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Post by mswrite on Nov 29, 2005 19:19:24 GMT -8
I am looking for a quote or song with the theme of how time passes too fast and/or how you don't appreciate something until you've lost it. I've tried and tried to write something like this but I can't seem to do it justice.
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Post by mswrite on Nov 9, 2005 18:53:57 GMT -8
The Blues By Switchfoot
Is this the New Year, or just another night? Is this the new fear, or just another fright? Is this the new tear, or just another desperation?
Is this the finger, or just another fist? Is the kingdom, or just a hit and miss? I've missed direction, most in all this desperation
Is this what they call freedom? Is this what you call pain? Is this what they call discontented fame?
It'll be a day like this one, When the world caves in When the world caves in When the world caves in
I'm singing this one, like a broken piece of glass, For broken arms and broken noses in the back Is this the new year, or just another desperation?
You push until you're shoving, You bend until you break, Do you stand on the broken fields where your fathers lay?
It'll be a day like this one, When the world caves in When the world caves in When the world caves in
When the world caves in, (ah,) When the world caves in, When the world caves in
There's nothing here worth saving, There's no one here at all, Is there any net left, that could break our fall?
It'll be a day like this one, When the sky falls down, And the hungry and poor and deserted are found
Are you discontented? Have you been pushing hard? Have you been throwing down, this broken house of cards?
It'll be a day like this one, When the world caves in, When the world caves in,
Is there nothing left now? Nothing left to sing? Are there any left now, who haven't kissed the enemy?
Is this the new year, or just another desperation?
Ah...
Does justice ever find you? Do the wicked never lose? Is there any other song, to sing beside these blues?
And nothing is okay, Till' the world caves in, Till' the world caves in, Till' the world caves in, Till' the world caves in, Till' the world caves in,
Until the world caves in, Until the world caves in, Until the world caves in, Until the world caves in, Until the world caves in, Until the world caves in...
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Post by mswrite on Nov 17, 2005 19:30:51 GMT -8
I know I wish I know who'd written/said that whole thing. And my grandma died unexpectedly in April, it was the first time I'd lost someone close to me, and I've been trying and trying to put it to words. This does, perfectly.
"You'll cry because time is passing too fast, and you'll eventually lose someone you love."
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Post by mswrite on Nov 9, 2005 18:50:54 GMT -8
As we grow up, we learn that even the one person that wasn't supposed to ever let you down probably will. You will have your heart broken probably more than once and it's harder every time. You'll break hearts too, so remember how it felt when yours was broken. You'll fight with your best friend. You'll blame a new love for things an old one did. You'll cry because time is passing too fast, and you'll eventually lose someone you love. So take too many pictures, laugh too much, and love like you've never been hurt because every sixty seconds you spend upset is a minute of happiness you'll never get back.
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Post by mswrite on Jan 28, 2006 9:10:20 GMT -8
Wow...that's amazing. It's deep. It's descriptive. I like how you consider if from all these different perspectives. The driver, the parents, the brother. I like the last two lines. And I like these lines: "Sixteen years old. It passes so damn fast. It approaches and you try to scramble back into the fading days of childhood, because everything you believe in exists there."
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Weary
Dec 3, 2007 13:36:36 GMT -8
Post by mswrite on Dec 3, 2007 13:36:36 GMT -8
I like it. It has a tone of tired resignation, but at the same time strength. Maybe that doesn't make sense...but it does to me, and it's a good thing! I like the dropped g's on the gerunds...it softens the entire poem.
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Post by mswrite on Dec 3, 2007 13:30:59 GMT -8
I think part of the reason it has that emotional detachment is because when I wrote it I had no emotional connection to the concept. but even now I like that...you know how sometimes you just feel so hurt or furious that you can't express it? You're beyond tears or screaming, sometimes beyond words? That is what I hope it conveys. However, I meant to ask this when I first posted it...do you think it's more effective without any punctuation--basically as one big run-on--than it would be with? by the way, I'm indecisive too.
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Post by mswrite on Dec 2, 2007 19:26:57 GMT -8
This is about a year old, and when I wrote it it was just a jumble of words..not anything I really felt. Now I do feel it, sort of, so it's even more poignant to me, but I don't think it's very good. I'm a poor poet. Help? suggestions?
Desert me Leave me to suffer With the pangs of loneliness That Tear me apart Desert me Thirst unquenched Hunger unfulfilled
Ignite me Douse me in kerosene With the harsh grating words That Burn through my veins Ignite me Flames to flesh And flesh to flames
Destroy me Batter my walls With your mindless machines That Shatter ruin and Destroy me Stones crumble Pillars fall
Forget me Watch me stand waiting In blind anticipation That Leads me astray Forget me Last chance Time lost Desert me.
