Blog, Journal, On Writing

Tired Poetry

Sometimes, I get tired.
In my mind, not body.
In in those nights,
I look away,
I find that I am rotting.

 

April is National Poetry Month (as well as International Fake Journal Month). If you’ve been reading the blog for awhile, you’ve seen my previous attempts at poetry. I’m not what one might call a “gifted” poet. I’m much more of a “hack.”

But, there are some things I have written that happen to rhyme, and there was that time in High School that Vernie Q and I spent several hours speaking entirely in verse.

So, I consider myself… well, not a poet, but…

Poetry-adjacent.

Now, recently on the New Writer Podcast, I talked about reading a book by Michael La Ronn called Indie Poet Rock Star. Ever since I read Micheal’s book, I’ve been thinking more and more about poetry, why I love writing it, and why I’m bad at it.

I’ve always enjoyed the sillier poets. I’m a pretty damn big fan of Shel Silverstein. In fact, his poem “Magic” is one that I can actually still recite verbatim… and now that I think of it, isn’t exactly one of his silly poems. I think if you click those two poetry links above, you’ll find that I definitely was influenced by his work.

But, in High School (do you capitalize High School? I think you do.) I took a poetry class and learned something else I really enjoyed about the art of poetry.

Something that made me wonder if I could ever be a poet.

Structure. 

I like structure. I like rules. I like creating inside rules. Call me a lego artist. You can do a lot with legos. I mean, you can build just about anything. But, you do have a few rules. Legos only click together in certain ways. You can push the boundaries with weird angles and things sometimes, but the laws of lego physics can only be pushed so far before the entire construct comes raining down on your head.

Structured poetry can be like that, too.

Now, when I talked to Michael for the New Writer Podcast back in September, he reminded me about a lot of different types of poetry. He introduced me to several awesome slam poets on YouTube, and reminded me that poetry definitely isn’t dead.

I got fixated on Rappers because, again, I like structured poetry dang it! At the time, I hadn’t even realized there was a definite structure to writing rap, but there is. So… TAKE THAT, SHAKESPEARE!

Still, it was one of those conversations that stuck in my head for a long time.

Here’s the thing about it all. I would love to write more poetry. I would love to be a poet. I’m not sure I’m ever going to be good at it, and all of my poetry comes off as either slapped together or super freakin’ goth, but I’d like to do more of it.

So in addition to Fake Journal Month, I’m going to try to do a little bit of poetry here at MABrotherton.Com.

Also, it’s nice to be able to take a break from working on Seven Keys 5 to do something fun, like, write bad poems.

Since I literally just decided to do this a few minutes ago (about the time I started typing this blog post), I thought I’d share one of my old, horrible poems with you.

So, you know, you can see how far I’ve grown as an artist.

Also, so you can hate me a little bit more.

Heart of Stone
Healing darkness
cutting sharp
Torn wings
fiery is passion

Damage Dealt

Break it apart
the darkness within
tearing cleanly
flows from stone

Breaking Point

Shattered Mind
slashed psyche
only hope
seals the soul

Rotten Self

Lightning soft
Brilliant rays
searing pain
bending all will

Broken Heart

Killing giggles
hopefilled smile
angry rage
bittery sweet

War Cry

Take it away

I honestly don’t even remember writing that, but my journal totally swears that I did. WTF, self from 2005?

Jesus, I just realized I’m old enough to have written shitty poems a decade ago… That’s a whole different blog post….

 

 

 

 

BONUS POEM (Again, I don’t remember writing this, but apparently I did in January of 2005… Also, I was apparently an asshole to my LiveJournal friends)

Frustration
Fill me with Curiosity
Deny me any rest
Tear me with Ferocity
Do, what you do best

Burn me with Hope
Shatter me with dreams
Never let me Cope
Strange, all my screams

Never will the respite come
Never will you show me light
Never will you give me love
Never will you give answers

Leave me in frustration.

Published by M.A. Brotherton

M.A. Brotherton is a writer, blogger, artist, and fat-kid from the suburbs of Kansas City, Missouri. He’s tasted a little bit of everything the Midwest has to offer, ranging from meth-tweaking rednecks in massive underground cave complexes to those legendary amber waves of grain. When he’s not writing, he spends most of his time screwing around on the internet.