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Printed from https://www.writing.com/main/view_item/item_id/996017-Sin-with-a-Smile
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by Tony Author IconMail Icon
Rated: E · Poetry · Experience · #996017
Poem, with aspects of prose, about writing itself
(note: lines with "--" are to be indented much more but writing.com is angry)

“I write to feel better,” said the Sin with a smile
“To keep me from remembering what it’s like to forget.”
-- And I fell silent.
I gazed up at his tearful eyes
Slowly filling with sorrow and sullen surprise
At my reaction
-- “Is it passion?” I asked, hoping to understand
The emotions of the heart in such a loveless man…
But Sin seemed disturbed at the sound of my words:
A look of question crossed his face
As my skepticism enamored him
To write faster.
-- “Is it something I said?
Surely I meant nothing in trying comprehend –
-- “But you don’t care,” interrupted the Sin
He was now absent from his grin;
“What are useless metaphors if they don’t even serve the purpose to cloud your head?”

... Now I was lost.
This conversation seemed awry;
Too awkward for comfort and too familiar to try
To change the subject, but it was for the best
“Don’t you see?” began the Sin, now musing over the mire
“If writers wanted you to understand,
Perhaps theyd’ve replaced that pen in their hands with their own blood.”

He seemed rather smug, I contemplated
Thinking of the abrasive nature of his explanation and the emotion
Prevalent in him from the start
But he continued…:
“Such blasphemy,” he began, “is the words of the poem to the psyche of the man that refuses to accept the reality laced within them.”
-- “So the soul’s a poetic pendulum?
Do you swing back and forth so often reality has simply been lost in the path of mediocrity you’re committed to follow?”
-- “Now who seems hollow?
Let the symbolism of the soul rend its user unable to control himself or his actions.”

“So he giveth and taketh away?”
-- “Only if the pendulum swings to their dismay…”
Now I was pissed. I was confused how such a swift individual
Could craft such residual words
But not a solution to end his own dissatisfaction.
How could a mind so intertwined
With nature, so refined by reality
Not comprehend the intricacies of his own
destructive fallacy?
-- But then he began. Slowly Sin picked up his hand
And in it was what we had been discussing all along. He looked at me and called:

<i>Blessed are they who have found the way
And have escaped the perils of day to day
Monotony;
Circular conversations that serve no purpose but
Render us helpless and convince us
The only ones who can solve our problems
Are those who never experience any.

Blessed are those who have chosen
To aim for their destiny;
It’s rare to find a collection of minds
Untouched by the pessimism of others’ ends
And unaffected by losses told from writers’ pens
That they seek inspiration from.

Blessed are those who seem so appalled
At the smile of a face too naïve to place
Its origin;
In the engine of society
The only thing maniacal enough to stay happy
Are those who cower in the face of the lessons
We fail to learn constantly.</i>

And then he paused to reflect;
To check to see I was listening before
He finished his stinging expose:

<i>Blessed are those who stare into the sun;
Who escape the lonely night in fear theyd be the only one
With such sight, able to see the stars falling
From a lonely sky solely illuminated
By the stamina of stars buoyant enough
To persist in it</i>
--“Such shit!” I cut him off, to myself, though it seemed Sin read my mind
Grinning in an attempt to highlight my discomfort
And prove some disgusting point.
-- “But do you get it?” he finally asked.
“Why the hell should I try?!” I remised
If negativity is high and sanity is full of lies
Then why should I try to comprehend
The musings of a lunatic?
-- But Sin seemed unhit.
A blow to his intellect, and his only response was to show off that damn grin
But then he began: “Now you understand.
The emotion crafted in each letter is enough to fetter disgust
In those who fail to see its true message.
Symbols don’t exist!
Metaphors are states of mind,
Similes and fantasies are nothing but a poet’s lie!
Inside a wretched writing is nothing but desensitized
Ramblings,” he said with a voice masking its emotion in apathy

“But I write to feel better,” as Sin returned a smile
“To keep from remembering what its like to forget”

And again, I fell silent.
© Copyright 2005 Tony (twh2025 at Writing.Com). All rights reserved.
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