I would love to read some of Veeky Forumss OC poetry. I don't exactly have an outlet for people to read any of mine...

>Diskipa da pah pah boom
win

that cradle's best to remain empty
rather than to put a kid in the world only to contempt me
feel me in your womb and keep me alive until your tomb
or leave that womb hollow I know it can be a hard pill to swallow

because you;

expect to be the leader while I choose to follow
when Im a canvas you're a painter and your marks are growing fainter
because I got a brush too
and I will stroke more than you
until my arms are wearing thin and I have little will within
then I'll have painted a masterpiece
with strokes of paint taking years to correct
with subminal symbolism taking years to inspect
i'll be called a mind thats needed to correct
you'll run out of paint and your vision wont be there
everything you wanted for me was something I'd impair
so pull at your hair and waste the air in you chest
your crest means nothing and words mean little
i see you now only as a figure to belittle;

so tell me to grow up, that I need to be wiser
as I'm leaving off molasses painted red at the riser

Thanks!
Do you have anything you'd like to share?

I genuinely never expected to find a poem this good in a Veeky Forums sharethread. Gentle user, go get this published, or get some of your other work published. The world needs more beastly poets with this level of metric sense.

Incredible, kind of reminds me of Ginsberg or Shelley or even van dyke parks. Who are you inspired by? Have any more?

His crush-and-crackling soles upon the sand;
the seasweep shuttered to a bluegold band
by beaten grist and beads of broken rush,
reek of ruddy rockweed amongst the gush.
Oak twig tiptapping pushpits through the shoal -
a stilted sinusoidal stumble-stroll -
absently gentrifying crab chalets;
crimped crests of chartreuse champing on gilt graze.

The trackless mire meets his heel and burps,
releasing brackish breaths of sundried scum,
as caked-on crud unfolds into the earth
beneath his furrowed tread. Stiff rhythmic slurps
toned by streamspeech and mouths of wineburnt plum;
his wife-and-mother plunged in childless birth.

Good rhythm

She was the colour of a hurricane,
And I, stupid and young and lusting for love, got caught in her rain,
She soaked me to the bone and pulled me under her great lashing waves,
And threw me up for gasps of air, yet before I could be saved,
Struck me hard against the shore, with masts and splintered wood,
Foolishly, stranded there, I thought I had withstood,
That being bruised and worse for wear, and on untrodden ground,
That I was breathing freedom’s air, come now fearful thought and sound,
Her gaze once more, like lightning, struck me hard across the heart,
And through long years, and worlds apart,
She still owned me.

-K H. B

I came back for a reprieve,
What a con, there is no more goodness in my own soil,
And it all looks like ash at half past four,
You can trace patterns with cigarette smoke on the night sky,
O watch from your high perch, as potential friends and lovers and enemies pass by,
But it all costs a second,
A minute,
An hour,
A life.

-K H. B

We could never be my love, our closeness wont suffice,
For I am frozen fire, and you are burning ice,
Your outside world is raging, a lashing summer storm,
But the inner heart your caging, can barely see the dawn,
The soul's true smile has faded, the hidden sea lies still,
Your spirit it is faded from the hopes you've had to kill,
All whirlwinds on the outside, but not a breeze within,
A halo of inferno, but frost behind your grin,
And while its true I'm often prone to solemn icy stares,
Inside me theres a burning forge to temper all my cares,
Until they ring like softened steel, white hot with desire,
I laugh and cry and think and feel, all within my fire,
And though sometimes my gaze casts gloomy, bitter clouds of rain,
Within my heart theres thunder, and its booming out your name,
So we could never be my love, my passion and your ire,
For you are burning ice, but I am frozen fire.

