art

The Art of Writing...

The Art of Writing

@SachikoMochiko


 


Writing...
Humanity's engraved history,
on the tips of our fingers,
on the tip of the mind

It's a beautiful art, isn't it?
How someone's soul,
personality,
beliefs,
style,
Is expressed with a language
The art of writing

Of course, I do not
I do not limit
Limit to words...

Body language is the writing of the body
Music is the writing to decorate time
Facial Expression is the art of writing and interpreting...from the crust of a soul
Speech writes the base of language

Writing is not what you just think it is
...
It. Is. Pure. Art.


============


Now reading back on this poem, I have found my reason to write.


 


This thing called Writing. It's woven into our nature. As stated above, I consider things such as body language, facial expression, and music as "writing". 


 


 It's our own mind that limits us. Writing is not limited to words. After all, it is a way to express. Our ability to express is already woven in us from birth (for instance, when we cry, we express from the wails written, by our voice, in the air)...


 


And maybe I am mistaken...


 


When you kick when you were in your mother's womb, you may definitely express and inform something hehe...


 


 So really, it's my nature...our nature...to write.


 


Don't let yourself be the one who limits your potential! - SachikoMochiko :)

Author's Notes/Comments: 

Just another quick poem...

Based on Jonathan Chiu's post: "5 Reasons you should write"

See it here: http://www.writerscafe.org/writing/youngteenwriterz/1982150/#comments

I’d love to be able to draw

I’d love to be able to draw

By jfarrell

 

There’s a saying…

“We’ve all got a book inside us”….

I’ve a set clawing at the door to be let out.

There’s just one tiny problem.

 

My writing abilities are good enough to give you

The “Three Billy Goats Gruff” (with pictures - ladybird books)

As a story, but the Tarantino style dialogue,

That’s never gonna get published.

 

But as a ‘manga’ cartoon, or proper drawing of any sort,

I’d get away with it, maybe even get famous, make money;

Another saying “a picture says a dozen words”

If I could draw the images in my mind, getting them out would be easier.

 

But! I can’t draw worth a dime.

But! I can write.

I just gotta learn to write better

And one more thing, before I go…

 

I’d love to write a comedy; few books have made me laugh,

But those that have - I literally hurt myself laughing;

But, I suspect a very bloody, gore-fest of a story wants to be let out first.

Why do I write? Cartharsis - makes me heal, right? Is healthy, get it out.

 

Author's Notes/Comments: 

the world is my grey, slippery elusive son a bitch in the shell that keeps biting me everytime i try to open it .... ouch, it got a fingernail that time, hehe

Visscher's View of London

All along the river are landing stations and stairs,

surviving conspicuously since Chaucer's tales. 

Ode to the joy of bear-baiting and drunken affairs.

Ode to the joy of affairs.

All along the Fleet, 

one might meet a young man fleeing from charges of parricide.

All along the Fleet, 

one might meet a young girl fleeing from a den of men.

An evening at The Rose might admit impediments.

An evening at The Rose might last until the edge of doom.

If Visscher's view had outlasted time,

these last 400 years could serve as a paradigm.

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I’m not the messiah.. (he’s a…)

I’m not the messiah.. (he’s a…)

     By jfarrell

 

 

(thank you, monty python)

 

I am not the messiah;

I hope you know that….

I too stupid to be anything other than honest.

 

Instead of wallowing here, in this hole…

I could sweet-talk old ladies outta their savings;

But that would make me feel bad.

 

A way with words is, apparently, the only real skill I have;

And for someone who doesn’t talk a lot,

I can be very careless with words.

 

I could easily make a suicide cult :)

But I imagine the pay is disappointing;

And the perks… shagging everything I want

 

Not really me,

Though,sometimes, I sorely wish it was;

Everyone, die on my command.

 

I can see how that would appeal.

You read my ramblings

And I feel, YES, I AM, but I don’t want the job.

 

Why do you read me?

I am nothing, a mote upon the wind of the cosmos;

But so many of you read my stuff

 

And say nice things;

And, sometimes, scarey things?

Please tell me why, I am nothing.

 

Author's Notes/Comments: 

and i'm not a very naughty boy, either :) well, that website doesn't count...

