W
WEgnatius
^You fucked your girlfriend. I get it
Would You Suggest Writing as a Career?
- Thread starter mjp
- Start date
Lolita Twist
Rose-hustler
Well thank you dear. (Pssst. Everyone. This is hubby ;))
And, you know how much I like Fantasy of Leftovers. Last line always gets me. And the rest of it makes me wet.
^You fucked your girlfriend. I get it < Very intelligent and helpful comment...
bospress.net
www.bospress.net
Hi Mr & Mrs Ginsoski;
No worries, WEgnatius is a troll and is only trying to get a rise out of you by insulting you.
Next he will say that Bukowski would hate every one of us on this forum and would hate the very idea that this forum exists.
It all happens in order and is all very predictable.
Still, it is a lot of fun to watch unfold.
Bill
No worries, WEgnatius is a troll and is only trying to get a rise out of you by insulting you.
Next he will say that Bukowski would hate every one of us on this forum and would hate the very idea that this forum exists.
It all happens in order and is all very predictable.
Still, it is a lot of fun to watch unfold.
Bill
If he's a troll, why isn't he banned? Amusement?
bospress.net
www.bospress.net
Maybe.
I'm not a moderator, but it is fun to watch them do what they do....
Bill
I'm not a moderator, but it is fun to watch them do what they do....
Bill
Gerard K H Love
Appreciate your friends
It is only fun to watch everyone, including themselves, make them look like idiots.
Like someone wrote a while back, "Your father didn't hug you enough."
Like someone wrote a while back, "Your father didn't hug you enough."
^ Lol.
poets
okay so the people on this forum are obviously interested in poetry for some reason or another.
and i may be wrong but would assume that people that like to read poetry like writing it too.
so if your not too shy, or paranoid about people stealing your stuff. then post some poems in the reply area thing.
and here is a poem that you may or may not enjoy, inspired by charles bukowski and written by yours truly.
the good ones
start out
witty and
clever
but by the
3rd stanza
you can
already
start
to tell
that i
am a little
crazy
so i chop
them bitches
up and
put them
in the
freezer
okay so the people on this forum are obviously interested in poetry for some reason or another.
and i may be wrong but would assume that people that like to read poetry like writing it too.
so if your not too shy, or paranoid about people stealing your stuff. then post some poems in the reply area thing.
and here is a poem that you may or may not enjoy, inspired by charles bukowski and written by yours truly.
the good ones
start out
witty and
clever
but by the
3rd stanza
you can
already
start
to tell
that i
am a little
crazy
so i chop
them bitches
up and
put them
in the
freezer
a poem about bukowski
he wrote
thousands
and most
of them
sucked
but
he was lucky
and
his best
were about
lady luck
he wrote
thousands
and most
of them
sucked
but
he was lucky
and
his best
were about
lady luck
Lolita Twist
Rose-hustler
It seems as if you've got the style down, and I enjoy the choppy thing... but the content is profously lacking, in my opinion...
Anyhow...
Suicide Headaches
Lolita Ginsoski
Lolita Ginsoski
Cluster Headaches set in like a good song. Slow, climaxing - I'd compare it to sex, without any of the pleasure, and more of the pain. Clusters are like being raped by someone with an S & M fetish while Pearl Jam is blaring in the background.
Picture yourself pacing the floor, locked in a dark room at 3AM. Or rocking yourself like an autistic psychopath coming off a horrible, horrible whiskey binge. Some people say locking yourself in a dark room for hours on end thinking about different and interesting ways to kill yourself is a symptom of psychosis. I'd call it a good idea, for remedying a cluster headache.
It starts, helter skelter, in your jaw, relentlessly. It goes up to your temple. And it throbs like an unattended erection. So badly it hurts, right? And lastly, it assaults your eye. Your eye feels as if you used it to block a fist from going through your face. And it feels like someone has put a cigarette out, and has used your iris as a target. They've played darts with cigarettes and your eye and they've won the bet. You lose most vision out of that eye (these suicide headaches remain on one side of your face, which feels like it is melting off, and very rarely, if ever, will they shift to the other), and try to remember if cataracts run in your family. You think of the painting with the clocks melting off of the rocks in the desert. Your face is the biggest clock.
You sit in this dark room, because the idea of actually looking at light is close to insanity during these episodes, thinking about different ways to end your life, and all the pain you'd rather have other than this.
"I'd rather have four broken ribs and rip all my fingernails off by force rather than this fucking pain."
