ElDoctor17

Is it cliche or mainstream or dull to utilize satire and irony when talking about serious topics and subjects? For example, the poem by Dorothy Parker entitled "Resume" or "A Modest Proposal" by Jonathan Swift. Not taking into consideration the moral implications of writing like this, do you think it is worthwhile and still undeveloped?

How long does it take to complete a novel? A short story? A poem? I've been working on this one novel for three years. I wonder if it's worthwhile at all.

How are you?

I am chronologizing my poetry as of right now because I want to just have everything organized. There's enough chaos in my life and contrary to what people believe, art is not free-formed. Even free verse poetry is not just free form and all over the place. If it is, that's is an awful poem. There must be reason and meaning in the poem. Anyway, I discovered that I have been writing poetry since 2007 and I've been writing prose my whole life.

it's just kind of interesting how that all works out. I suppose I knew what I wanted to be from when I was very young. I was always telling stories, wanting to tell a tale. What's also interesting is I hated reading from third grade to seventh grade. I am going to, with a lot of back-up evidence, blame that on the crazy, driving teachers I had. I still enjoyed the stories just not how fast we had to read them and how we had to talk about them. However, now I am more analytic of literature myself.

I guess it goes with age.

I thought someone might find that interesting.

Other than that, my task for today is to get a count on my poems, I always had a goal to get more poems than Emily Dickinson (which is 2000 or so), so let's see if I have done that.

Seeing today as what day it is (the day my last relationship began), it actually went quite well. I was reading through some poetry of mine. Some of my earlier stuff doesn't need so much work, but my older stuff readers like emo poetry and song lyrics. I note: Song lyrics are NOT poetry. They have their own artistic value, but one cannot read song lyrics aloud and have the same power as a poem. I keep these bad poems up here on DA because I want to remind myself to never be that. I wrote a poem I'm exceptionally proud of for a first draft and will show anyone who wishes to look.

I'll admit to it: I'm cynical and harsh. Most people probably won't want to live with me. I demand everything from myself and many people do not see what perfect poetry or writing is to me. But I will be harsh on some people's writing or art if I know they are not trying as much as they can. If they are and still struggling, I understand. But everyone else needs a good slap in the face.

Also, this obsession with bad Gothic writing and bad fantasy writing needs to end. It's something that's consuming the whole creative community of younger people.

I think I'm done complaining.

So, I know I haven't been on here in a very long time and the reason for that would be that there is very little good art or anything to really appreciate on here. I don't go looking on hard adventures for it, so I know I am missing some of it, but the stuff I do find is very bad except for a choice few and you know who you are; your work is significant to me.

These last couple of weeks have not been the easiest, but that is just an explanation, the more detailed facts are for my diary.

I hope you are all well.

That's it.

So, I spent about five hours on this one poem which is going to serve as the beginning of a novel I am working on and I'd like for people to read it. It's my first attempt at form poetry but I felt that since it is an epitaph it should be more formal. It is untitled also because it is an epitaph.


Each man, living, dying, or dead, in life
Has e'er dreamed lesions to a scar'd mind,
Ready scarr'd but 'waiting th' shade 'f th' unsex'd wife.
Shadow chanc'd thereafter; death was the sign
On th' road to a torture-less place to 'scape
Those angry, e'er-erecting thorns i' rapture.
Men with a mouth hath viciousness and rape,
Th' men, th' boys, th' sons, th' fathers I cry to endure,
My feet are innocent daughters smooth'd out.
But two of Scylla's mouths suck them breast-less
Whilst the five ravish those with eyes in drought;
Th' youngest women hath known profound darkness

Which drain'd as rainwater—floods i' her sad skin,
She knows just which man is th' afflicting sin.


Thank you.