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Create

I listen to Brahms 

Read Stevens 

Watch Spielberg 

And think. Oh! 

I can't do that 

I listen to The Ramones 

Read Bukowski 

Watch Smith 

And think. Oh! 

I can create anything

I damn well please 

Preconceived Creativity

Folder: 
Simple Thoughts

"You're free

to be

as creative as you are;

or so they say. 

 

Yet. 

Every time, 

the artist guided,

unwarranted. 

 

Unnecessary. 

Why is the artist

so restricted? 

IS it concious? 

 

Do those who commission 

Art

know they can be stifling it? 

Or, 

 

is it a lack of trust? 

Not enough of it 

to go around, knows 

the budding artist

 

with lack of portfolio. 

No trust 

goes to those

with no reference. 

 

So often are we told

we are free, 

when we are not. 

Their own opinion 

 

trusted first, 

unintentional or not, 

before the artist, 

the one who creates. 

 

When one asks another

to create, 

to stifle the flame

is to put it out completely. 

 

Trust is a must, 

we must learn to 

give our hearts and minds

and souls 

 

to others

to mold.

 

And that's the hardest thing to do."

Author's Notes/Comments: 

So often am I told by other artists they are held back by those who ask for their art, creativity. 

"Art"

Folder: 
Quotes

by Jeph Johnson 

 

Art ain't

Worth shit

Unless it's

-

Provocative

Author's Notes/Comments: 

circa 2010 

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tags:

Other Life

Folder: 
Hand Written

"First, he says, 

 

first and foremost,

the cub has it's roar, 

or did I mean Lion? 

 

He tells me, 

performs for me, 

the vivid imagery

of the courage and strength, 

 

trying to give unto another.

No script, no paper, 

off memory, his poetry

is in his heart, 

 

and apart from my written word, 

wow, can i perforn like

the one singing bump and grind? 

Well, I most definitely have 

 

not the voice. 

But, 

the artist has instead

his art in his soul, 

 

and no pen or pad

or book in hand, man, 

this man has it. 

So does She

 

giving me sweet epiphany, 

alliteration and onomatopoeia, 

hyperbole, dreams of red velvet, 

a memory of perhaps

 

succulent treat, 

and after a beat, 

another artist approaches,

such powerful words. 

 

All of them, 

potential no longer blocked, 

mind unlocked,

her voice giving me thoughts. 

 

I am home, 

I am surrounded by poets, 

artists, lovers, dreamers, 

those who have suffered

 

more than I, 

hearing some of the pleas. 

It would indeed be

enriching, more imbued positivity. 

 

And perhaps comical

as I watch one poet

almost run over another

on trip to couch.

 

I grin, laughed, 

laughed more when asked

to rurn to page 24. 

Hands, the color red, 

 

subjects being poured about

by all these great writers. 

Such emotion, 

they read,

 

I listen.

Tonight isn't about me, 

this is about them, 

and I am humbled again. 

 

Tonight is about you,

and you, and all of you 

who pour their soul, 

so vulnerable. 

 

Lessons, being preached to me, 

wise words, being brushed 

across my canvas,

their paint so vibrant.

 

Their pain so real, 

like my own. 

What I strive to do, 

being done unto me. 

 

They want to write, 

they make me want to 

write, right now. 

Never stop writing, 

 

requesting got returned keys, 

being alive. 

Poetry has kept me alive. 

You, artists, breathe into me...

 

life."

Author's Notes/Comments: 

A poem I wrote while observing a poetry reading of other poets. I read this piece during the 'Open Mic' portion, each poet smiling at my own nod to each of their own pieces. A good night of art.

Imagine Everything Is Backwards

I just want to be

With the night.

 

Quietly write.

 

Just float in space,

And feel misplaced.

 

Weightlessly fly.

 

Gather letters and words,

Sounds that taste like rain.

 

Voicelessly sing.

 

Carefully calculate

Senselessness.

 

Condense the expansion.

 

Melt it into an ice cube

And swallow it whole.

 

Shut in the out.

 

Turn on the dark,

Greet each subtle whimsy,

As I dangle from the edge

Of a crescent moon.

 

...and swoon

 

I want to be with the night.

Alright?

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Author's Notes/Comments: 

Imagining anything I want is backwards. 

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