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Thus it begins— A free-verse epic Into the mind of A writer and an idiot— A romantic and, Often a pessimist Conjoined in arbitrary glory Are the thoughts and words Of one overly-worked mind— Charismatic and, of course, On the pushover, pitiful And usually kind side Ambitious and awkward, Dark and daring With the predisposition Of neglect and doubt Mixed with notions of Unattractiveness and pride of it The strain of freedom Chips the mind of A flawful perfectionist, And though she sees color And she sees injustice And all things that most see, Perhaps she deems it right To try and see differently I am not opposed to uniform I am not opposed to meter form Though can this heart beat In perfect syllables and rhythm As—let’s say—the great form Of iambic pentameter! I say, prospectively— If your drum wants to beat To that rhythm, Then by all means Allow it reign But as for me, I shall let mess be purpose And purpose gives me surety That these fragments— These thoughts, Will prove worthy For, after all, What are a few words worth, If in the end they shan’t Be read? Will a writer write for himself, Or for the world, To witness and appreciate His inner dimensions? Will an idiot acknowledge his stupidity, Or shall he remain valuable Through his own foggy lens? Will the weight of the world Crack his vision, And lead him to regions He knows not of? I have seen the great Reduced to dust By the mere vocals of another I have listened to the Relentless cries of the pessimist And the warm, trickling rays Of the romantic— Yet do they see a purpose In their unique expressions? Do they feel their beats and rhythms, And own to the bone what is theirs? To be charismatic in words, But not in nature Is a mystery of me How can I find words to write With scarcely words to utter? I enter dark terrain Through rapid fires of thought They push me to remain Different and strained Is there a part of us hidden, That in shame is revealed unknowingly Through our inimitable passions? Are our actions snail-paced When faced with the probability Of judgement? Why then do these words flow free, With the heavy chance Of failure? Failure perhaps seen by others, But prominent and bent Into yourself? In the air you breathe You know your shortcomings Before others utter your deed And yet, I find glory in a trip I feel contentment in the fall Leaves change and crumble Just as hope fades and returns Likely I am lost in doubt, Waiting for a purpose Made for something better Expecting the worst I am unafraid to tread On the moss With a friend’s laughter Only a memory igniting Bitterness Sadness Why does she never talk? Have I drifted from all thought? I remember happiness, Yet I war I am perpetually lost in the laugh Waiting to see a smile spring again I liked the texture between my toes Green, weird, and wet I liked being vulgar And not being afraid A bee has never stung me As your absence does A monster has never scared me As my heart scares you There’s a chance I will break A chance that life means nothing Thoughts spurt energy Trust burns holes Expectations rise into rage When what meets us Is an opposite fate We want to receive the expected And scorn the unexpected To jeer the underdog And take glory from heroes Be needed by the popular And kill the weak with our pride What is so repellent About being different? Do we need to agree on everything? The phoenix does not burn for you It is scorched eons times over Because of who it is It burns to birth its existence Over and over and over and over and over and over And yet we persist that We have started the flames! Does the world revolve around Your igniting pig-head? Do we care where you Got the boot that you use To kick down your fellow man? I have a flip-flop for your face And more Don’t disgrace me With your false grace! I saw a college guy Stop in the walkway He paused and stared at the floor He snatched a leaf off The ground, and proceeded To move a piece of poop Away from the middle of the pathway The flimsy leaf didn’t get the job done So he grabs a small stick And moves the shit off to the side I thought of him As someone I would like to know He was considerate, He seemed kind, Or perhaps he was just a neat-freak— Either way, I feel like he was raised well I thought about myself— If I were walking down the same path, Would I ever look down? Would I even notice the clump of shit? And if I did, Would I continue on? Or would I be like that guy, And move it aside? I think I probably wouldn’t, Though now that I have witnessed This simple act, I might just do it The next time shit gives me the opportunity I want to be caring, I want to be considerate, I strive to be kind— For what use is it to be cold And withdrawn? Is the fear too strong As to hold me back From what is right? I certainly hope nobility Wins But we cannot stop it there You cannot expect anything Merely DO it And minds—actions Are probable to alter, Just as mine has But I am not everyone— I am the only one Who witnessed the meritable act Perhaps my job now Is to pass it on Note: I guess this could be categorized as a free-verse epic, hence the title..XD This poem was written in my journal throughout a couple of days during my Creative Writing course in Pasadena. It is really just a trickle of random thoughts, that I thought had some merit and was worthy of sharing with you guys. Hope you enjoyed it.

