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    poetry


    dots Submission Name: Got Time To Writedots
    --------------------------------------------------------





    Author: MyX
    ASL Info:    27/m/Ohio
    Elite Ratio:    4.38 - 932/973/107
    Words: 314
    Class/Type: Poetry/Venting
    Total Views: 1055
    Average Vote:    4.0000
    Bytes: 1878



    Description:
       Everything I touch with the pen turns into garbage worse than what hides in your pantry.


    Make the font bigger!! Double Spacing Back to recent posts.

    dotsGot Time To Writedots
    -------------------------------------------


    Time To Write


    A bistro table stands with its legs crossed proudly on a balcony that oversees the Atlantic Ocean.
    The set is completed with the accompaniment of two chairs.
    One decently padded for my ass.
    And the other for which to prop my bare feet.
    A cocktail glass of straight up bourbon whiskey on the rocks rests on the table, offering itself to me.
    It looks quite sexy next to my treasured, bronze plated ashtray that hosts an expensive, half smoked cigar that see-saws on the edge.
    In front of me is a pocket sized, moleskin notepad with a blue pilot pen on top of it, awaiting my very next thought.
    My Ipod rests in my pocket while blasting ridiculously loud hair metal into my ears.
    The scorching hot summer shine falls down on me.
    A warm breeze from the ocean front blows the freshest air into my face.
    Everything is perfect.

    Only...
    The whiskey is cheap, diluted with an overabundance of ice, and tastes like the remnants of the barf and spit on the bottom shelf of the most disgusting bar in 20 miles.
    To exact its revenge for my years of maltreatment toward my CD collection, the Ipod has now found a track that skips so infuriatingly badly that it sounds worse than a three year old on a piano.
    The cigar is wasted, waterlogged from last night's rain, which explains why my keester is now soaking wet.
    Ink from the goddam pen is leaking all over my hand.
    And it isn't sunny. It's overcast.
    The breeze isn't warm. It's very chilly.
    And while I'm being honest, the real reason I prop my feet up is because of all the dog turds scattered about.
    And it smells like shit out here.

    So I wrote this...thing.
    And now it's raining.





    Submitted on 2010-04-26 14:27:47     Terms of Service / Copyright Rules
    Submissions: [ Previous ] [ Next ]

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    ||| Comments |||
      and i think this is like a three year old with a pen....

    and i mean that in a good way...
    the writer is letting us know he feels this way...

    and incorporates phrasing not very poetic. but fitting in this piece. afterall it's a rant, no?
    my life is ridiculously un-grown up...

    and i don't give a crap...i'm all wet anyway...

    and after i wrote this...it started raining...

    of course...

    this is one of those "let it out" pieces like "howl"

    something is leaking...it's like writer's block finding a small hole in the dam, which then becomes larger..and then...the words come...and like a little kid talking a mile a minute, i can't stop.

    and screw you if you don't like it...this is what and how i needed to write...put a raincoat on...stuff the poem in your pocket, and take a walk.

    jacob
    | Posted on 2011-04-09 00:00:00 | by jacoberin | [ Reply to This ]
      i love how ppl are sitting there actually trying to edit this..."thing" for you...
    as if these thoughts need to say more than they already do
    ..
    the only reason i put up with your ridiculous way of putting things is because that's what makes your writin addictive to read..the irony of
    that i always fine sickly humorous...
    in a word you could say..
    you fill me up myx
    ahaha

    carmel latte
    | Posted on 2010-05-12 00:00:00 | by MINTPATTY | [ Reply to This ]
       offering itself to me

    Get rid of that garbage.

    moleskin

    All I have to say is: http://stuffwhitepeoplelike.com/2009/02/24/122-moleskine-notebooks/

    awaiting my very next thought.

    No

    My Ipod rests in my pocket while blasting ridiculously loud hair metal into my ears.

    Something about this line. I'm not sure if it's the product-placement or the fact that you have one, you old man.
    But in all seriousness, this line makes me feel like it's just another list of things you like. Or apart of a list. Did you just put a list together? Like a grocery list? Go shopping.
    I would suggest: In front of me is a pocket sized, moleskin notepad with a blue pilot pen on top of it, while ridiculously loud hair metal blasts into my ears.

    Only...
    This part was so bad that instead of Ctrl+C, I hit Ctrl+X. True story. Get rid of it before I call the police, or worse, Oxford University. You sound like a pretention 14 year old bi-sexual writer. No offense to the bi-sexuals. I don't believe in them. They're like mystical creatures from Xboulop.

    So I wrote this...thing.
    This too.

    And now it's raining again.

    Oh mister Mike. Here's what I think is wrong with you. A diagnosis.
    You're forcing yourself to write. Stop forcing yourself. Just because you don't write everyday doesn't mean you're not a writer. Just cos you're a dad, doesn't mean you have to write. Just because you drink and smoke and you're a broke-ass white guy, doesn't mean you have to write. Just because you move more often than a pedophile on the run, you don't have to write.
    Mike. Take a break. Write when there's some really unsound coming out of your ears and your fingers are twitching so bad you feel like a coke addict.
    The last part was good. Sounds like you more than the top part. Maybe I don't want to see you happy. As a writer. Happy writers are ballsuckers.

    | Posted on 2010-05-01 00:00:00 | by JenFlynn | [ Reply to This ]
       Aw.

    There, there.

    Y'know....as I was reading it, going through the first motion there, I was thinking "hm, I can't sit down and write like that, even in the most perfect of situation/circumstance". I can't sit down and decidedly write.

    Usually it occurs to me while I'm doing something else (sometimes related to what I write, sometimes not) and then I get all obsessed with it

    until I either finish or get bored.

    Anyway.

    Perfect day/Terrible day. I like the set up, and it made me feel sorry for you -- in the way that when a friend is having a bad day and just is oh so sorry for him/herself and nothing nothing is good, well...all you can do is pout with them.

    -Emeya
    | Posted on 2010-04-28 00:00:00 | by Lady of Shalott | [ Reply to This ]
      ha ha ha ha....I love it, this is so you!
    | Posted on 2010-04-27 00:00:00 | by allhunee | [ Reply to This ]
      Cool, there we start with the ideal situation and gravitate to the completeness of dregs. We all exist somewhere in between it seems.

    I never put anything in my bourbon but more of the same, thanks. Cigars just spoil the taste of anything, most importantly the bourbon. Haven't written anything in a while. It seems my own muse is on extended vacation or that particular madness has slipped away until....

    Enjoyed the read, thanks.
    | Posted on 2010-04-26 00:00:00 | by Blue Monk | [ Reply to This ]
      are you the one with the long hair or are you the other one, laughing down at the one with the long hair?

    i know the answer and to me, fatherhood has brought some order, if not a horse hair with which to drain the bile from your chest.

    this reads like it might have been written on the back of an early morning shout to hose down the ankle-biter's under-knickers.

    it sounds petulant instead of abrasive and street-sy (is that a word or a pretentious england boy's attempt to be - street-sy?).

    the above aside: it sounds petulant.

    but for my part, i think it should and i'm pleased that it does.

    you would much rather be holding your child (who looks well btw) and writing is for later.

    later,

    k
    | Posted on 2010-04-26 00:00:00 | by Awkward | [ Reply to This ]


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