Black Poetry : My Poetic Soul

Discussion in 'Black Poetry - Get Your Flow On!' started by Yasmyne, Aug 26, 2005.

  1. Yasmyne

    Yasmyne New Member MEMBER

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    I don't know how much of a poet I am....actually I'm not even sure how much of a writer I am....I find myself drifting back and forth betweent modes of communication...which will fit best, which will express me the best...who knows. After a while though, I figure somebody will come around and tap me on the shoulder and whisper to me exactly where I'll fit. This is actually from something I wrote for a short story....it may not be poetry per say....but it is the poetic stylings of my soul or at the very least the creative outcome of my attempt at literary expression:


    From her position on the couch Amelia’s wide eyes beg me to take the offer, to accept this olive branch and give her an excuse to continue leaning on mom’s shoulder. They both sound earnest, as if my position in our family unit is so vital that it could all crumble without me. Funny thing is that I was always made to feel the absolute opposite my entire life. I never thought I’d be in this position. I have the power to give the thumbs up or the thumbs down. The poignancy of this turn of events feels bitterly satisfying. For the first time I’ve got all the control and it only took my parent’s downfall to get it. They’ve given me the sway I’ve always wanted, but then screwed me over by placing the entire fate of our family in my hands. It’s a power with consequence, and I’m liable to throw caution to the wind and **** it all up for everybody. I’m in a kamikaze state of mind. However beseeching their speeches are, or how enthusiastic they are to find a mutually beneficial resolution I cannot seem to feel pity or forgiveness. I want to feel for them, but I can’t, at least not wholly. I realize that they are my parents, but they look like strangers. I see the physical attributes, the eyes, lips, and hair, but I cannot feel the soul of my parents. I don’t feel a bond, a resounding familial affection. I’m reluctant, but even more so I am unmotivated. Nothing about keeping this family together excites me. We’re a lost cause. There seems very little to salvage. The love I felt from either one of them has always been halfhearted if not completely unenthused. Maybe we just need to self-destruct. Or maybe I just need to make my walking away sound pretty, poetic and valid. All I know at this moment is that we are not, and cannot be a family. The basic ideology of familyhood has been trampled upon, and I cannot find it in myself to put it back together with ill fitting tape and crazy glue.
     
  2. $$RICH$$

    $$RICH$$ Lyon King Admin. STAFF

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    welcome to destee.com poetic playground
    welcome to the house of peace & respect
    welcome from above as i bless this some love

    whatever style or mold you have it speaks with depth
    poeticly and leave it's mist we welcome you within the
    family here to share and spread love in care flow on !
     
  3. Wisdom7

    Wisdom7 Well-Known Member MEMBER

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    Wow, that was deep. Especially about not feeling the parents soul. I don't know if this is real or fiction since its on poetry, but sometimes the love parents give is the most they know how to give because of their parents and experiences. If we can accept that and know that we refuse to repeat the cycle even among them, then maybe it'll work. Your a good poet!. U just get in where you fit in and be u cuz it works
     
  4. watzinaname

    watzinaname Well-Known Member MEMBER

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    Parents should feel like our "home" and if they more often don't then do, there is something wrong. I felt such loneliness in this piece. Welcome to destee, I was interested in your words from beginning to end.
     
  5. 1poetsought

    1poetsought Well-Known Member MEMBER

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    The appropriateness of the prose is a subtle poem, tap-tap...
     
  6. Defiantson

    Defiantson Well-Known Member MEMBER

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    First of all welcome and secondly this was nice I loved it. Thanks for sharing with us.
     
  7. Yasmyne

    Yasmyne New Member MEMBER

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    It's strange to read other ppl's thoughts on a personal piece......I'm in the middle of a novel right now.....I started about a year ago and I'm basically writing it in between school and work which means it's taking forever. It's daunting...a frightening and completely invasive process, but sometimes, and those who write will understand this, words need to be expressed, they need to be written, they need to become real....and most often they refused to stay hidden somewhere deep inside you. I don't let anybody I know read anything I write so I feel like this is my outlet.....I'm just gonna post bits and pieces of my story and hopefully get some constructive criticism for ppl who don't know me personally....but may after they've read everything I've written:

    I was a lot of things back then. I’ve pretty much been everything a person could possibly be; angry, sad, depressed, introverted, extroverted, vindictive, virtuous. The seven deadly sins could very well be embodied in me alone. I feel sadness right now at realizing just how uncontrolled my life has been. There has never been a steady course to follow. I have been too much to be one thing concretely. I am a woman and a girl, harsh and gentle, malicious and compassionate and have managed to encompass more adjectives in my life that there probably exist in the world. I am a chaotic ensemble of memories that are in unison both damning and flattering.
    I wish I could blame youthful exuberance, or some sort of adolescent substance abuse problem, but hindsight is what it is. I had the grandest schemes just prowling through my mind. Everything was dramatic, and poetic, and seemed to embody the depth and spectacle of a great novel or play. I was enamored with the idea of living an existence that was so much greater then the tedious, humdrum stuff of my life. I may have seen myself as a Shylock, a vivid character from a striking tragedy. I imagined my pound of flesh, and it looked very good to me. Afterwards, I felt like the flesh had been taken from me. It was bittersweet and very cliché. At the time I wasn’t prepared for the reality of my actions, and only saw a theatrical production with very sophisticated and complex nuances. I thought we were women, and had to act accordingly. I wanted our liberation. We, who had so often sat on the sidelines and watched things happen to us, would now participate actively in our lives. In retrospect, my need to transition from girl to woman, forced me to behave in a manner that was very pubescent, yet adult enough to get me inducted. I realize now, as a woman who is often mystified at the line she crossed to get here, being adult is subjective at best. Maturity carries all aspects of youth, but forces its juvenile tendencies to hide behind a mask of development. I went through a natural growth phase and that meant behaving in a manner completely suited for somebody younger than I. But it was with this behavior that I learned, many years later, what it truly means to be a woman. It means being able to say you messedup. And mean it.
     
  8. Poetrymama

    Poetrymama Well-Known Member MEMBER

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    re:poetic

    Your soul screams Poetry. I like the piece you wrote.
     
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