Thread: rasta writing

Interesting. Recording real life dialog can be very helpful for writing fictional dialog. We can see how fragmented it really is.

I look forward to seeing more stuff.

Eavesdropping while writing can be quite interesting. I tend to do that sometimes, half by accident, half in amused observation, usually while I'm out somewhere using free internet. Keep it up!

I did that during physics class a few years ago... I took random phrases the teacher said and turned it into a poem.


Edit: I found it and posted it in my art thread here

It Was Wrong

Sweat running down cold clammy skin
Sound of the shirt alarms being taken off
“Thank you and have a nice day” rings in the background
Eyes sweep the room and suddenly stop on the glowing red exit sign
Slip out the back
Collection of coins rattle around in the bottom of the bag
legs of jelly almost collapse on the floor
zzzzzzzz zzzzzzz
it is just a cell phone
it’s mom
Can’t be bothered
the cashier looks straight towards the door
turn around, turn around
head swerves around
stare at the floor
clothes rack falls down as a thigh bumps into it
A security guard comes over
Faster and faster beats the heart
face goes numb
Static rings for a sound
slip out the back
glide over the motion sensor
no beep
no alarm
the crowd outside is busily walking and shopping
all is well
Except, wait
The little pit at the bottom of my stomach
What I did was wrong
I slipped out the back


i dunno something i wrote when i was bored in class one day ahah.

Shoplifting? Not bad, show us more!

hahayeah. i edited it but im not sure where that one went.

Tyler quietly shut his newly painted door. As he put his ear up to the crack he heard the gruff voice of his father shout “we can’t afford this!” Celia, Tyler’s mother, suddenly broke down weeping. Tyler had had enough of his parents bickering; he plopped down on his freshly made queen size bed. The soft whoosh of the unused air under the red sheet leaked out the sides. He slowly spread his long tan arms out across the bed like a eagle. The twirl of the ceiling fan let a light breeze float down to cool his hot sweaty body. Tyler’s new room was much bigger than his old one and much more expensive. Next to his bed was an antique night table with a reading light, an alarm clock, a cell phone, and a small green cup of water. There was no book or magazine, in fact there was nothing to even indicate the thought that Tyler read at all. In one corner of his room there was a small pile of gifts that he had just received for his seventeenth birthday. Tyler grabbed a new shirt from the pile and went over to his wall mirror so he could see what he would look like if he were to wear it. “It’s alright” he muttered to himself. The sun bouncing off the bright yellow walls was really starting to irritate him. He noted to himself that he needed that changed soon. “Maybe a light green would do…” he thought as he strutted over to the big oval window at the foot of his bed to shut the blinds.

short story. i want to finish it but i have no idea what it is about..

Do you know what it's like?

Do you know what it's like
Hating yourself
Hating life
I feel afraid
I guess this is what its like to finally pay
Do you know what it's like?
Crying yourself to sleep
Only to have nightmares
That wake you up crying
Every day, every night
Do you know what it's like?
Getting high to forget
Forget that regret
Forget that pain
Forget that guilt
And forget that shame
Do you know what it's like?
Ignoring the people you love most
Never being happy
Wanting to disappear
How can I say this more clear
I can't take this anymore
Do you know what it's like?
Hiding away
Being terrified
Living a lie
I know what it's like

yeah i know what's it's like.

If you thought you were living a lie then, you probably are still living one now.

Anyhow, those lies made you who you are and you can't turn you're back on it now matter how hard you try. You will still have glimpses or memories of you're "past life" or whatever you want to call it.

no offense, but I haven't heard a single Rastafarian word or saying here yet. Not one. Maybe some of you are getting it confused with "stoner", and maybe you are getting confused about being a stoner if you ever see a real stoner who is a rastafarian, or someone who has that kind of voice. Was I a stoner? yeah.

what? that poem was just a reflection on something that occured in my life. hmm i dont have a lot of time cause i gotta go to work.. but.. maybe i just don't used sayings or phrases in my writing. i do have many Rastafarian beliefs though. you don't always see them though. that is confusing. PM me about it. ill enlighten you

sorry, I didn't understand the meaning of this thread.

no worries

It's just rasta writing coz that's your name right?
Anyway I like that poem and the idea of the first thing very much. The story will be good if you finish it, lots of descriptive words n whatnot I like it.

And yeh I know what it's like. Actually didn't realise i was ignoring the people I love most for that reason THANKYOU!

Oh btw is brian the same guy as the one it that dream with the wig? haha

hahah i completely forgot about that dream. no brian was someone else.
rastawriting is cause of my name.
yeah i dunno about that poem. it just allowed me to release a lot of feelings i was going through

friendly foe, fugly fag, fortunate son
u ugly unflattering user, u use undone underwear, ur uncaring
cute? cant be, considerate? no., cell is a challenge, child ur a cheap cheater
k, KOOK?
your young, your youthful, yield please, yes you yougin!
overrated, others offer on onset, occupied? oh outstanding BS!
u understand nothing, ur ungrateful and unskilled ur usually unexcusable
for u cunt, k? youth only use.

umm just playin around with some words havent made alliterations in awhile but im trying to get back into it. this was something just done out of boredom during a class. i think from now on im gonna write all my responses in like a poem or somehting. make it more interesting! this particular "thing" is just some feelings about a particular person. it sucks, but it wwas fun coming up with it.

I see everything that is real
Black rivers of blood
Blue grass growing in mud
Whites shouting for freedom
Blacks properly using a condom

I see everything that is fake
No starving kids
Trashcans on the street with lids
A shelter for everyone
No crime, all fun

I see you
a reflection of me
it's what i see

currently writing a sestina. for those of you that don't know, a sestina is a complex form of poetry which has 6 stanzas. The first stanza has 6 lines and at the end of each of those lines is a word. those words have to be repeated in each following stanza in a certain order

Example:

Saul's Death

by Joe Haldeman
(Reprinted with permission)

I used to be a monk, but gave it over
before books and prayer and studies cooled my blood,
and joined with Richard as a mercenary soldier.
(No Richard that you've heard of; just
a man who'd bought a title for his name.)
And it was in his service I met Saul.

The first day of my service I liked Saul;
his easy humor quickly won me over.
He confided Saul was not his name;
he'd taken up another name for blood.
(As had I -- my fighting name was just
A word we use at home for private soldier.)

I felt at home as mercenary soldier.
I liked the company of men like Saul.
(Though most of Richard's men were just
fighting for the bounty when it's over.)
I loved the clash of weapons, splashing blood --
I lived the meager promise of my name.

Saul promised that he'd tell me his real name
when he was through with playing as a soldier.
(I said the same; we took an oath in blood.)
But I would never know him but as Saul;
he'd die before the long campaign was over,
dying for a cause that was not just.

Only fools require a cause that's just;
fools, and children out to make a name.
Now I've had sixty years to think it over
(sixty years of being no one's soldier),
sixty years since broadsword opened Saul
and splashed my body with his precious blood.

But damn! we lived for bodies and for blood.
The reek of dead men rotting, it was just
a sweet perfume for those like me and Saul.
(My peaceful language doesn't have a name
for lewd delight in going off to soldier.)
It hurts my heart sometimes to know it's over.

My heart was hard as stone when it was over;
when finally I'd had my fill of blood
(and knew I was too old to be a soldier).
Nothing left for me to do but just
go back home and make myself a name
in ways of peace, forgetting war and Saul.

In ways of blood he made himself a name
(though he was just a mercenary soldier) --
I loved Saul before it all was over.

Source: http://www.writing-world.com/poetry/schimel4.shtml

I might have to tackle a sestina now...