Poetry Thread

First time I got feels from one of these threads.

Thank you and fuck you user

I wrote this two or three years ago as a convert from atheism. It's a reaction to a weak argument often made by Catholics these days on moral question, relating to "the dignity of man." It's an argument I often find lacking, usually uttered with some sort of condescension. "I know you want to kill yourself and hate life, but you see, I can't let you - because of your dignity as a man!" As I write in the poem, even with my still-atheistic mindset, just saying "it is forbidden because God says so" is easier to take, and I certainly think it tastes more honest.

I post it because it's old and I feel distant to it, so any criticism can't touch me. It isn't very ambitious in any case, follows no hard or specific rules. After all, why try when one can never achieve the masterdom of .

I would take this idea and write another poem from the pope's perspective, another from Martin Luther's perspective and another as a 13 year old girl in Saudia Arabia in 2016. It's ambitious but a keeper. Do some research if you need and flesh out your personal and globalized ideas. Your ambition is not a footnote but key to being 'good'.

more like this please

>high school assignment
>do some research if you want to flesh out your [ideas]
thanks boss

Upon the prehistoric blackflesh crust
in golden sunshine robed, perspiring turf
to cool the crib, the little feet of
lizards long returned to loam and dust
would drag their little bellies, scurrying
and scrawling over creamy terra firma
a city in relief embossed in dirt,
winding its ways through the swaying tallgrass,

until the grassland monkey learned that if
he tucked his throbbing thumb against the rock
cupped in his foregathered dactyls, it would
repel the haul of gravity and taste
the glassy higher air unsullied still
by smoke and breath, and fly to where it pleased
him that it fly to hammer muck from meat
and speckle red his ragged face through art of

slaughter. When of simple curiosity
I chased the eyes of my progenitor,
a drum within the bowels of my chest
began to beat at savagery to match
that which is permanently etched upon
my atrium. What in me is human,
whatever masculine, testosterone
trails afire, descended the lines from him.

But what in me is human had been boiled
and cooked together in a stock of womb-
water: the male had swum towards the female
and cocooned himself within her, stirring
blood and spirit to the sap of flesh of
the baby hominid that stood just slightly
taller than his hulking parents and shuffled
around the shelter that his mother built him.

His mother reined the fingers fixing slats
in grooves of some austere machinery,
and father let him hold the gutted bow
while straddling his accoutred shoulder-blades.
But both father and mother directed
the drawing of the catgut, taught the love
of creaking wood as the curved spine is drawn
taut, and arrow loosed at a mammoth’s heart.

It was only fitting hence that he be
anointed, forehead, fist, and foot, with blood,
bespattered as the ruptured soil with blood
of elephants and wolves and monkeys born
to foreign broods with snarls affixed upon
their mouths, at the moment of abandon,
of backstepping the scratch line, as he clapped
a bloody wedding done against a skull

with cudgel blows and dragged a prize away,
and no ceremony at all except
the crimson consecrate upon his brow
and taste of red communion on his fangs
but he fucked her and another brood was born,
bespattered as the ruptured soil with blood.
When he died his ravaged widow served him
to a pack of loping jackals in the night.

Her son or daughter, they became a shard
within a cavity; the human wheel
of slats united with their niches rolled
quaking and groaning out of Africa
one morning, crossed the Sinai, broke apart,
and floated off along the wind; if they say
that distance breeds disaster, its worn cogs
are crusted with the cradle’s bloody sod.

Jesus Christ the blackness seeps
With terror winds and nightmare teeth
And jolts of doom and death and dread
Poisons dreams and inks my head
And turns the laughter into cackles
Life's decisions into shackles
And permeates through every thought
Dredges up the cruel forgot
And melts the glimpse of goodness laying just beyond my bed

I almost really fucking like this. The imagery is wonderful but as a whole it's such a burden to read.

a lil thing i wrote driving through arkansas last month

Felt alone, ignoring your shadow a decade long
Sitting in my room, another awful detail of the past
No one stopped me, but I couldn't stop you
In the rain of northeastern Arkansas
All alone, I knew it was true

These white lines unwind
Into the straightest path to you
But I still won't say, 'Hey,
I'm sorry for everything'
Everything about you

Watched the weeks and months pass,
My useless heart can always tell the time
How long it's been, seventeen in film class
Soon enough, seven years since you were mine
And my useless heart,
It was never any use to you
You felt the same, I wonder if you still do

Cards folded and halted,
hands holding tight.