Or,
"I'd rather brake all of my fingers and cut them off with a dull knife instead of this."
Something like that. Women have compared Clusters to being worse than Above the Influence childbirth.
And then, then when you thought it couldn't get any worse... you were so horribly mistaken. It creeps into your neck like meningitis, and your shoulders like after a laposcropy. There's nothing you can do but take the drug that takes an hour to work, and a lifetime of headaches to kill your liver: Imatrex.
Imatrex reminds me of good Ether (a good drug for Vegas, if you ask Mr. Thompson). Good Ether takes a while to kick in - and then, all of sudden as it seems, you can't feel your body, or walk straight. You look like any other drunk on the strip.
Imatrex is to be taken as needed and with a glass of milk. Otherwise, it will cut your stomach lining up for hours with tiny little Ginsu knives. You will probably puke once or twice... once from your headache, pre-Imatrex, and once after, even with the cow cum.
As I light a cigarette just now, I am reminded that clusters occur much more often and more likely in persons with a heavy addiction to cigarette smoking. Also characterized by high-intelligence and similar chemical makeup of one with manic depression. I feel accomplished. You cannot smoke while having a Cluster episode, because your brain is being deprived of oxygen and blood as it is. Your hypothalamus gland is constricting, and your temple and eye have a pulse of two-hundred-and-nine a minute. It is not good for someone who is prone to Cluster Headaches to drink alcohol on a regular basis, as this just heightens the episodes when they occur. It is very convenient at this point in time that I be a recovering alcoholic.
But back to the Imatrex.
Imatrex is any professional addict's wet dream. Working slowly, but surely, like a high-priced hooker who does what she's told. Imatrex works not on your body, or blood, or nerve centers... but it attacks your brain. It latches itself onto the pain centers of your brain, like an old fashioned snapper, and slowly winds them down to numbness and oblivion, they're Lucy in the Sky, but you want to throw yourself out the 6th story window and stab yourself with knives in mid-air. If Imatrex was booze, everybody's doin' it. Everybody's doin' it. Everybody's doin' it.
At the start of a Cluster, you're pain is at a 10 on a one-to-ten pain scale. When the Imatrex starts in, the pain slowly winds down, you start to see clearer out of your eye that has been assaulted by cigarette butts, you body begins to feel light, almost like an orgasm. You measure the time it takes you to get from 9 to an 8, and you calculate the time you think you'll be able to lay down, have a cigarette, and go to bed. You feel like a statistician, and pride yourself on your intelligence, and your rarity. One in one million people get these headaches. You're a diamond, in the worst possible rough.
And you sit there, finally able to sit, like a deaf schizophrenic, getting good and stoned on Imatrex, you're thinking about getting your preventative Lithium Carbonate refilled. And you wait.
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W
WEgnatius
Yeah, it is. It's the only honesty you've seen or heard here. The rest of these creeps will kiss your ass...be your friend. Fuck them. Are you a writer, or a pen-pal? Think about that one.
Your poem was awful, and that's the truth. It was a free-verse letter to Penthouse Forum. Which is not a bad thing, but...yeah, it's a bad thing.
this post will be deleted before Dec 24 2008
Gerard K H Love
Appreciate your friends
Maybe they will delete it, this being Christmas and Chanukah and all, but maybe this edited quote will be here for years to come.
It's really pretty easy to get along around here. Besides being a pen pal or writing to the Penthouse Forum is not all bad. It's a good thing.
Are you the anti- Martha Stewart? That would be a bad bad thing.
Happy Chanukah, Merry Christmas, Happy Quanza, Happy Festivous!!!!
This Thread Will Probably Be Pulled, Too
And this fucking thread will probably be pulled, too.
Damn "” but WTF.
I, WEg, know how to write. Not quite sure if you do, as you have posted nothing of any literary merit here. Not that I have; but I'm confident in my scribing skills, and have been noted for them in the past.
As for the poems posted by Mr. G "” you got it all wrong. If you would've read some of the threads here, you would have made one of the following assumptions:
A) He is fucking his sister
B) He is fucking his wife
C) He is fucking his daughter
E) He is fucking a relative
F) He is fucking someone with the same last name unrelated
G) Whatever I missed, fill in the blank
Simple english-math, as they say; deductive reasoning. But you didn't show that, did you...
As far as the quality of the G's work, that isn't up to me. And I do believe you are allowed your opinion.
Since you seem to speak with a voice of authority on the subject of writing; perhaps you could please offer some constructive criticism. You see, it's easy to hide behind the mask of the www or a forum and take pot shots at people.
