Newbie here

Hey everyone. I'm new at lj, but not new to writing. I've been at in since I was twelve and kept writing since.  I have a pretty large collection of both poetry and prose; this is only one of them.
  • Current Music
    Hips Don't Lie-Shakira feat. Wyclef Jean

Hi Everyone!

I'm new to this Live Journal stuff, but recently a few friends convinced me that my own personal journals were worth reading and possible publishing, so I'm transcribing them onto the net here at LJ. I'd like feedback and comments and things like that as much as possible. But please be kind and keep in mind that I am properly dating them to when they were written. I started them at 13, so don't judge them by an adults standards. They grew with me. You'll see the growth, I swear, it's slow, but it's there. please, any and all comments welcome, unnecessary flames will of course be deleted.
  • Current Mood
    artistic artistic
Liam, Junk Theatre

Butterfly Wings

Another poem, called 'Butterfly Wings'. Not entirely happy with this one. Um, what more can I say? It's a poem about wasting a day. A month. A life.

Butterfly Wings

I swim through the summer days with a long, lazy breastroke
Floating a while on my back to make room for a dream or two
Whispering secrets to a sun that lies in the sky above
A sun that touches my face with it’s long fingers of light.

I smoke this cigarette like it’s packed with thoughts and feelings and memories
And breathe empty messages onto the street for the passing crowd
Drinking coffee to make the minutes turn into hours
Searching for meaning in a scatter of empty cafés.

I scrawl empty words onto empty pages as a tired song plays on
Filling book after book with made-up memories and unfulfilled months
Stopping every few moments to ask a question that’s never answered
And to gaze into a weary sky whose promise never grows old.

And then I sink beneath the surface to hide out for a while
I crawl beneath the undergrowth to breathe to think to breathe
And then I re-emerge to trek the endless river flows
To touch hands with the sun once more, to touch hands with the sun.
Liam, Junk Theatre

Kuletos (an ode to grimy sunsets)

Hi I'm new to this community too! This is a pretty short piece I wrote. It's about the point in my last relationship when I knew it was over. Feedback would be GREAT!

Kuletos (An ode to grimy sunsets)

Because I dream of night in an empty cocktail bar
Where the clouds fold over against the grimy sky
And the roads glisten with illusion.

Where your eyes alone speak their truth to me
And the sound of rain hides the beat of my pulse
As the barman stares intently across the candlelit tables.

This is my recurring dream.

Where my mind is spirited down a river of thought
Driftwood lost in a mess of rapids
A cocktail of milk, chocolate liqueur and heartache.

Where the only thing left to speak of
Are the photographs of old Helsinki
Empty promises, weary dreams and sun-bleached memories.

This is my recurring dream.

And when the night is finally at its end
And the clouds wash clear of the sky
When the glass lies empty on the darkened table.

When it’s time to leave and stalk the sullen streets
And clench my beliefs away in my pocket
And dream of night in an empty cocktail bar.

This is my recurring dream.
  • awibs

dorky little thing i wrote

I have much longer, more comprehensive peices I am working on, but for now, here's a dorky little thing I just wrote. Critiques highly welcomed! x-posted to several communities.

by TC

His name is Adam, the original man. I finally experience what it means to be an alter to the Goddess, a drop of yin, a part of the feminine aspect of the All by any other name, through loving a man called "girly" and "gay" to match every time I've been called "boyish" and "butch," and so ironically, archtypically named.

He is me but the opposite of me, myself reversed in the mirror. Though given all the opposite things to work with we ended up in the same place, facing, contemplating each other through the looking glass. And I am fascinated.

I adore him. I want to sink myself in sensory experience, to taste the color and breathe to the rhythm of him. I want to drink him up, his being, his is-ness, the blue mixed with the green of his eyes, the gentle concern mixed with the bold aspiration of his spirit. I want to kiss him until I drown in the pitter-patter flow of his thoughts, to learn the code for communication so thoroughly we sing into each other with the electricity through the contact points at each fingertip. I want to wrap myself up in the safeness of his presence like a blanket, then shake him back out into Adam-shape for me to hold. I dream not of being one with him, but separate and wrapped around each other savoring the touch of harmonic tones. I need to be me to run my palms over his strong arms, to kiss every freckle on his shoulders and nose. I want to trace the curve of his pouty lower lip and bury my fingers in his thick brown hair. I want to sketch the ripples of his broad, wiry back in space, bury my face in the musky, sexual smell of where he and I blend, and lick the sweat off the pale skin along his hipbone, narrow and jutting out in that delightful way boy hips do. I want to know him that I might know me, that in discovery of each other we might reveal ourselves. I am fascinated, enamored; and I don't want to waste a drop.

Adam. The name of a million others, and the name of mine alone.