See the fire falling, its light
on the buildings, off the windows bright.

Thanks for actually taking the effort to read it. It was a burden to write as well, but I wanted it to be as intricate as it could. Are there any changes you would recommend?

She found me standing in the corner
Muttering nonsense to myself
Pushing the lodestone uphill
Driving home alone
I lost something turning away
Spilling a glance awkwardly behind
As the winter air pierced the doorway
Alone again

Her red lipstick
Identified the cigarette butts in the alley
I saw them every morning for a week
Sitting carefully upon my healing pride,
Her smoke rising to the heavens
Another long winter beckons
Orange lamplight glowing in newly-fallen snow
The lights are on inside every apartment
And one of them is hers

(from august 2015)

Scott got too stoned in North Carolina
But you should have seen Nate in Long Island
And I guess I'm always a mess
Fetal in the back of the van
Beside the highway in Ann Arbor
Awake the whole way from Dallas to LA
Chasing ghosts or are they chasing me
Either way let's get the fuck out of New York
Connect the dots somewhere in Jersey
While someone else pumps the gas
And I just don't want to be there
And fuck Atlantic City, too
I smelled the ocean but I didn't see it
Trump built a pile and left it steaming
But we left his casino with ninety bucks
So let's get the fuck out of here right now
We'll get to Virginia and sleep it off

>including the out of africa theory in your poetry, arguably using it as a basis or at least climax for a whole poem

i like the background story more

>a lil thing i wrote driving through arkansas last month
best part. love poems are not my thing. especially not unhappy love

Yes suh we wuz all niggahs suh
get used to it

Bring me another drink and a nice girl I can lose to
This used to be such a boring place until I ran into you
There were cars parked outside, it was winter in the suburbs
I was walking out alone like that night was any other
The knife edge of defeat still waiting near the open wound
She left me with the itch and my spirit was consumed
It gets dark early now, so when can I come see you,
Is there still a place for me or do you need something new?

I watched the city on that first day of the new year
Hundreds of married tourists, grinning ear to ear
It kills to know you're out there, somewhere
On the borderland between my dreams and nightmares
And I've forgotten the things you'd say
But some things I still remember
Those things were just too much to face,
And you were much too clever

Tbh that's the only truly redeeming quality I see in it myself otherwise I wouldn't bother revising it at all. Definitely not the finished article but maybe a usable premise

Artificer’s Death (Bright and Gleaming)

Shining spikes of Giza stripped of quarry edge,
Glory flayed as skin, skin a hoary casing.
As the quarry was left a gash, you a skeleton—
Mountainous bones housing bones housing nothing.

Timelessness brought to an abrupt
End. The four humors became misaligned
As blood wore down the mountains,
And as men of blood trod down the banks.

The Nile became of blood, both vein and artery.
That cardinal humor spread blackward.
Wroth wine spilled from the hand of Mars,
Fermented mythologies ache, aching to speak.

Artifex working in Corinthian brass, your cannon
A trumpet, sound off as I strain my ears,
Yet still I fear that I may not hear
The writhing of Philomela.

the rhyming is weird
sounds a lot like a Killers song or something
my best advice i could give is to write like three more things and then come back to this

This is pretty fucking cool
I would like to see this extended into some mock-epic
The Trump line is too one the nose for me. Especially after that great fucking line "I smelled the ocean but I didn't see it"

"Alone again" should be cut
"Her red lipstick" and the following line should be merged in some way.
Healing pride is weird for me, but all the following lines are cool (esp. The Lights are on inside every apartment)

Does mine make sense? I'm trying to figure that out before deciding on what to change about it.

Grauhesch leers from his chamber, unbidden,
as we slink the shade of his view, unseen.
Grey king abed in his prison, unchained—
as our fear far stricter bids us silent.
That courtly mock: a wrinkled brow in thought,
repeated in bulbous and reaching flesh,
scornful wet facsimile of our own.
What hubris took hold and drove us here—
to cower before the insensate?
Long severed and silenced and bound but still,
the echo remains and shackles in turn.
Foul prophet those mouthless lines to lay,
not in mist and shadow but statute and stone.
What fault is this but ours, and ours alone?

