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Discussion Starter #1
I used to do a lot of poetry when I was depressed and trying to find myself out. As far as I was/am concerned my mind was a puzzle that needed solving. So, I turned to poetry to try and express myself and get it on paper.

So, what sparked this was that I had found some poems from a year to two years ago.

(Disclaimer: They are very morbid. And may project depressive feelings.)



You think you've lost my mind.
Or your mind lost it's grip.
You may feel like you can find,
the end of what's to come.
And the start of what's to be,
The end, the beginning.
The question to the answer.
Question, that answers all.
It eludes you, it erodes you.
You just need to find your sense,
A task easily forgotten, when you've all but lost your grip.

And what good is an answer with no question anyway?



They've been to the verge.
The one and only.
The one of insanity, the reasoning of nothing.
The illogical fate,
It blinded them to the future.
These creatures gnawing at the side of their conscience,
They call them Thoughts.
The most they could do is come to peace,
And find a way to accept them.
Every time they reached out,
They slipped and fell,
Perhaps one day they will catch the illusive thing.


I'd just like to add that I'm not insane, as far as INTP's go. :cool:
 

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It doesn't sound insane, but it sounds like it can be made into phrases or little aphorisms. I don't care much for conventional poetry or grammatical norms, I just arrange it however I best see fit. Words are my playground just as much as numbers are! Imagine how many grains of sand you can pile together into a castle - that's how words work in poetry or writing.

My stuff's brief and simple, though, unless I have the energy to go ahead and write something rich and flowery.

(Intrepid)
Only undertowed
by the vile of your own
Apprehensions
would you ever consider
Fate

Sometimes I try to leave puzzles or hints behind for people to solve, but not many people get it. :(
 

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I use poetry to find my feelings or just let them out, I can't write it if I don't feel anything and I only feel sad most of the time when I write. emotions are too....to put in any other form except maybe drawing. I can't talk about feelings either just write. I've also found I like reading poetry it's relaxing sometimes.
 

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Sometimes I try to leave puzzles or hints behind for people to solve, but not many people get it. :(
I know exactly what you mean. My literature teacher critiqued my poetry for not being "accesible" enough...


The sun grazes on this open field of broken psalms.
Who were we then?
Lies caught up in your footprints on this path.
Could you intend to be any other boy?
Smoke carries us across the waves today.
I've traveled many galaxies this way -- without you.
The haze obstructs my view of your demise.
But that's alright, my dear, it's not mine to enjoy.
Who were we then?
Time caught up in the spindles in our eyes.
Might I intend to be any other girl?
Kindred hearts, they all burn the same.
I've observed before myself this way -- without you.
 

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Discussion Starter #5
I know exactly what you mean. My literature teacher critiqued my poetry for not being "accesible" enough...

I have a feeling that it is completely true. INTP's are very Introverted, well in most cases. I know I did not write mine to turn it in to anyone. I wrote it for myself in fact, mine are largely inaccessible for the fact that I want them to be that way.

Of course that could just be me though I suspect, from the poems I've seen already, that the poems INTP write are often riddled and cryptic almost to the point that not another soul except their own can read. Keep in mind that nothing above that I typed is necessarily true or the way I have set my views. Just musings actually, which often leads to me looking un-intelligent or like a jack ass. :cool:
 

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I wrote it for myself in fact, mine are largely inaccessible for the fact that I want them to be that way. Of course that could just be me though I suspect, from the poems I've seen already, that the poems INTP write are often riddled and cryptic almost to the point that not another soul except their own can read.
I sometimes feel like I have this deep longing for someone to understand, though. I like I spend all this time carefully choosing the right words and crafting them together, and then everyone, especially the ones I'd really like to understand, just kind of glance and go, "Oh, that's nice."

It's very frustrating. I guess I just don't know how to NOT be cryptic. There are too many beautiful subtleties that I just can't let go of.
 

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Discussion Starter #7
I sometimes feel like I have this deep longing for someone to understand, though. I like I spend all this time carefully choosing the right words and crafting them together, and then everyone, especially the ones I'd really like to understand, just kind of glance and go, "Oh, that's nice."

