She dreamt of beauty
and she slept
she slept forever
until the flowers crawled through her hair
and the ground stained her skin
because nobody kissed her frozen lips
and nobody cared to.
And the clock struck the hour
and she tripped
and she shattered
and her feet turned red as she ran through the glass
And she saw the sun through the blue
but her screams went unheard
and she splashed about wishing for the impossible
and she drowned in the future.
And she sacrificed her life for a man
and she was locked away
and she never returned
because love doesn’t grow on flowers
to be discovered when time is winding down.
And she ran from her home
to expel the past
to die in the unknown
and evil really was chasing her
with a knife and a box
but one bite of naivety poisoned her hope.
And she reached for freedom
and fell on poverty
she died alone with the street rats
and she wasn’t satisfied with the world
and she contradicted herself when she hated the rich
but wouldn’t be live with those beneath her.
And she claimed to love her family
but just hated their ways
and she was shunned
and her hair fell in pieces to the ground
and was trampled by an army
so that she could never return.
Full Poem Read By Allen Ginsberg
I saw the best minds of my generation destroyed by madness, starving hysterical naked, dragging themselves through the negro streets at dawn looking for an angry fix, angelheaded hipsters burning for the ancient heavenly connection to the starry dynamo in the machinery of night, who poverty and tatters and hollow-eyed and high sat up smoking in the supernatural darkness of cold-water flats floating across the tops of cities contemplating jazz, who bared their brains to Heaven under the El and saw Mohammedan angels staggering on tenement roofs illuminated, who passed through universities with radiant cool eyes hallucinating Arkan- sas and Blake-light tragedy among the scholars of war, who were expelled from the academies for crazy & publishing obscene odes on the windows of the skull, who cowered in unshaven rooms in underwear, burning their money in wastebaskets and listening to the Terror through the wall, who got busted in their pubic beards returning through Laredo with a belt of marijuana for New York, who ate fire in paint hotels or drank turpentine in Paradise Alley, death, or purgatoried their torsos night after night with dreams, with drugs, with waking nightmares, alcohol and cock and endless balls, incomparable blind streets of shuddering cloud and lightning in the mind leaping toward poles of Canada & Paterson, illuminating all the mo- tionless world of Time between, Peyote solidities of halls, backyard green tree cemetery dawns, wine drunk- enness over the rooftops, storefront boroughs of teahead joyride neon blinking traffic light, sun and moon and tree vibrations in the roaring winter dusks of Brooklyn, ashcan rantings and kind king light of mind, who chained themselves to subways for the endless ride from Battery to holy Bronx on benzedrine until the noise of wheels and children brought them down shuddering mouth-wracked and battered bleak of brain all drained of brilliance in the drear light of Zoo, who sank all night in submarine light of Bickford's floated out and sat through the stale beer afternoon in desolate Fugazzi's, listening to the crack of doom on the hydrogen jukebox, who talked continuously seventy hours from park to pad to bar to Bellevue to museum to the Brooklyn Bridge,
Writing takes practice.
You must feed it
and water it
and love it
maybe even talk to it when you’re alone in bed at 3am
if, that’s something people do to plants.
Regardless, writing takes effort.
To do it well eats at your insides
gorges itself on your insecurities
and feasts on your fears.
My writing has changed.
It used to seep out when I hadn’t slept in days
when my eyes were red and swollen
and when my fingers shook from sadness
But now it leaps off of my bare fingernails.
It’s starving and gasping to be heard
dancing out of me, strong and full,
instead of limp and convulsing
My words have found themselves.
They are comfortable with themselves
they belong with themselves
and they can come when I call, instead of only when I scream.
May she wake in torment!” he cried, with frightful vehemence, stamping his foot, and groaning in a sudden paroxysm of ungovernable passion. “Why, she’s a liar to the end! Where is she? Not there—not in heaven—not perished—where? Oh! you said you cared nothing for my sufferings! And I pray one prayer—I repeat it till my tongue stiffens—Catherine Earnshaw, may you not rest as long as I am living; you said I killed you—haunt me, then! The murdered do haunt their murderers, I believe. I know that ghosts have wandered on earth. Be with me always—take any form—drive me mad! only do not leave me in this abyss, where I cannot find you! Oh, God! it is unutterable! I cannot live without my life! I cannot live without my soul!”
I love this because it captures the difficulties of writing so perfectly. Writing is so hard because an image already exists in your head, but your hands can’t ever seem to get it out onto paper.
I believe that people only show themselves when they truly have to. When I read, I want to get involved with a character and believe that they are realistic. Everyone is fake for the most part, but in a dire situation, their insides spill out and that is much more interesting to read about.
Reading should be a use of time, not a waste of it. I would say that a good rule would be to write something that you would love to read. Nobody deserves to wish for part of their life back, especially at you, the writer’s, expense.
I love this quote so much. Even though it doesn’t directly relate to writing, the message can be applied to it. Everything that we, as humans, produce has the potential to be art. This means a lot to me because it reminds me that nothing anyone creates is “bad.”
Though this appears to not be related to writing, it was written in Belief and Technique for Modern Prose by Jack Kerouac. I love this quote because it is so simple and definitive, yet it could mean so much. It could mean that in order to be a good writer you must be able to accept things in your life, or it could mean to not continuously bring characters back to life.
I love how this addresses the actual substance of writing. As a poet, Jack Kerouac never allowed himself to be constrained by conventional rules of writing. Instead, he let himself say what he wanted to say as purely as possible.