All of my criticisms of this (the repetitions of skin and ache, the enjambment with abrupt/End) become points of endearment on subsequent readings.

You did a very nice job with this poem.

re: Trump and Atlantic City, he had been in town the day before i was there and the headline in the local newspaper read, "Trump: I left AC before it cratered" -- it was the fist month he had really appeared in the presidential mix. Trump was indeed part of my Jersey experience without me setting out with any motive to bring him up

glad you saw some upside to that piece tho

I think your poem makes sense but lacks some key narrative element, unless you're just going for sheer impressionism. I think it leans on the mythological symbology a bit too much, but the writing itself is sharp

I really liked it, man. I guess I'm just overly cautious about politics in my pieces and it translates sometimes. I won't go as far as retracting what I said, but your explanation helped me sympathize with the line (if that makes sense).

Thanks, man. I appreciate it.

There is supposed to be a key narrative, but I think I make too many (read: way fucking too many) leaps when writing it and assume the reader is in my exact frame of mind. As to the symbology, I was trying to do a bit of a sensory overload, but I can see where it fails and will keep your critique in mind in subsequent re-writings.

Guys, how could I extend this poem and how can I write better noun rhymes and matching noun rhymes?

I am your piece of meat
Soft and silky I will let you lead
Lie beneath me at the darkest hour
Do you think mimes can speak louder
You smell just like a flower

one last tale of heartbreak

>'Lost Saints'
The aching in my throat
Over every word you wrote
Was inexpressible

That night I drove you home
It took everything to go back
I wonder if you know that?

What do you do when time runs out,
Before the time you notice?
I'm alright, but I have my doubts,
And I'm sure you had your motives

We were so young, so scared
I tried not to count the days
And when you disappeared,
I couldn't truly say I'd change

You stuck me like a splinter,
You never left my head
That first snow in November
Nearly left me for dead
It was a terrible winter,
I tried to keep myself
And I tried to find distraction
In the arms of someone else
On the first day of the new year,
I couldn't stop to rest
With this new thing at my side
And a stampede in my chest

I knew it was just a reaction
That knowledge made me cruel
Every quiver of my heart
Reminded me of you
You said it was a long year,
I said I thought so, too
Worse were the months passing
Those days, we didn't speak a word

In the end, was it worth it?
Older, wiser, and closer to death
But I swore not to forget
It was something I did to myself

I still wonder, did your heart break
Or did you simply cast me off
Was it daggers or just a scrape,
To your light, I played the moth
And in the end you were a lost saint,
It was no secret who owned the fault

Gimme gimme chicken tendies,
Be they crispy or from Wendys.
Spend my hard-earned good-boy points,
on Kid's Meal ball pit burger joints.
Mummy lifts me to the car,
To find me tendies near and far.
Enjoy my tasty tendie treats,
in comfy big boy booster seats.
McDonald's, Hardee's, Popeye's, Cane's,
But of my tendies none remains.

She tries to make me take a nappy,
But sleeping doesn't make me happy.
Tendies are the only food,
That puts me in the napping mood.
I'll scream and shout and make a fuss,
I'll scratch, I'll bite, I'll even cuss!
Tendies are my heart's desire,
Fueled by raging, hungry fire.
Mummy sobs and wails and cries,
But tears aren't tendies, nugs or fries.

My good-boy points were fairly earned,
To buy the tendies that I've yearned.
But there's no tendies on my plate!
Did mummy think that I'd just ate?
"TENDIES TENDIES GET THEM NOW,
YOU FAT, UNGRATEFUL, SLUGGISH SOW!"
I screech while hurling into her eyes,
My foul-smell bowel-dwelling diaper surprise.
For she who is un-pooped on is she who remembers:
Never forget my chicken tenders.

Last year I wrote a fun little poem for my history class. You guys probably won't like it because it's not pretentious enough, but fuck you I wrote it in like 30 minutes.

either post it or don't post it
Don't attack others, because you're afraid of genuine criticism
bragging about writing it in 30 mins mans you should probably go over it a few times for the structure at least.

lol

Went into the class. Group had to do a presentation on a historical figure. We didn't have much time or much info so I wrote a little poem to add to it.

That's one shitty """"""""poem""""""""

That wasn't the poem. It was more to justify why I didn't spend more than 30 mins on it.