Why not step up to the proverbial plate and add something of substance. How about a line-by-line breakdown of what you consider twaddle? Or even a global summary of what went wrong and where?
You could make your point, and maybe even an ally or two. Not every poem is good; including Bukowski's, or Poe's, or DH's, etc.
Everyone has the right to post; including you.
I have nothing against you; but I don't believe people should just launch unsubstantiated assaults on others "” unless he or she can back it up.
Back it up or shut up.
Pax,
homeless mind
http://www.studiomunch.com (If you want to lambast me, let's go. I'm fair game.)
Well, here I go again.
And this fucking thread will probably be pulled, too.
Damn "” but WTF.
I, WEg, know how to write. Not quite sure if you do, as you have posted nothing of any literary merit here. Not that I have; but I'm confident in my scribing skills, and have been noted for them in the past.
As for the poems posted by Mr. G "” you got it all wrong. If you would've read some of the threads here, you would have made one of the following assumptions:
A) He is fucking his sister
B) He is fucking his wife
C) He is fucking his daughter
E) He is fucking a relative
F) He is fucking someone with the same last name unrelated
G) Whatever I missed, fill in the blank
Simple english-math, as they say; deductive reasoning. But you didn't show that, did you...
As far as the quality of the G's work, that isn't up to me. And I do believe you are allowed your opinion.
Since you seem to speak with a voice of authority on the subject of writing; perhaps you could please offer some constructive criticism. You see, it's easy to hide behind the mask of the www or a forum and take pot shots at people.
Why not step up to the proverbial plate and add something of substance. How about a line-by-line breakdown of what you consider twaddle? Or even a global summary of what went wrong and where?
You could make your point, and maybe even an ally or two. Not every poem is good; including Bukowski's, or Poe's, or DH's, etc.
Everyone has the right to post; including you.
I have nothing against you; but I don't believe people should just launch unsubstantiated assaults on others "” unless he or she can back it up.
Back it up or shut up.
Pax,
homeless mind
http://www.studiomunch.com (If you want to lambast me, let's go. I'm fair game.)
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The only honesty I've seen on here? I've been here for two weeks and posted ONE poem. Idiot. Thanks for playing.
And I've been told I'm an amazing writer by people who I respect much more than you, and who have better credentials then you (I'm sure). You know...like published poets/short story writers.
Now, excuse me while I go have a life...
Mr. G
And I've been told I'm an amazing writer by people who I respect much more than you, and who have better credentials then you (I'm sure). You know...like published poets/short story writers.
Now, excuse me while I go have a life...
Mr. G
Lolita Twist
Rose-hustler
A Whore Who Can't Drink (Christ)
driving home
on Xmas eve
from a home
where everyone eats-up
cancer.
the lights
of the city
we are whizzing by
are so welcoming.
that is the beauty
of advertisement.
I wish I was drunk
on Xmas Eve, 2008
or stoned
like everyone else
at the party.
I wish I was out
in a bar
on Xmas eve
with people
in a conundrum
like my own.
who don't want to be
anywhere right
now.
my mother
is crying
in the front seat.
I didn't eat any of her
food.
because I am
not hungry,
but very thirsty.
I am Dry.
I say "ex mass"
because i can't
say christ
without feeling
like a whore;
who can't even drink
any-more.
I smoke
cancer-sticks
and watch
my loved ones.
away,
from this.
driving home
on Xmas eve
from a home
where everyone eats-up
cancer.
the lights
of the city
we are whizzing by
are so welcoming.
that is the beauty
of advertisement.
I wish I was drunk
on Xmas Eve, 2008
or stoned
like everyone else
at the party.
I wish I was out
in a bar
on Xmas eve
with people
in a conundrum
like my own.
who don't want to be
anywhere right
now.
my mother
is crying
in the front seat.
I didn't eat any of her
food.
because I am
not hungry,
but very thirsty.
I am Dry.
I say "ex mass"
because i can't
say christ
without feeling
like a whore;
who can't even drink
any-more.
I smoke
cancer-sticks
and watch
my loved ones.
away,
from this.
the only good poet
One retreat after another without peace.
Emperor Roosevelt never came true,
neither Anne Boleyn,
nor a violin either.
i just can't understand it,
sweet Marie - for i know
that idealism
can lead to suicide,
and that
i do know,
but pertaining to you?
can't season it,
can't reason with spice,
can't leave this unanswered.
neither Anne Boleyn,
nor a violin either.
i just can't understand it,
sweet Marie - for i know
that idealism
can lead to suicide,
and that
i do know,
but pertaining to you?
can't season it,
can't reason with spice,
can't leave this unanswered.
