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I don't know if this is the right place, but I'd like to post a poem I once wrote. English is not my first language, so please forgive me for any possible mistakes. Here it is:


there's a robot in the fairy-tale

there’s a robot in the fairy-tale
'blows a gale,
floods the dale,
melts the shale,
’cause there’s a robot in the fairy-tale.

see
the robot
he
prevails
hurry!
call
the men
who sail
there’s a robot in the fairy-tale!

there’s a robot in the fairy-tale
the princess pales,
the queen wails,
the hills are veiled,
’cause there’s a robot in the fairy-tale

told
the tales
ancient
males
left
a trail
do not sale!
he
the robot
can’t be hailed
there’s a robot in the fairy-tale.

fairy
tails
cats
in jail
rainbow
turning
to grayscale
where on earth
are the king’s mails?
they fail!
there’s a robot in the fairy-tale.

bury
snails
shells
and nails
gasp
the wizards
harm
the frails
who on earth
built up those rails?
now quail!
there’s a robot in the fairy-tale.

robot
in the prairie
the king’s
unmerry
end

and they lived unhappily ever after.

How is everyone getting onto this writing forum? I've checked the links in this thread and they don't work. At least, not on my computer.

Only one person has seen this one....

Relief

Smashed gifts
Broken promises
Words burn the tongue
never leaving the tightened lips

Silence so unbearable
A need so deep
A hunger
Sorrow tainting the view

A sore arm relieves the pressure
A smile slowly forms
Suddenly the world looks a bit brighter

Adriellemartin. it is a good idea to include this subject. I am dissociative nos ( i am co-conscience with my other personalities i dont disappear hence the nos afterwards. the following explains all of us. With me each age has a mood that i do not. i am the one that writes how the others feel. this is My poem written by me....

All Within Me
One of my parts who had no name
Is in her 20’s and has no shame.
I finally figured out what name she can carry.
Spelled with an “I” her name is Mari.
Now I know who many are.
Through the years we’ve come so far.
There are fifteen and eighteen year old girls.
Fifteen has always been known as Amy.
She if full of hate; our Protector and Angry.
The years of 18 was a daring, carefree time.
With nothing of my own to call mine.
Young Mary, age 9, tried hard to keep her friends.
She was always found in a small, quiet corner in the end.
A He who cares not whom he harms;
An adult with absolutely No charm.
He is known in Our System as Mike,
And has been around since the tiny tike.
Little Marybeth, so frightened and small
Holds secrets search for by All.
Mike turns us upside down with what He brought.
He makes us frightened, angry and wrought.
Just when I thought there was no gentle male
Along came another with No anger to curtail.
The Adult MaryBeth has appeared.
All but One is in her heart, endeared.
When we look back at the poems we see
It’s hard to believe this is All Within Me.

Wrote this a couple of hours ago.

Ease

Opportunities squandered
Words left unspoken
Declarations better left in shadows

Needs never fulfilled
Distraction never good enough
Thoughts invade

Some things just not to be so
Not to come
The storm too strong
Wind whipping through thin cloth
Cold reaching to the bone

Bitter
Sweet
Torturous
Pain in need of release

The thoughts subside
The storm calms
Once again
I await the next slip
Savoring the stillness
The ease

Oh, how sad my mothers language is German...
I enjoy writing some poetry sometimes. Would anybody here be able to read German?
I'm glad, at least music is international... If I couldn't post my compositions here I would die^^ ...though I can also only post the ones without vocals, since my English pronounciation might not be perfect enough to satisfy a native speakers ears...^^
It's somehow sad, that English isn't my mothers language. Success in the GB and the USA means international success, success in Austria or Germany means success in... well, Austria and Germany...^^
You are all so totally privileged! Consider yourself lucky!

kobi_galon, you are very very talented. I absolutely love this poem.

Hey. I'm a professional writer and amateur journalist. New to the forum. Not diagnosed, but starting to suspect. Wasn't sure if this is the right place to post but here's a recently written piece of creative nonfiction - memoir essay, on my childhood...