On what?

The poem.

The Making of Fish Sticks
The sea cement swam with fishes,
their daily school was in flames
and they swam around concrete ashes.
The fumes they emitted putted like
rocks rolling down hills, as they
smiled at the swinging of clocks
they would enjoy, far from the rocks.
Far from the mountains they left behind
the school of a lone fish swam towards
tables and chairs, to sit and learn
to walk away back to the cement sea
and grind itself all over again.

What poem?

I wrote this after I became a wage slave

How does one structure a poem?

First you come up with the words
Then you fit them into lines

Sometimes you make lines correspond to other lines through careful utilization of rhyme and meter

But remember that there are NO RULES

In any way that works.

The flood has lowered me and left me cold
and bare, although I strangely sense the heat
from blooming stars out far, that fall and fold
in withered flowers, black beneath my feet;
I’m lying here where sand and water meet,
my hollow hands have nothing left to hold—
of youth, or dreams, or life—just raining sleet
to douse my eyes; my lids to sleep are lulled.

From me my life unweaves in winding thread,
and, drawing out the weft, the spindle lends
what string my life has left to thread the night;
and all the while this music in my head
so slowly dwindles down—and then it ends,
a silent pulse in fading failing light.

Actually a translation of my favorite poem, but nonetheless:

The Books
Before me the book lays open, clear,
N' by day n' night; Ever alone,
Nor with the people familiar,
Neither the world have I known.

The birds flock by and fly away.
While days arise and days set,
My days like the pages do I
Slowly leaf through exhausted

Years gone of foreign lives to read,
Lives of strangers, never thine.
And yours, to nobody of need,
Dull and barren to go by.

To me you could not ever come
Oh, invocation of love.
Because of books what's come undone:
My life and the world thereof.

1. nice trips
2. post the original

That palatable poison, O how well we have made thee!
And how well do I quaff thee, although never enough.
O nausea ad nauseum! A small price to pay thee,
From tedium take me, to Paradise Bay!

Your names and your forms, O how many in number!
All roads lead to Rome, but yours rarely by day,
La fée verte, to kiss thee!
Caress me, then slumber!
Without fail to show me, ancient firmament's way!

Can't tell if this is supposed to be a joke or not.
Lose the O's and thee's and thou's, and the exclamation points.

It's in Bulgarian,

Книгитe
Пpeд мeн e книгaтa paзтвopeнa
и дeнeм, и нoщя;
вce caм, aз нe пoзнaвaм хopaтa,
нe знaя и cвeтa.

Пpилитaт и oтлитaт птицитe,
изгpявa дeн, зaлязвa дeн:
aз днитe cи кaтo cтpaницитe
пpeлиcтвaм yмopeн.

Гoдини дa чeтeш зa чyждия
живoт нa някoй чyжд,
a твoят, никoмy нeнyжeн,
дa минe глyх и пycт.

Beautiful.

>Yank detected

The only official translation I know of is in German

Bücher
Dies Buch liegt immer vor mir aufgeschlagen –
Tag kommt und Dunkel fällt.
Ich bin allein: nicht kenne ich die Menschen,
nicht kenne ich die Welt.

Zugvögel nahn und fliehen wiederum.
Ein Tag bricht an, und einer will entgleiten.
Ich blättre müde meine Tage um
wie diese Seiten.

Durch Jahre lese ich vom fremden Leben
der Fremden, was in Büchern steht;
und meines, keinem hingegeben –
nutzlos und leer – vergeht.

O Liebe, unerkannt und ungeboren
in mir. Ein Dunkel fällt.
Der Bücher wegen habe ich verloren
mein Leben und die Welt.

dont read it, can't tell how well you translated it, sorry mate
your poem has redundancies and doesn't flow well, i think you're staying overly true to the poem and not true to the poem's meanings.

Russian script has to be the ugliest ever conceived.

It's called Cyrillic script. I also have a Russian translation (not mine), if anybody's interested.
I find it kinda clunky, too, but if I don't stick to the original it's almost like writing a new one? The author was a translator as well and has this sentiment about the translation being a work as much as a work of the original author as it is of the translator.
That being said, my work is not too decent.

oh good i can read german
I'm pretty scattered brain when I review things so try to follow my logic if you can. All my reviews are assuming the German poem is 100% correct and a great translation btw,
use the words wax and wanes for the day
you're being too literal in your translation and a limited vocabulary is showing.

