit by bit
drip
pain destroys me

drip

Like an empty cup

drip

I am filled.

drip

Like an empty lake

drip

I am restored.

[Redface]

Dedicated to Kate Bush:

I've waited a lifetime for this touch
A millennium for this love
I've been running,
running down roads, running up hills
running up buildings
to feel the way I do.

I've stared a lifetime into your eyes
to feel your warmth
A millennium for your love
running down dreams, running down men
running up stairs
to feel the warmth you give me.

If I could find God
a millennium in his presence
make a deal to take his place
running through forests, running through plains
running down moutains
I'd stay in the warmth you give me.