Lolita Twist
Rose-hustler
Other than my not being sure that the word "either" should be there in the first stanza, or the last line of the last stanza being nessa, I'd say you have some interesting thoughts there. Though it doesn't seem like a whole story is being told?
The 53rd Card
Lolita Ginsoski
i saw the new generation
with great hand-eye coordination
and little or no compassion.
or passion, for anything.
and i saw fools wear flip-flops
in winter, with t-shirts, and shorts.
Not because they're poor,
but where i lived, many were.
i heard the new generation
talk, and not say anything.
i heard them scream
about peace, because the sign's in fasion.
and then they get expelled
for bustin' noses.
i saw neon in black
because it looks cool.
i saw every blonde in pink in the nowties
because everyone wants to stand out nowadays.
everyone wants to pop.
but no one goes to the funeral,
and no one here everr has.
and no one has a voice
anymore, so what really stands out
is ignorance.
i see everything
much too literal clear...
Back in the day, footage was much more grainy,
less saturated with meaningless colour,
just... better looking.
Like a hydrocode, or a Heineken haze.
And that was a much better place
to be.
Or not to.
The 53rd Card
Lolita Ginsoski
i saw the new generation
with great hand-eye coordination
and little or no compassion.
or passion, for anything.
and i saw fools wear flip-flops
in winter, with t-shirts, and shorts.
Not because they're poor,
but where i lived, many were.
i heard the new generation
talk, and not say anything.
i heard them scream
about peace, because the sign's in fasion.
and then they get expelled
for bustin' noses.
i saw neon in black
because it looks cool.
i saw every blonde in pink in the nowties
because everyone wants to stand out nowadays.
everyone wants to pop.
but no one goes to the funeral,
and no one here everr has.
and no one has a voice
anymore, so what really stands out
is ignorance.
i see everything
much too literal clear...
Back in the day, footage was much more grainy,
less saturated with meaningless colour,
just... better looking.
Like a hydrocode, or a Heineken haze.
And that was a much better place
to be.
Or not to.
Aaaah Bukowski
tortured twisted
drunkard of genius
Eternal Nova of
inspiration's spark
Meloncholy Madman
of the Muse
Unsocial conscience
of society
Sublime sign of time
Blackguard of prose
Highway man to Hope's
heart
Wino of Wit & Wisdom
Sleep now
Genteel Gargantua
your shoes are
safe with you
There'll not be another
in need of them soon.
tortured twisted
drunkard of genius
Eternal Nova of
inspiration's spark
Meloncholy Madman
of the Muse
Unsocial conscience
of society
Sublime sign of time
Blackguard of prose
Highway man to Hope's
heart
Wino of Wit & Wisdom
Sleep now
Genteel Gargantua
your shoes are
safe with you
There'll not be another
in need of them soon.
SHE SAID
" I dont understand Bukowski "
He-" Do you understand life? "
S-" No "
H-" Perhaps he is life "
S-" No, he's just a man "
H-" Now you understand him "
S-" O.K. Then what about life? "
H-" I dunno. "
" I dont understand Bukowski "
He-" Do you understand life? "
S-" No "
H-" Perhaps he is life "
S-" No, he's just a man "
H-" Now you understand him "
S-" O.K. Then what about life? "
H-" I dunno. "
SHARON FROST
Pale, smooth, unblemished skin
Thin, straight nose line
Smiling, cupids' bow lips
Hair so blonde it was almost white
Very fine, moved in the breeze
Blue Eyes- not piercing- happy, kind
She invited me to her house.
There was a problem with the
cupboard hinge.
Could I fix it?
I didn't know how
told her and her mother
" i was sorry "
Went home
never went back
always felt
i left something there
intangible, irretrievable
We were 14 that year
Now, 60 days from 56 years
it seems it happened
last week
Act from your heart, pardner
What you do
never
leaves you
Pale, smooth, unblemished skin
Thin, straight nose line
Smiling, cupids' bow lips
Hair so blonde it was almost white
Very fine, moved in the breeze
Blue Eyes- not piercing- happy, kind
She invited me to her house.
There was a problem with the
cupboard hinge.
Could I fix it?