From what I got, the poem is enticing you to find two meanings, the first is that as time passes we can feel a foreignness to our own life when we are passive about it. The second is that by peering in others' lives too much we lose our own life. I got this from the German translation.

I think the third stanza your translation is probably better than the German one.
Also how the German poem set it up it would be beneficial to say : from books, not because of books.
>N' by day n' night; Ever alone,
Doesn't mean anything to be, but I'm also not a very erudite person when it comes to my literary passions. Be careful with the vocabulary you use surrounding the movement of birds and pages. In the German poem there is a more palpable connection and in yours its vacant.

overall, the 2nd and third stanzas are pretty solid. The first needs reworking. The 4th seems to be an awkward sentence to translation, that might require some innovation on your part.

You know that girl
We all know one
so
basic, basic,
and she
can't even face it
and she's
not doing her best
but she does what she can
still no peace
and still no plan
Fools herself into thinking
"I can, I can!"
But still too reliant
on her man
her man
Now "What am I missing?"
And "What do I got?"
Do I have purpose, reason, or plot?
Could I ever make
A story unfold?
Pressed into something
worth being sold?
And if I'm to be nothing,
let me have some grace
in living at all
in having a place.
Let me have some peace
in being resigned
I'll go through the motions,
I'll trace all the lines.

I had a hard time getting down the rhyming and syllable count, hence the silly abbreviations/omissions. Thanks for the advice anyhow.

Why won't the man across the street wave?

Why won't the man across the street wave
I see him nearly every day, I think he tries to avoid me
When I walk my dog outside, I try to make eye contact
with him so he will nod his head in a manly way
or simply raise his arm with a quick acknowledgement

He is friendly with other people, when he drives by me
I nod my head, or give a little gesture with my hand
Receiving nothing from him in return

Why won't the man across the street wave
to me, when he is working on his newly built home
Using his table saw or other various tools
Sawdust on the ground, I saw you look at me
And proceed to lower your head and keep going

You wash your car with no shirt on
Exposing your white skin and muscular physique
Your wife is beautiful, your children are cute
I watch as you try to teach her to ride her little bicycle
down the street, laughing and running after her
I just ask, want you to, wave

> I try to make eye contact
with him so he will nod
I like this but there's something weird about the line breaks.

Thanks, yea true enough. I should work on that.

People say when I'm in my room I'm alone
Alone I wish I was
These looming thoughts cloud my brain
Make me feel things worse than pain
These feelings make me reminisce for the past
Makes me long for the past
The past, a time which most people forget
But I've nonetheless held on for it
The past was bright, the past was caring
The past reminded me of when I was daring
The light at the tunnel for me seems very very dim
Not worth taking the whole trip
So I'm going to stop and sit down wherever this place is
and reminisce over old faces
I'm now just the shell of a man, boy or whatever you would see me as
Trying to recreate the image as everyone knew me as
Stuck in the past, I get it
Stuck in the past, I can't forget it

Means of Evil
There’s a break in the face
Of a many-minded man.
He says some words are dead before conception;
Some shapes are lost to angles.

False fictions are a language of their own,
In this foul cave;
A miasma of pain and vengeance hangs low
Over the heads of all surviving creatures.
A glowing stench of agony clings,
Like a parasite brother, to the bowels of their tomb.
And the sun births rays of terror,
To rain on this lascivious pit of waste.

The insects of the past play master
In a pandæmonium of midnight’s fire and sea.
They are locked in a cave of
Mental securities. Down here,
The light of God flames, a mess of heat and darkness;
An unseen box in the sky invades this prison
At its carrion source.

Sibilant mimicry, and clarion verses salute
A puppet parade of Memory and his emotions.
Though these sounds and feelings
(for that is all they can claim to be)
Stand adjacent their intersections,
A mirror reflects the crushing bodies around them;
A plateau of reflection and reaction,
Shows these eroding angels
Visions of the past.

Granite and lime colored bricks have constructed
Themselves low for the chambers
Of some conscious thing.
Colored spectacles of human remains crawl
Towards a dim entrance,
Entranced by worlds of exterior light.
If only these walls would break,

And let in some source of flesh and blood.
Not only the stress of a world left dripping,
But the prenatal prayer of a generation proceeding,
Screeching for the sun.