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Post by mswrite on Apr 21, 2006 19:33:35 GMT -8
I do appreciate the criticism, and trust me, I'm not offended. I couldn't figure out how to start it and I agreee that the first stanza is lousy. I've always considered myself much better at writing short stories and novels, and poetry isn't my strong suite, but I still like to try. I do have to say this. Obviously everyone's allowed their own opinions, but just to clear this up. I wasn't trying to recreate the myth of Icarus, I just liked the phrase "Icarus wings" and intended it to mean that her "wings" were made of wax.
Also, as far as why she's flying... When I wrote it I'd recently been doing some thinking/discussing on the note of people who use illegal drugs to escape their problems. My opinion on that is that it doesn't work--in the end the drugs are going to screw you up. So even though they can escape from their troubles for a time, pretty soon they're going to be forced to face them again.
That wasn't very well worded, but I hope it made some sense.
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Post by mswrite on Apr 20, 2006 18:25:07 GMT -8
She wants to soar She wants to fly Her only relief shall be the open skies She cries out And reaches up And prays for her wings to be strong enough She rises on waves of fire The pain and sorrow she leaves behind She flies and then she smiles Her Icarus wings will rescue her today She sails through the sweet air Gentle gusts caress her wings She circles as she climbs Higher and higher Closing in on the sun She rises on waves of fire The pain and sorrow she leaves behind She flies and then she smiles Her Icarus wings will rescue her today But she’s forgotten that her wings can’t endure She’s forgotten why she left the heat behind As she passes only inches from the sun Her Icarus wings becoming liquid fire She rises on waves of fire The pain and sorrow she leaves behind She flies and then she smiles Her Icarus wings will rescue her today She plummets through the air Harsh winds making her so cold She screams as she falls Faster and faster The sun disappears against the brilliant darkness She rose on waves of fire The pain and sorrow she left behind She fell and then she cried Her Icarus wings have forsaken her today. If you don't know the mythological story about Icarus, go look it up I'd like some honest critique, which you all are always good at. I also need some opinions on this one part: "She rises on waves of fire"Because fire would destroy the Icarus wings, I think this is a little confusing. I've considered changing it to "she rises on waves of light" but I hate the way that sounds.
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Post by mswrite on Apr 21, 2006 19:41:43 GMT -8
I love the last line. In fact, the only part I really didn't like was:
'Her laugh, her little tinkling laugh, And her little tinkling voice -'
I don't like the way it sounds using "little tinkling" for both lines. If you like repetition and you like some significance of using that, then go for it, of course, but personally I think it'd sound better if one was different.
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Post by mswrite on Jan 28, 2006 9:05:10 GMT -8
it made me think of Flowers for Algernon as well. Which reminds me that I need to read that again. but anyways, I love your poem. Especially the second to last stanza, I just...like it.
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Post by mswrite on Nov 17, 2005 19:27:35 GMT -8
I like Liquor Kisses as a title. It's an amazing poem. "Teenage yearning, in adult bodies."nice touch.
the entire last stanza is just such raw truth. I love it. Keep it up!
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Post by mswrite on Dec 3, 2007 13:28:15 GMT -8
thanks! it's nice to have criticism from someone other than my parents (no offense to them, but it's the whole "a face only a mother could love" concept).
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Post by mswrite on Dec 2, 2007 19:17:55 GMT -8
This is about two years old. I won a writing contest at my high school with it, but who knows how tough the competition was...there weren't many entrants. Of all my short stories that he's read, which is all those I've ever written except for one, my dad says this is my best. I'm not sure I agree...but that's ok. It's nice to be appreciated! anyways, here you go.
