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    poetry


    dots Submission Name: Writing: The Elusive Dreamdots
    --------------------------------------------------------





    Author: Linksquest
    Elite Ratio:    3.57 - 42/72/40
    Words: 1584
    Class/Type: Poetry/Longing
    Total Views: 838
    Average Vote:    No vote yet.
    Bytes: 5230



    Description:
       Writing is an Elusive dream. This poem capture's a man's frustration as he has his own perception of what "real" writing should be. His ideals conflict with the world's views and he finds himself on a journey.


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

    dotsWriting: The Elusive Dreamdots
    -------------------------------------------


    When dreams were young
    And dreams were fresh
    I took my cupped hands
    And dipped them

    Into the rip-pl-ing pool
    of Fancy

    What did my mind know of
    Pronouns. Adjectives; and the correct usage of the— Pluperfect?

    What did my heart know of
    heart-break
    and lost faith



    bruises, cuts, and Death?



    I wanted to write.
    I wanted to capture
    That elusive Dream that flew
    So hauntingly under the cool,
    Moonlit sky,
    Over the soft, waving oceans of grass,
    Like a butterfly’s apparition after its
    Last frolic in the summer’s sunshine
    Had passed away long ago,
    Like an echo’s fading resonance
    Over years’ passage over solid, stationary, mountains.



    Reality took its toll
    Like an unexpected, excruciating
    Punch—to the jaw.

    They all had something to say:
    “You have to think about real things.”
    “You can’t buy food with dreams.”
    “That’s why you sit alone.”
    “Write later, when you have more time.”
    “You’re wasting your time.”








    Time.
    Oh elusive enemy!
    Oh friend of the young
    And curse of the old.

    We danced our tune,
    And you went off to find
    Another partner.
    Where does Time go?
    It’s right in front of you,
    Pulling you,
    While your heels are digging into the ground,
    Time, pulling you
    to the great end
    of life’s thin, thin strand.







    It’s not what you write,
    It’s how you sell.
    “MONEY, MONEY! MONEY!!!!!”
    the men and women
    of big business whisper,
    then speak so rhythmically
    about marketing strategies,
    Stereotypes.
    Mass Media
    That they hypnotize me
    Until I believe it’s true.

    They don’t care about dreams,
    About—passion,
    About hope
    Or ideas.

    As long as it sells
    They will
    Sterilize it
    Into a dry wad of toilet paper
    And sell it at five times
    The cost of production.

    hopeless.
    lost.
    confused.

    A successful writer isn’t
    supposed to feel like this,
    right?







    I was ranked 3rd on the NewYorkTimes
    For 2 weeks straight.

    I have movie rights signed
    for the four sequels
    of the book
    I thought would be
    A stand alone novel…


    So why does my soul feel
    Dry
    And empty?
    Did I sell my soul
    To the Devil?

    I’m “An expert”
    I’m “A groundbreaker”
    I’m “A successful writer”

    Then why haven’t
    I caught that butterfly’s fluttering spirit
    That glows above the
    Cresting waves

    O’er the sea?

    Why does time laugh so
    Loudly as it pulls me
    Towards the darkness that
    Fills the tunnel where
    The great Mystery begins after life?
    I draw the butterfly
    In my sketchbook:

    The picture becomes words,
    The words become sentences,
    The sentences become paragraphs,
    The paragraphs become chapters,
    And chapters become stories.



    I caught that butterfly’s ghost,
    And it lives in the binding
    That holds the rantings of a foolish dreamer.

    But perhaps, on opening
    The mere five bindings holding the five copies
    Of that long-shotten breath of my passion
    That I sold over a painstaking five years—

    Those five people unknown to me
    Will release
    those five kindred spirits
    Of my elusive apparition butterfly
    Which, these spirits of Fancy,
    on escaping their resting places,
    shall enter the fields of others’

    dreams.




    Submitted on 2005-09-04 22:44:58     Terms of Service / Copyright Rules
    Submissions: [ Previous ] [ Next ]

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    ||| Comments |||
      I just gotta say it's the best poem I've read so far. I just adore the way you capture the feeling of writing and all its aspects.. god.. perfect. I also like the structure of the poem, how it looks. It really does add a great effect.!
    | Posted on 2005-11-05 00:00:00 | by margui | [ Reply to This ]
      a beautiful write tinted with sadness and raw emotion which compelled me to want to read on and on.some great lines in this one my fav being" I caught that butterfly’s ghost,
    And it lives in the binding
    That holds the rantings of a foolish dreamer."thanks for sharing this great journey with us
    graham
    | Posted on 2005-09-05 00:00:00 | by gd66uk | [ Reply to This ]
      when i read it the first thing i thought was, "unique". and then, i thought, "this must have just flowed from mind to hand to pen"

    this poem seemed so raw and therefore so emotionally powerful, which was what really enveloped me into the work.

    looking forward to more of the emotions

    -Cherie
    | Posted on 2005-09-05 00:00:00 | by throughmyvoice | [ Reply to This ]
      Breathtaking...it enveloped me as I read and I was drawn to the images that were evoked in my mind like a child to a gumball machine shaking and poking at it until I finally got to the llittle sweet treasure at the center. I loved this piece, particurlarly the structure, it kept you moving wondering what the next word was.

    -Light
    | Posted on 2005-09-04 00:00:00 | by Lightbringer | [ Reply to This ]


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    73172

    Be kind, take a few minutes to review the hard work of others <3
    It means a lot to them, as it does to you.


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