Oh you.

User was banned for this post.

User was manned for this coast.

My teacher told me to work on poetry, as I'm good at writing, so I did. Unfortunately it's all in swedish. Actually, I'll translate it for you when I get my PC working.

uhh i write songs, and play guitar
but i guess songwriting is sorta like...the same?
anyways...none of my songwriting in this thread
this i made up:

obsession is mindless
dedication is timeless


and i found this in my song book, it made me lol cause i cant remember writing it:

when did you pop up?
i dont care..
grab a coke and shutup.

Oh yay I thought it was just me <.<

I've wrote poems for my lady friends >.> If you all really want them i'll post them

I write poems and Lyrics.

I really like that, Powelly. Nice one.

I've got a new one :3

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The loneliness dancing through my head
Just thinking of what has left me full of dread
What was that? I must've misread
Signs you made, hints you'd dropped
Thinking everything is what we are, while we're not
The constant illusionary feeling of saving what we've got
Always left me feeling beat up, the beating I have sought
Letting myself fall to this victimless plot
I seemed to have forgotten we're not what I thought
But that's okay, it was starting to rot
The bridge we're on is falling, non-stop
It's just an eventuallity, we will begin to drop
Decent into madness, feelings you bought
Paid for with kindness, leeching out of your mind
Wrapped around your finger, I was left intwined
Kid to the slaughter, trapped in despair
Not a single word could be said to even start to repair
But that old bridge we're on is still fallin' into nowhere

---------

And one I'm working on:


This is a message to the irreversably damned.
I know how you're feeling so read and make a plan.
You need to stand up and fight for the true.
Kill the few that hold onto you.
Start fresh, make your life new.
It'll make you feel better, I did it too.
Now I'm stronger than I ever was with you

I start picking at my cuticles and the screen turns a light blue, booting itself up.
The outlines of two windows, one horizontal and one vertical, apparent they are.
It’s twelve thirteen or something.
If I wait long enough I’ll get to type words.
It boots.

To whom it may concern, my letter begins.
No, no, no, that won’t do, I say.
Audio files fill my screen, blocking out a bird or something.
It looks prettily at me; just sitting there.

Dear Dr. Michaelson; my second attempt.
That sounds better, I think to myself.
Maybe the birdy will provoke thought at me or something.
It fails.

A long thought turns…

The girl runs wildly through her backyard.
Questioning things like life.
Out loud at her mother.
The guardian begins to grow weary of her adolescent’s rambling maw.
It begins to rain, the tin roof now apparent.

…into words, and then a sentence…some commas here and there.
The icons are now more distracting than ever.
“piano thing (dad)” likes to pop out at me.
More is typed.
It…

He began to feel awkwardly all knowing of everything.
A rushing feeling of wellness filled his liver, his lungs, his heart, his frontal lobe.
The turban loosened itself to the heat and the jug of water tipped it’s cap to the need for wetness, challenging the air as it rained.

Will you please be quiet? he blurted.
She stopped typing and his eyelids closed and opened and closed.
His shoulders loosened.

…ends with Thank you for your time and effort
Sincerely, Johnathan Wilings.