Alien Nation
 

I posted this in the poetry thread as well, but then I decided to do a separate thread. I actually reversed a couple stanzas since posting it there. So here goes:

Hello,
I haven't been around in awhile, but I just wrote a poem I felt the need to show someone.
Anyhow, because of the Virginia Tech shooting and also because of it's 8th anniversary, Columbine's been on my obsessive mind lately.
So this poem is partially inspired by it:

Alien Nation

I died the other day,
I told you, but you didn’t listen.
I thought about screaming,
But you wouldn’t hear me.

The words you say do not make sense,
Because you do not believe them,
Because it’s like you never said them.

Tragedies happen and words are said,
But no one really learns,
None of us remember, None of us change.

We each go on, narcissists in our own way,
And me most of all.

Sometimes I think that maybe I know,
I know the ideas, but not the actions;
The thoughts speak to me, but the gun does not.

Sometimes I know too much,
Or think I know too much,
Or simply just think too much.

Do you feel the way I do?
I often ask that silent question,
And you say yes,
but I think you lie.

We are an Alien Nation,
And none of us know each other,
And we never will.


I'm not really looking for citicism I guess, because I'm not really a poet, I guess I'm just looking for...thoughts? I dunno, just post whatever you want.

Wow, we are a nation of inverts, living their lives surrounded yet alone

Too telly. I think you lost your impact because of that. You need to show us these things. I know that these things are true, but it's not helping me see it.

This sounds more like prose, or a declaration than poetry. Work on that.

yeah, like I said, not really a poet, and I suppose it really is just a declaration. Maybe I shouldn't do stanzas, but they just seemed to make sense.
Thanks for the tip though, so here's a revision:

Alien Nation

I died the other day.
I told you, but you didn’t listen. I thought about screaming, but you wouldn’t hear me.

The words you say do not make sense, because you do not believe them, because it’s like you never said them. Tragedies happen and words are said, but no one really learns. None of us remember. None of us change. We each go on, narcissists in our own way, me most of all.
Sometimes I think that maybe I know; I know the ideas, but not the actions. The thoughts speak to me, but the gun does not.

Sometimes I know too much, or think I know too much, or simply just think too much.

Do you feel the way I do? I often ask that silent question, and you say yes, but I think you lie.

We are an Alien Nation, And none of us know each other, and we never will.

It's still too telly.

Let me explain.

Use concrete imagery to DISPLAY your feelings. Telling me how you feel is like a dialog. I want to know what you feel. It's hard to communicate an idea directly, and easier to SHOW a person.

Show, do not tell.

My blood flows like tears,
And it drips slowly out as I go numb,
My knife glimmers as I pull away,
Rose petals against the deep black abyss of darkness.

There, happy? ;-)

^(joke)

Thank God that was a joke. I was about to e-**** your face with my e-donkeypenis.

It's hard to write poetry that is imagist.

I like this poem by Charles Bukowski...

The Shower

we like to shower afterwards
(I like the water hotter than she)
and her face is always soft and peaceful
and she'll watch me first
spread the soap over my balls
lift the balls
squeeze them,
then wash the cock:
"hey, this thing is still hard!"
then get all the hair down there,-
the belly, the back, the neck, the legs,
I grin grin grin,
and then I wash her. . .
first the cunt, I
stand behind her, my cock in the cheeks of her ass
I gently soap up the cunt hairs,
wash there with a soothing motion,
I linger perhaps longer than necessary,
then I get the backs of the legs, the ass,
the back, the neck, I turn her, kiss her,
soap up the breasts, get them and the belly, the neck,
the fronts of the legs, the ankles, the feet,
and then the cunt, once more, for luck. . .
another kiss, and she gets out first,
toweling, sometimes singing while I stay in
turn the water on hotter
feeling the good times of love's miracle
I then get out. . .
it is usually mid-afternoon and quiet,
and getting dressed we talk about what else
there might be to do,
but being together solves most of it
for as long as those things stay solved
in the history of women and
man, it's different for each-
for me, it's splendid enough to remember
past the memories of pain and defeat and unhappiness:
when you take it away
do it slowly and easily
make it as if I were dying in my sleep instead of in
my life, amen.

--

I know it seems crude...but it's really actually quite sweet. He just says things the way they really are...and I watched a thing on him, and he started to cry a little as he read it. He wrote it for a girl who really cared about. He kind of missed those times after sex that they'd wash each other's bodies.

: ) (darn stupid 10 character rule)