I didn't know how
told her and her mother
" i was sorry "
Went home
never went back
always felt
i left something there
intangible, irretrievable
We were 14 that year
Now, 60 days from 56 years
it seems it happened
last week
Act from your heart, pardner
What you do
never
leaves you
I'm a writer, but my experience is in magazines and newspapers. It's a great life for those who are comfortable with having no money and zero possessions. But I get to wake up at noon and come and go as I please and there's no dollar amount worth more than that.
That being said, here are two Buk-inspired poems I wrote.
LITERARY SHEEP
Writing is a very solitary thing
which, if I asked a shrink, they
might say is why I do it
But lately I've been getting down
to business
putting pen to paper
(or should I say fingertips to keys)
and doing my homework
on a subject I don't know much about
Turns out the literary world is
just as fucked as the music world
I'm trying to leave behind
Hacks pat other hacks on the back
form social scenes
and
provide unrealistic optimism for those
who have no real talent
Networking their way to the middle,
because knowing the right people
can only get a shitty writer -
or anyone
in any profession -
so far
Talent is key and
those who don't have any
know this
That's why they write books about
supposed drinking and drug addictions
that never took place,
then call themselves
disciples of Bukowksi
Or poems about other hack writers
who aren't as gifted as they are
You know, poems like this one
ONE FOR BUK
I never liked poetry
"til I read Buk
And even now I'm not so sure
because
a writer who hates writing
is like
a fish who hates water
But it's true
It's me
What people forget
is words mean nothing
without a home to rest their feet
Dangling, prancing, swooping -- who cares?
Give me a story
Show me people who've lived
and done things I haven't done
Gone places I've never been
and will probably never go
Words and words and words
and words
remind me of that old bartender saying:
"Happy songs sell records
sad songs sell beer"
and hyperbole sells books
Thanks Buk
for showing me the way
I owe ya a round
on the other side
That being said, here are two Buk-inspired poems I wrote.
LITERARY SHEEP
Writing is a very solitary thing
which, if I asked a shrink, they
might say is why I do it
But lately I've been getting down
to business
putting pen to paper
(or should I say fingertips to keys)
and doing my homework
on a subject I don't know much about
Turns out the literary world is
just as fucked as the music world
I'm trying to leave behind
Hacks pat other hacks on the back
form social scenes
and
provide unrealistic optimism for those
who have no real talent
Networking their way to the middle,
because knowing the right people
can only get a shitty writer -
or anyone
in any profession -
so far
Talent is key and
those who don't have any
know this
That's why they write books about
supposed drinking and drug addictions
that never took place,
then call themselves
disciples of Bukowksi
Or poems about other hack writers
who aren't as gifted as they are
You know, poems like this one
ONE FOR BUK
I never liked poetry
"til I read Buk
And even now I'm not so sure
because
a writer who hates writing
is like
a fish who hates water
But it's true
It's me
What people forget
is words mean nothing
without a home to rest their feet
Dangling, prancing, swooping -- who cares?
Give me a story
Show me people who've lived
and done things I haven't done
Gone places I've never been
and will probably never go
Words and words and words
and words
remind me of that old bartender saying:
"Happy songs sell records
sad songs sell beer"
and hyperbole sells books
Thanks Buk
for showing me the way
I owe ya a round
on the other side
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Jim:
In the first poem, if one took out the breaks, it may read like a paragraph. Meaningful sentences, though...but possibly more suited for prose. Smarter people here, poets & critics, educators, can tell you more than I. BTW: Fun close.
Expository Writing Exercise: Write a brief meaningful paragraph on writing poetry.
(See what I mean below...about the paragraph)
LITERARY SHEEP
"Writing is a very solitary thing, which, if I asked a shrink, they might say is why I do it. But lately I've been getting down to business putting pen to paper (or should I say fingertips to keys) and doing my homework on a subject I don't know much about. Turns out the literary world is just as fucked as the music world I'm trying to leave behind. Hacks pat other hacks on the back form social scenes and provide unrealistic optimism for those who have no real talent. Networking their way to the middle, because knowing the right people can only get a shitty writer - or anyone in any profession - so far. Talent is key and those who don't have any know this. That's why they write books about supposed drinking and drug addictions that never took place, then call themselves disciples of Bukowksi. Or poems about other hack writers who aren't as gifted as they are. You know, poems like this one."
The second poem I like better; it seems (imo) more poetic. One note, that poem, ONE FOR BUK...
the line(s):
"...because
a writer who hates writing
is like
a fish who hates water..."
The simile may be a bit thin.
Especially writing about buk.
imo.