It's very frustrating. I guess I just don't know how to NOT be cryptic. There are too many beautiful subtleties that I just can't let go of.

Well, most of the time I get the same reaction. I am no psychology major, that's for damn sure, but I always kind of figured that they were busy with other things on their mind, they did not want to put the effort to try and see symbolic meanings, or they were plain idiots who had no appreciation for subtlety (Which in most cases are people who like plain plots with no character development.) Which is sad because many teachers that I've had are the latter. Which is painful for INTP's because what a poem allows INTP's to do is express emotions, and INTP's like myself have a hard time sharing their emotions at all. In my view poems are a literary device that I use to vent my feelings, instead of conversing with someone about them. And when a teacher says that they are not accesible, well the translates onto yourself also.

Whenever I did a project I would have to sell out and make it simple, or would throw all my personality into it and make sure that the teacher had a hard time grading it. (Often complexity got me by, depending on the teacher)
 

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From Under A Black Water Hole


Sensing the meta - architecture brown,
deepening waters then up through the down,
tumble I fight a fierce electromagnetic,
clinging the muscle frantic and yet romantic,
those which abstract the mind, cognite
the blue of her floro-scent cite,
captive by the concrete cloth,
dirt liquid, pass the eye up through the nose,
amalgamate it would with the colored prose,
when perceive the indicative, fiery pure of the free,
swing back up, would let them see,
the ones who dare not dive,
the muffle swamp of the real life.

Nature | Rocks | Turbulence | Waterfall | Intellectual Freedom | Individualism | Process of Volition

My first attempt at poetry.
 

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I wrote this one several years back.

Memory

Life without pain is a life I can't fathom.--
What does it all mean? Is there a greater purpose, or are we all just dust in the wind?

There is a light at the end of the tunnel.--
I glimpse beauty in it's true form. Eyes dark as night and hair shimmering in the sun.

It is but an eclipse.--
Violently shorn from my being, never to be replaced. The clarity is gone...I sacrifice my emotions to hide the agony.

I drown my mind in a sea of confusion and loss.--
As time takes it's toll, I find that I'm penniless and heartbroken.

Wraiths of lost memories surround me.--
I'll never forget the day my emotions were caged. Something has willed them free.

I fly through the night, seeking a solace.--
The pen is mightier than the sword, but I am too weak to wield either.

The darkness consumes me.--
Will I ever again find the light of the past? My heart yearns for lost chances and the cryptic riddles of the days gone by.

All that remains...lost sanity and a broken heart.




Feedback is cool! Hopefully people are paying attention to this thread. :cool:
 

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and in the morning the magic is gone
nights that are sleepless, to frozen lakes withdrawn.
behind closed doors, what's mine is yours, bathroom floors
and there'll never be more.

and you try to identify
with the outsider on the other line
and you promise you're doing fine.
with everyone living outside.

dreaming of teeth falling from your face
dreaming of getting the hell out of this place.
and it's not hard to figure out
arguing things you've got now knowledge about.

watch the foundations undermine
watch the structure collapse and confine.
but no need to confide.
with everyone living outside.

science in love, and ants don't sleep.
what would be different if you couldn't hear or see?
dropping hints, cutting ties, planting seeds in your head
questions to answer all the things that you said.

watch the foundations undermine
watch the structure collapse and confine.
but no one will confide.
with everyone living outside.

and you try to identify
with the outsider on the other line
and you promise you're doing fine.
with everyone living outside.

***


i more or less hate this format. it doesn't flow. i'm very rusty :p funny that i had the same line more or less as you, Toorima. i think that's a common INTP theme, though. answering questions that no one asked with more questions :blushed:
 

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I don't really consider myself a poet, but putting down words is a good way of working with Fe I find. It makes it become something malleable, something that can be logically edited and controlled.