Why I’m a Hypochondriac

Theory #1

As a kid, between ages five and seven, I would collect things, though not normal things or even stereotypical nerdy or geeky things, such as baseball cards and comic books, which my big brother collected. Perhaps because I hadn’t developed a specific focus yet, and my family was going through rough times when we could no longer afford to buy much, I would pick up whatever I could carry in my hands or stuff in a pocket. This lead to a mixed collection of assorted small rocks and pebbles, leaves, feathers, and pieces of roofing shingle from storms or construction.
Luckily for me, our family had a complete edition of outdated encyclopedias, which my parents had gotten in installments from a real door-to-door encyclopedia salesman. I spent much of my childhood reading those books, and that way I was able to learn the names of every rock, the bird for each feather, and the tree to each leaf. The shingles, I didn’t know what they were at first, but had just thought they looked pretty. I stored all my things in a large box that I “hid” on the floor of my closest.
One of the only times growing up I ever had a “friend” over, it was a boy I barely knew because our parents had set up a “play date” between us. I bored him to death with my collection plus other random facts about my narrow hobbies and interests, which were growing to include space travel. He didn’t literally die, but he never hung out with me again.
My mother finally discovered the box and found out what I had been doing. I think my older brother asked if I were building a nest. I have to admit, that’s what it looked like.
Ironically, my brother (who is eight years older than I am) often used to call me “little bird” because whenever I was nervous or upset I would fling my hands, which he referred to as “flapping your wings.” He tried to look out for me when he could, since our father was always working or on the road, and my mother had to stay busy also, so I could have spent my entire childhood alone if it hadn’t been for a few female friends at school and my brother. “You’re flapping your wings again,” he would have said, “careful or you’ll fly away.”
When they found my collection, he probably said something along the lines of, “Our little bird is building a nest,” but I don’t remember. I do remember they made me dump it all back outside or in the garbage, though I didn’t want to and even tried insisting on returning everything to their exact spots at least. My mother discouraged me from picking up further objects the best way she knew.
“Remember our talk about germs?” she asked.
“Of course,” I said.
“They’re so tiny, they’re invisible to the human eye.”
“I know.”
“Well, they’re on everything. Plus mites and dust mites. Anything outside on the ground could make you sick.”
“Everything?” I asked.
After that, I didn’t want to pick up or touch anything directly with my hands, but had to use a tissue or shirt sleeve when I didn’t avoid strange objects altogether, unless I was sure they were clean.

Theory #2

My family never really believed in medication or medicine due to religious beliefs, plus we couldn’t always afford it, so it was on a “need-be” basis. Unfortunately, I was what some people refer to as a sickly child and was frequently ill. I personally attribute my now above average immune system to having lived through and survived these factors.
Conversely, my mother was always over-protective (and still is), so she assumed if anything was wrong, then everything could be wrong, and rushed me to the hospital whenever possible and supposedly needed. By coincidence, when I was eight years old, my parents had bought me a 1980s college medical textbook at a flea market. I read through and memorized it, excluding the portions about reproduction, sexual diseases, and women’s health, which I skipped over from embarrassment.
Thus, when I went to the doctor’s at eleven with strep throat, I was able to describe my symptoms with the proper medical terms.
“What’s your diagnosis, Doctor?” the real doctor asked me afterward.
“The flu,” I said.
“Close, strep throat.”
I slapped my hand to my forehead.
“And your prognosis?” he asked.
“I’ll live.”
My parents kept insisting that with my intelligence, near photographic memory, and literally encyclopedic knowledge, I should grow up to be a doctor. I considered this, but then realized some problems: I was afraid of needles, shots, and blood, and still nervous about germs due to my mother, and generally terrified of hospitals despite my familiarity with them, since they contained everything else that scared me.
Things reached the worst point around twelve and thirteen years old, when my family could finally afford to take me in for some in-depth testing. Since I was young, I had had a problem where I might have “fits” at the movie theatre or other settings that over-stimulated me and made me nauseous. The doctors never found a medical explanation.
I still avoid hospitals to this day and try not to take medicine.

Don't Let The Mask Fall

Remember those times
You left me
Sobbing on my knees
Feeling worthless
Beyond hope
Broken
In need of repair

Probably not
You never looked
Always too busy
So unconcerned
With a little thing
Like your love

You say you cared
I'm sure you did
But not for me
I was merely a toy
To play with
Fill you up
Clean your stuff

Never
Did you take the time
To really listen
To take it all in
Understand
Just what you had

Now I'm gone
You can't let go
You call me up
When your f**k toy
Is too busy for you
Let me make it clear
I don't want you back
The lies
Deceit
Games

You have issues
Things you hide
Never letting that mask
So perfectly placed
Slip
Fall to the floor
For a time
I held it up high
Enabling
Enraging
While you engraved
Lasting marks on my soul

deleted

Last edited by artrat on 07 Jan 2012, 1:32 am, edited 1 time in total.

If I ran a literary journal, I would publish this.