-K H. B

I killed a spider tonight,
One of the friendly ones,
All long legs and no sudden scuttling,
The kind to perch in the corner and are content to exist, would that I were,
It had positioned itself on the ceiling, just above where my head would not find sleep, I'm running out of wine,
No amount of prodding made it go about it's business elsewhere, and I am no saint,
I sprayed it with cologne and it writhed in pain,
But it took too long to die,
And every spray brought more flailing,
And by the second minute it was folding it's body and bits of it's spasming legs fell like tortured spinning leaves onto the bed,
Still it would not die,
I swatted it into my empty glass and tried to tip it outside,
But it's body had stuck to the bottom with the remnants of wine,
So I sat the whole glass outside and sat with it for a while,
It died,
If I had treated a butterfly this way, people would think me cruel,
But nobody mourns a spider,
Not even the friendly ones,
I wont drink any more tonight,
Besides, my glass is occupied,
A crystal mausoleum,
A friendly spider's tomb.

-K H. B

Lovely.

To sing the words within my soul,
Day to day to those I love,
Would I too fly with wings
As the feathered birds above?

The sun will set behind the clouds,
Rain will fall the stars to ground.
At night I'll speak of all that's dying
While the waxwings sing of flying.

So should I sing instead thereof
Speaking of my fettered dreams?
In tones so pure and full of light
The ground would never fill my sight?

Could this then be, what I'd say,
A similarity between
The flight of wren, in light of day,
To nearest I can soar on wing?

My life I've dreamt to sing and fly,
Yet all my life I've walked and talked.
Now before my daughter's choir--
hearing bird-song long admired--
I glide in flight on wings above;
My heart in song with endless love!

Lovely.

Beautiful imagery.

>write a peom
>its awful

feelsbadman. but honestly if i wrote something good idk why i would post it here.

Because it's a share thread, get off your petestal, stop being a cunt, post some OC, or gtfo kiddo

Deep meaningfull user oc-s are always tryhard cringefests. Keep it light and simple.

Cringefest. This thread is full of virgins whose knowledge of poetry amounts to ill digested impressions of Blake and Keats.

gee I wonder if these two posts were written by the same person

...

The blazing sun emerges red
Within ourselves a tidal wave
Beyond real
Beyond safe
Can you hear the nightingale?

We imprint our thought unto the pavement
It was ours all along
Finally here, finally free
The red sun in our hearts, Mao Zedong

I didn't intend to include the last line but it made me laugh

Music stops,
And, like the Legion,
Hostile spirits enter into these uncultured swine,
Radiating outward from the center,
Then returning to, as if elastic bands connected optic cables
Through some spiritual dimension
To my own,
Ebbing as the tide to distant climes,
Pulling with it all the jetsam of the drifts that crowd the shore with noise and brine,
Then throwing up the waste upon the same tired beachhead, mass redoubled,
In a perfect wave of water and of salt and of sand and of refuse,
Twisting as a claw-tipped limb at every heartstring,
From the very depths of Hell,
Disgust moves throughout the crowd
As they turn to regard me.

Baleful demons peer at me
From behind the eyes of my peers;
This cabal will not stand their order disrupted,
Unity demands itself from those who fraternize with acolytes as I do,
Cannot hold a thing unlike close to,
Lest it be chang-ed, and aberrated by so close a friendship
Into mire and ruin,
And all this I now see, one fraction of one blink after the point of no return.

Does some theatric Byzantine now tug
At strings and capers in the margins where I live,
Listening for the gloria of Melpomene, Helen of Troy,
Straining every atom of his soul
To hear the cricket, the frogs and the catepillars,
softly chewing through the milkbuds til they blossom, bud and butterfly alike,
But not the Siren or the Geist,
Nor any ancient ancestral wyrm
Attends his shrine, and still he writes a tear stained line?
And does he shed that tear for me?

Swftly doth the river of my intellect
Course through its track, in search of some outlet
Into which it can pour its autochthonous loathing,
Or else redirect a larger, greater river by its weight,
A pebble on the track
Projecting the freight car of stigmata into the gorge,
Never to arrive at station
And come pouring down upon my head.

Let this be a lesson to you, think I,
To never ask about the odor
Of your womanish acquaintances' feet
"Haha, just ironically, though,
Asking for a friend."

What is this, some Whitman knockoff?