For as long as anyone could remember, and all the way back through the history books, there had been sand. White sand, shimmering and undulating in dunes for as far as the eye could see. Tiny grains falling from yellow-brown sky, to all the edges of the world, to all sides where the endless clear walls caught the sunlight and broke it into massive, beautiful beams of color. Only one man had ever been to these walls. He had journeyed many months through the ever-falling sand, once falling ill and nearly being buried by it while he slept. When he had finally reached the walls, he had studied them unceasingly: touching, staring, tasting, climbing, and walking. He had come back with a full report. They were clear, he said, but you knew they were there, for the gleamed. Sometimes he could see himself in them, as one sees oneself in water. He had followed alongside them for many days, searching for a door, a window, some way through, but had found nothing. He could not see much on the other side, just gray everywhere. When he returned, he’d written a book: The Edge of the World. It was all about his journey, how he could only sleep for two hours at a time or he’d be buried. That was why, he said, they were lucky to be so civilized, to have developed the technology to raise the buildings at the same pace that the sand rose, so they would never be buried. His book had joined the scores of others on the library shelves. They had many books, mostly history books of their civilization, but a few, a very select few, were from ancient times, from B.S. Before Sand. No one really believed what was in those books. That children attended a place called “school” to learn “reading, writing, and arithmetic”? The children learned without such “schools”. And what odd names for descrolling, scrolling, and numbering. No one really believed that B.S. time had ever existed. A life without sand? Impossible. But there were also a few people, strange people, who did believe it. They believed that soon the sand would slow, and one day, stop, and the walls would be gone. They said that the civilization needed to expand, to build up out near the walls, so that when they dissolved, they could leave to the world outside the walls. But no one believed them, so no one listened. The old books also described a strange phenomenon called “weather”. Strong “winds” blew, and water fell from the sky. The winds were said to be gusts of air—no one understood what that meant, not even the scientists. Moving air? And water falling? Water was scarce. It wasn’t even real. It was a substance simulated in the labs, used to keep the crops grown in the greenhouses alive. All these things were myths, lies made up by writers who wished to become rich and famous. Maybe they had in their day, many years ago, inventing stories of days when sand had not been, they would be respected, even feared. Now they were ignored and scorned. Adam was one of them, the ignored and the scorned. Adam believed in wind and rain, in a land without falling sand, a land of schools for all children, and he believed that one day they would be released into this world. Adam had been monitoring the falling of the sand for fifteen years now. Just a few weeks ago, he had noticed a slight change: The rate and amount of the sand that fell was dropping. It was such a miniscule change that only the machines had picked it up, but they were his machines, so he, too, had noticed. And as the weeks had progressed the changes continued, each time on a larger scale. Soon others would notice. How soon? He couldn’t predict. It would depend on how observant the person was. However, he suspected that by the time the changes had reached a twenty-five percent drop, people would have noticed. He was right. Soon, people began talking. They whispered, for fear of being overheard half-believing the idiotic ideas. Those who did believe them and had always believed them simply waited, watching the signs. Within two months, the torrents of sand pouring from above had slowed to a trickle in only one spot: the center of the town. Elsewhere, no sand fell, and the once-essential mechanisms that controlled the rising of the buildings were disabled. Everyone monitored the small column of sand in the center of town, but Adam paid it the most attention, camping there day in and day out, waiting as it lessened. Children were laughing and playing on the dunes, oblivious to the adults’ worry. They were glad to be able to play without the sand in their eyes and chafing their faces. Adults went about their usual schedules, yet each movement was tentative and careful, as though they were afraid their chairs would disappear from beneath them. And they did. As Adam sat, watching, he saw one tiny grain falling from above. No more. Just one. The last. In the instant it hit the ground, Adam felt himself hit the ground, his chair disappearing, the sand vanishing around him. All the buildings around him simply ceased to be, snuffed like the flame of a candle. But the people inside them remained, many falling to the ground as Adam did, their bodies hitting with a synchronized thump. A deafening silence followed. Children’s mouths gaped; the smiles left their eyes; their laughter ceased. The silence was broken only by the cry of an infant somewhere in the distance. All eyes moved to Adam. Then, they began looking around. The old books had lied. True, there was no sand. There was gray ash, and hard, cold dirt. No green grass, as promised. The sky was not blue. It was a harsh gray. There was no wind. There were people. Bleak, gaunt faces, their bodies distorted, their ribs showing. They were starving, and they were dying. The sand people did not know that they would soon look like that. They did not know that each breath they took of the poisonous air would mean one less breath before their last. They did not know that they, too, would soon be malformed by toxic food and water, with their eyes sunken in their heads; their hair and skin sucked of their luster and shine. Nor did they know that soon the old and the weak, and those who would refuse the simple foods offered to them, would be lying on the ground as alive as the skeletons of once majestic skyscrapers that surrounded them. Adam smiled. He did know. He had always known that this would happen, and always known that he was right. He had been the only one among them who had known the world before their imprisonment, when they lived in the real world of blue sky and green grass, of snow and rain, of sunsets and eclipses, before disaster had reduced the world to poison, ash, and a few thousand deprived people. He had been the one who had imprisoned them in the hourglass long ago, as a punishment for the wrongdoings that he no longer remembered.
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