Thank you, Brony2011.

I do plan to get my poetry published. I just need to get it all organized and find a publisher. My last one is no longer in business.

Here is a politcal poem that I wrote last night.

Life in society's meat grinder
__________________________

School is a prison of the mind, an emotional equivalence of a Nazi death camp.
They mold you to fit into their society. It's a society that isolates anyone that does not conform to their rules.
The children are trained to be greedy corporate slaves.
As a child this did not apply to me.

While the others asked no questions. I questioned everything.
Who created god? I asked as they looked at me with hatred in their snake-like eyes.
With venom in their voices they answered. God is infinite and he has always been present. who defines morals? I challenged them agian. God creates morals they answered with deceit.


Then they sent me away. Three days they stuffed me in the cell of a detention like a caged animal.
The others had done far worse to me. I was the victim of verbal crucifiction and emotional torture.
They did not ask questions and that was what the system wanted.

I found out the truth. They want you to murder all of your morals and comform to theirs.
The want you to murder the innocent and steal from the poor.I was made aware of imperialism,capitalism,exploitation of workers and competition.
The apathetic molders of a generation destroyed me young heart.

When I escaped I felt defeated. All of the others resorted to useless small talk just like always.
The idiot chatter of my tormentors filled my ears. They spoke of the latest fashion.
The spoke of celebrities. These are the topics of a failing,shallow society.
I could not help but to shout. I shouted at the top of my lungs.
I told them of all I had learned in my cell. They just laughed and soon resorted to violence.

I fled from the laughing mob carrying torches and very sharp daggers.
The fire consumed of my flesh and the daggers pierced my beating heart.
They had murdered me but I arose from society's ashes.
I then went home to the comforting womb of my room.
The next day the dreaded ritual was repeated.

But that's just life in society's meat grinder.

I liked this. It had a style that stayed consistent throughout. And it was humorous in a very dry way.

I'll post a short poem of my own in hopes of feedback.
It has a tense and masculine tone that doesn't appear as often in poetry as does vulnerability, sentimentality and/or disgust.

untitled

Spiritual desire begets spiritual suffering
so are you to etiolate; wallowing in hedonic asceticism?
We cannot shy from suffering now
Now that the moment of transcendence is upon us

To suffer if only to tear away the obfuscating, ochre-colored veils of mediocrity
Let yourself be pierced by the white hot rays of the sun

Only the weak shy away from the light
Have you found meaning in your comfort?
Gazing at the stars and admonishing “We’re so small”?
I do not gaze at the stars because there burns a brighter star within me

Embrace the insanity, race as fast as you can towards ecstasy
Brutal strength of your desire toward the dazzling, opalescent light of transcendence

Madness? Hubris?
Truth! Beauty!

Many thanks, and LOL. I enjoyed your poem as well. I used to be part of a writing circle, and I would have welcomed this kind of honest commentary.

I have been told before I have a very dry sense of humor, sometimes a bit dark as well. I'm starting to consider the possibility that many of my traits overlap with possible Asperger's or PDD-NOS, and I was just never properly diagnosed. Such as the fact that I had a conversation with a friend once that went something like...
Him: "I'm never sarcastic."
Me: "But you're fairly often sarcastic, actually."
Him: "That was sarcasm!"
I pick up on those situations, and it has been interesting to me throughout life to realize I'm not the same as everybody else and try to understand how people work, so my other field of study was psychology, and most of my creative inspiration is personal and psychological.

Hello,

I was wondering if I could get a bit of feedback for a story I'm working on. It's actually an old Matrix fanfic I wrote several years back, but I'm going through chapter by chapter and fixing it, as well as fleshing it out. Upon re-reading it, my initial impression was "Wow, I really wrote this heroine as an aspie." In the more recent chapters I've used this aspect of her personality as a bit of a perceptual superpower.

Anyhow, I'd love it if people would read it- It's a touch on the long side, in an older movie category, so it doesn't get much traffic compared to the short Portal fics I wrote last year (and did they ever get traffic!). I started working on it as a warm-up to NaNoWriMo last year, and I'm using it to develop my prose for when I return to my original piece.

The address is at: [REDACTED] , and the piece is called Republic. Apparently WP does not feel that I have posted enough to give a link, but it is located at Fanficition . net, and is found through Movies > Matrix > Republic (top of the list at the moment). I will provide a direct link when I am able. Thanks!

edited to add link to the piece (it's 10,000+ words so far so it makes no sense to post here): http://www.fanfiction.net/s/7446038/1/Republic