I wrote this about an ex girlfriend who was an artist and anorexic-bulimic. Our relationship was short-lived but the breakup lasted years from my perspective. For a while I was quite literally suicidally insane with love and fear and i let that scar her which I will regret for the rest of my life. I still miss her. I still want her to want me to want her. I want her to realise I'm better. I was quite seriously mentally ill then, I was half a man, trying to love enough for two hearts.

anyway, this is from back in 2009 and it's just called 'B'

I feel for you
frail and alone
frozen and thin​

Believing no one can understand

As I know and love your soul
so I behold your body

Buckled and tender as it is
delicate as your kiss

I have known it all my life, as though filmed in soft focus scenes
ideas, sensations of the present and future so vivid

like a quiet crowing of craven love,
foetal position
without you​


clutched in my past
to my chest
in clenched fist
like clay cats in my palm

little pieces of you that seem always to have been and always remain

you are she who wills me to strength
to bear any burden of time and heart
to remain
lest should we not find ourselves together
we never shall truly part


I have an other somewhere as well, but the formatting is pretty important to it and i can't seem to find a way of getting it to display the way i want it to on here. This forum doesn't seem to like lines that begin with spaces or tabs
 

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this i called "the rapture" :)

all the God-loving ladies
in their hats and sunday dresses in the streets.
and lie still all the babies,
never woken from their virginal dreams.

all of our Lord's animals
lay, bodies still, as mounted on a wall.
sleeping, they may rot there
till they're burned or buried sometime in the fall.

I'll spend my life down on my knees
or maybe i should ask to die
i thought to look up to the skies
so He could see me here, alive.

if i had known of it for sure
from all their long quixotic verse,
or took a stopper to my thirst,
if He'd respect my honest search.

and i knew i'm not heaven bound,
now i know i was God sent.
i'd say the world is chasteless now,
but i wouldn't know what that meant.

bibesy and tears aside,
a happy day this has ent up to be.
and i'm glad to see you, it's too bad
to know you'll burn in hell with me.

ifsoever i've seen
a stranger sight,
purses empty as the eyes
of all the people left alive.

they're praying frantic in the church,
and crying softly to the shrines.
and i think hell would be just fine
if i can't join you in the sky.
 

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and this one is a dr. seuss style poem-thing about science vs. religion :D

Yerkles and Herkles are sisters and brothers,
though it's not a secret; they dislike one another.
for Yerkles are blind, and Herkles are numb,
and both of them think that the other is dumb.

they live in the nation of Biddly-Jay,
Yerkles seemingly seem to not "see" a good way.
and Herkles are closed to feeling without sight,
they conflict up and down, side to side, left and right.

one afternoon, when walking alone,
A Herkle met a Yerkle who sat high on a throne.
"hello," said the Yerkle, who could not see,
and the Herkle on the ground, he looked up at he.

"hello," said the Herkle, who laughed at the sight.
a Yerkle so foolish! a Herkle so bright!
"i think i have a place on the same chair you sit,
i don't think that it's fair, i don't like it one bit!"

said the Yerkle to Herkle, "i'll let you come up!
but first, i must ask, if you know of the Stuffs?"
"the Stuffs?" Herkle asked, "no i don't think i do!
but i do have a Thing of my own to show you."

so the Herkle pulled out of his pocket so deep,
a Thing with big feet and big eyes and small teeth.
and showed it to Yerkle, to prove he was wrong,
to show that the Herkles were right all along.

the Yerkle in the throne said to Herkle with no seat
"that proof's no good, i can't even see!"
"well then," said the Herkle, "What have you got to show?
your Stuffs won't know anything that i don't know.

"show you I can't, but believe they are there!
The invisible Stuffs you feel fly through the air."
but the Herkles won't trust things that they can not see,
and feeling's no good when you're numbed down as he!

"seeing is great, but not all that is real
can be seen with the eyes, some things you must feel."
but the Yerkle, his Stuffs were attacked by the Things.
they tore off their fur and invisible wings.

the Things and the Stuffs were let loose on each other,
biting and scratching and fighting one another.
the "erkles" went back to their homes, closed the doors
painted signs, printing fliers, making phone calls and more.