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A Free-Verse Epic

Thus it begins— A free-verse epic Into the mind of A writer and an idiot— A romantic and, Often a pessimist Conjoined in arbitrary glory Are the thoughts and words Of one overly-worked mind— Charismatic and, of course, On the pushover, pitiful And usually kind side Ambitious and awkward, Dark and daring With the predisposition Of neglect and doubt Mixed with notions of Unattractiveness and pride of it The strain of freedom Chips the mind of A flawful perfectionist, And though she sees color And she sees injustice And all things that most see, Perhaps she deems it right To try and see differently I am not opposed to uniform I am not opposed to meter form Though can this heart beat In perfect syllables and rhythm As—let’s say—the great form Of iambic pentameter! I say, prospectively— If your drum wants to beat To that rhythm, Then by all means Allow it reign But as for me, I shall let mess be purpose And purpose gives me surety That these fragments— These thoughts, Will prove worthy For, after all, What are a few words worth, If in the end they shan’t Be read? Will a writer write for himself, Or for the world, To witness and appreciate His inner dimensions? Will an idiot acknowledge his stupidity, Or shall he remain valuable Through his own foggy lens? Will the weight of the world Crack his vision, And lead him to regions He knows not of? I have seen the great Reduced to dust By the mere vocals of another I have listened to the Relentless cries of the pessimist And the warm, trickling rays Of the romantic— Yet do they see a purpose In their unique expressions? Do they feel their beats and rhythms, And own to the bone what is theirs? To be charismatic in words, But not in nature Is a mystery of me How can I find words to write With scarcely words to utter? I enter dark terrain Through rapid fires of thought They push me to remain Different and strained Is there a part of us hidden, That in shame is revealed unknowingly Through our inimitable passions? Are our actions snail-paced When faced with the probability Of judgement? Why then do these words flow free, With the heavy chance Of failure? Failure perhaps seen by others, But prominent and bent Into yourself? In the air you breathe You know your shortcomings Before others utter your deed And yet, I find glory in a trip I feel contentment in the fall Leaves change and crumble Just as hope fades and returns Likely I am lost in doubt, Waiting for a purpose Made for something better Expecting the worst I am unafraid to tread On the moss With a friend’s laughter Only a memory igniting Bitterness Sadness Why does she never talk? Have I drifted from all thought? I remember happiness, Yet I war I am perpetually lost in the laugh Waiting to see a smile spring again I liked the texture between my toes Green, weird, and wet I liked being vulgar And not being afraid A bee has never stung me As your absence does A monster has never scared me As my heart scares you There’s a chance I will break A chance that life means nothing Thoughts spurt energy Trust burns holes Expectations rise into rage When what meets us Is an opposite fate We want to receive the expected And scorn the unexpected To jeer the underdog And take glory from heroes Be needed by the popular And kill the weak with our pride What is so repellent About being different? Do we need to agree on everything? The phoenix does not burn for you It is scorched eons times over Because of who it is It burns to birth its existence Over and over and over and over and over and over And yet we persist that We have started the flames! Does the world revolve around Your igniting pig-head? Do we care where you Got the boot that you use To kick down your fellow man? I have a flip-flop for your face And more Don’t disgrace me With your false grace! I saw a college guy Stop in the walkway He paused and stared at the floor He snatched a leaf off The ground, and proceeded To move a piece of poop Away from the middle of the pathway The flimsy leaf didn’t get the job done So he grabs a small stick And moves the shit off to the side I thought of him As someone I would like to know He was considerate, He seemed kind, Or perhaps he was just a neat-freak— Either way, I feel like he was raised well I thought about myself— If I were walking down the same path, Would I ever look down? Would I even notice the clump of shit? And if I did, Would I continue on? Or would I be like that guy, And move it aside? I think I probably wouldn’t, Though now that I have witnessed This simple act, I might just do it The next time shit gives me the opportunity I want to be caring, I want to be considerate, I strive to be kind— For what use is it to be cold And withdrawn? Is the fear too strong As to hold me back From what is right? I certainly hope nobility Wins But we cannot stop it there You cannot expect anything Merely DO it And minds—actions Are probable to alter, Just as mine has But I am not everyone— I am the only one Who witnessed the meritable act Perhaps my job now Is to pass it on Note: I guess this could be categorized as a free-verse epic, hence the title..XD This poem was written in my journal throughout a couple of days during my Creative Writing course in Pasadena. It is really just a trickle of random thoughts, that I thought had some merit and was worthy of sharing with you guys. Hope you enjoyed it.