Again, people who are published poets here, and some who are critics, could better steer you.
I have always found writing fascinating.
You, being a professional writer, already know this.
Pax,
homeless mind
In the first poem, if one took out the breaks, it may read like a paragraph. Meaningful sentences, though...but possibly more suited for prose. Smarter people here, poets & critics, educators, can tell you more than I. BTW: Fun close.
Expository Writing Exercise: Write a brief meaningful paragraph on writing poetry.
(See what I mean below...about the paragraph)
LITERARY SHEEP
"Writing is a very solitary thing, which, if I asked a shrink, they might say is why I do it. But lately I've been getting down to business putting pen to paper (or should I say fingertips to keys) and doing my homework on a subject I don't know much about. Turns out the literary world is just as fucked as the music world I'm trying to leave behind. Hacks pat other hacks on the back form social scenes and provide unrealistic optimism for those who have no real talent. Networking their way to the middle, because knowing the right people can only get a shitty writer - or anyone in any profession - so far. Talent is key and those who don't have any know this. That's why they write books about supposed drinking and drug addictions that never took place, then call themselves disciples of Bukowksi. Or poems about other hack writers who aren't as gifted as they are. You know, poems like this one."
The second poem I like better; it seems (imo) more poetic. One note, that poem, ONE FOR BUK...
the line(s):
"...because
a writer who hates writing
is like
a fish who hates water..."
The simile may be a bit thin.
Especially writing about buk.
imo.
Again, people who are published poets here, and some who are critics, could better steer you.
I have always found writing fascinating.
You, being a professional writer, already know this.
Pax,
homeless mind
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Homeless Mind,
Thanks for the comments. I agree about the first one. It was one of the first poems I ever read and it is better suited for prose. But it's just been sitting on my desktop, so I figured why not post it?
As far as the second, the line about not liking writing isn't totally accurate. I mean, of course I like writing and reading. Shit, I love it. I guess I was trying to say that I don't enjoy the boring bullshit that most people like. That was the kind of poetry I had been exposed to before Bukowski.
As I said, I am a journalist, so my poetry obviously isn't perfect. But I keep trying.
Thanks again. Comments like these will better me in the future.
Thanks for the comments. I agree about the first one. It was one of the first poems I ever read and it is better suited for prose. But it's just been sitting on my desktop, so I figured why not post it?
As far as the second, the line about not liking writing isn't totally accurate. I mean, of course I like writing and reading. Shit, I love it. I guess I was trying to say that I don't enjoy the boring bullshit that most people like. That was the kind of poetry I had been exposed to before Bukowski.
As I said, I am a journalist, so my poetry obviously isn't perfect. But I keep trying.
Thanks again. Comments like these will better me in the future.
mjp
Founding member
I thought I had mistakenly stumbled into Literary Mary for a minute there...
Gerard K H Love
Appreciate your friends
Then in this thread you should write a poem about how that makes you feel and share it with us.
Making a living must get done, in some fashion, or you'll make a dying. But Art can hammer-in through the ears, gush-in through the eyes or otherewise permeate a thick damned skull only by means of an excess. Attach aesthetics to function, to somebody-elses problems, to a thousand foot tall ant-box, to warnings, to threats, to mesmerisers to coddlers and you've just got happenstance. The word "Art", like the word "genius" and the word "talent", have all been packaged and taken to the masses - those jackasses you see everywhere whose plights are so inescapable.
Writing is, for a writer, certainly an agreeable way to make a living. But you gotta know when you're WRITING and when you're "just" writing.
Writing is, for a writer, certainly an agreeable way to make a living. But you gotta know when you're WRITING and when you're "just" writing.
WE WERE BAD
We were bad in heaven
and here we are
in hell
See how beautiful the earth is
and we despoil it
are we not acting as demons
See our opportunities
to act unselfishly
for the good of all
yet we obey others
who urge us to kill
Is this not the activity of devils
Then one day
when our meat sack is rent
our actions will be judged
If we've aquitted this life well
in heaven we will stay
If our spirits development is still lacking
then born again we go
once more
into hell
We were bad in heaven
and here we are
in hell
See how beautiful the earth is
and we despoil it
are we not acting as demons
See our opportunities
to act unselfishly
for the good of all
yet we obey others
who urge us to kill
Is this not the activity of devils
Then one day
when our meat sack is rent
our actions will be judged
If we've aquitted this life well
in heaven we will stay
If our spirits development is still lacking
then born again we go
once more
into hell