"no more Things!" cried the Yerkles, with fire in their hearts,
"no more Stuffs!" cried the Herkles, for the facts and the smarts.
on the streets, in the stores, in the skies, in the pools,
the Things and the Stuffs were all outlawed in schools.

the sisters and brothers, who were numb and were blind,
fought with each other, were rude and unkind.
In the end, Things and Stuffs were neither at fault
like the Yerkles and Herkles who couldn't be taught.
 

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Sometimes I try to leave puzzles or hints behind for people to solve, but not many people get it. :(
I do exactly the same thing, I am aware of most of the things I write though I still have to work on my style but people usually don't get the meaning even when it seemed obvious to me.

But it's not necessary a bad thing. A friend of mine writes poetry and a novel and she does not give an obvious meaning as well, this is what I find to be more interesting in literature : when you have to go deeper to find everything, when you have to analyse. I really enjoy writing metastylistic work as well. I rarely have strong characters with a real identity.

I am glad other INTPs enjoy writing and reading poetry even sentimental poetry, the stereotype is usually that we are not very good writer or have not tendency to enjoy real poetry.

Not going to share my work here because I'm still working on it and it is long and it sucks but keep on the INTP poetry.
 

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Poetry, eh? All right.

To start with something light, a little sonnet I wrote a few months ago. It fits with my avatar, I suppose:

“Love through the Eyes of an Owl”

The creatures start by glancing up and down,
Sizing up their future partner’s form
While each puts on the other’s head a crown
And all I smell’s a great hormonal storm.
But then the dance begins, a burst of glee
And perspiration from adrenaline.
The mating calls, ridiculous to me,
Clearly hold some meaning deep within.
So off they amble, clutching hand in hand
(Though I myself can hardly picture why),
While in their chests their beating hearts expand
Until the two release a single sigh.
Inexplicably, they call this “love”
And parade it to a tired owl above.

And for something a little more interesting, which no one I've shown it to has even attempted to understand:

The warmth emanates in a slow,
Personal spring
Of former and future grandeur,
Of the God-made majesty that adorned
And gave life,
Of the god-making minds that
Meld the had-been with the have-been with the will-be
Out into eyes and faces of the
Attributionalized,
Or those who eye the former in adoration
Of their self-apparent godliness,
Perceiving not
The first maker, the slow warmth.
 

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I have a feeling that it is completely true. INTP's are very Introverted, well in most cases. I know I did not write mine to turn it in to anyone. I wrote it for myself in fact, mine are largely inaccessible for the fact that I want them to be that way.
Really? I actually sent in a poem to this contest in the local library a while ago...though it was more for the money then anything else. ...but I think I can still relate with you. Whenever it's a poem that I need to display/present I never write about my own thoughts or feelings. I always write a poem describing an event (nature is a favourite) or write it in the point of view of a different character. (One of my favourites is Albus Dumbledore. It's always so fun writing a poem that you just KNOW he would write). My other stuff, the one's that I would never share, I never write. I just memorize them in my head.
Though I do often write philosophical poems. Just musings that not everyone (as in the average half brained teenager) can understand.

I also really enjoy reading poetry. I spent half of last year compiling an anthology of my favourite poems by poets of the 20th century. I'm going to work on one for the 21st century next, then skip back to the 19th century after that one's completed.
 

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Of course that could just be me though I suspect, from the poems I've seen already, that the poems INTP write are often riddled and cryptic almost to the point that not another soul except their own can read.
To understand a poem you need to grasp first what it is about... is it about emotions, anger, a boy, a girl, freedom?... in some of the poems i've read here the subject is about the need to reach the "unreachable truth", and that subject doesn't seem to worry the majority of the people and its even unthinkable for others... that's why some of our poems doesn't seem to be understandable for the common soul: they cannot grasp the subject of our writing...
 

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I'm completely new at writing poetry but I too used it to vent my hidden pain.

When I get some free time I will have to post something I have written on here ^.^ (and by that I ofcourse mean I don't know where my poetry journal went):unsure:
 
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