Calls Like a Blue Jay Answers
Calls like the blue-jay answers:
Over the canticle of my grandfather’s
(Voice over the prison-
Of woman, mean and obscene trials of
Heathen promiscuity blend the arts of dark
integrity). Treble with the answer of
Dusk at dust bowl fenders,
Where men rise from the sand of memory
To worship our victors.

Nine sets of nine, repeated twice through
The evening that caps the night:
Cold and merciless (like cuts through bone),
All weather made from emotion sings in
Stone. My lost daughter kept her wits about her,
Skipping through the frogs and nenuphars at a villanelle singer’s
Four dour towers, unwinding for a dowery, word spoken beneath her
Breath sour on the hour of Craven’s Watch:
My daughter’s mouth was empty in the tongue of sinners.

Nine sets of nine, repeated through the hemorrhage
Of memory. Rage speaks quietly to the soldiers
On Craven’s Watch, Pain coursing through their
Blood and purple, with the sigil of the endless vigil,
Adorning false purposes; and forgotten daughters,
And forgotten daughters:
They sing with the green winds that ganter to hurt
Mercury’s son, and the fire that burns him over;
Nine sets of nine, caught before the sun rise over mind.

Punctuation.

the dying light slowly lays to rest,
it's starting now, my test
i look up and down
i have the sensation as i were to drown
all the oozing books
i can see the words
one after another leaving
i won't be achieving
the dreaded has appeared
the new day has cleared
i feel renewed and strong
but not for long

I would like to write poetry, however my vocabulary is stunted through years living in my room coupled with usage of local doric (dialect of my area within Scotland).

How would I go about becoming civilised again :^)

read books full of words

Echoes of loss and sorrow
haunt my soul
ennui is a blank slate upon which
I colour in the grey happenings of my mind

My mind, whose mundane oscillations interest no one
least of all me
the leaves are falling

It would seem we are all too pansy to critique each other's poetry.

Hey guys, this isnt probably the normal post you'd get here but any help would be great.
Im an aspiring musician who does fine with instrumentals and such, but i cant find a way to write lyrics. A good tip i heard somewhere was to write poetry and just put it to music, but i dont know how to start writing poetry if that makes sense, ill have a few ideas for lines that sound cool every now and again but writing something cohesive is damn near impossible. What tips can you guys give to help me, or is there any place i can read up on this or something? Any help is appreciated

I dig it

This is fucking delicious

light dies on a bed, now tests start.
both eyes and me we drown,
all words with books in a line leaving.
but morning clears room for my eyes to see
I am a man.
But at night it turns into pussy

Basically.

my problem with this is the repetition of "get the fuck out of" because it weakens the impact of "And fuck Atlantic City, too" i think

And what is left for me, except to wait,
to bide my time until I die—and why,
and what is all of this—and why this hate
for everything surrounding me, and I

can’t stomach it for long—I long for light
to end, just leave me be in black alone,
to sink in pallored sleep of painless white;
please bury me beneath a bed of stone.

And why this boundless beauty in the air
is ringed with thorns to tighten round my throat,
desperate for air, shrouded in despair—
no answer can be found, except to float

away in dreams, in peaceful streams of sleep—
a peace of mind impossible to keep.

good spot. might ramp it down to one triumphant f-word should i revise that

If you ever add punctuation, remember that you have a chance of making this a shitty metal song
be fucking careful and don't fuck up this incredible balancing act you have going on

It doesn't have to be cohesive.
But if you want it to, just sit down and write. Everytime you get a good line, sit down, write it, and continue.
When you've written a bit (or nothing) let it rest and sleep on it, use multiple days or even weeks if you really care about the lyrics.

The basis of it is so raw that the intricacies are just unnecessary. I know each line probable imbues an entire emotion in you but its too frivolous... You just have to take a leap and cut it down.

Thanks. I'm pretty surprised, wrote it at 4am last night. I'm not reaching at all, I'm just truly surprised, can you expound?

I'm not sure if this is a nod at the poem I currently have our if its an insult. I'm terrible at punctuation hence the lack but I rarely edit by writing anyway.

(I guess right now you've got the last laugh)

I'm sorry if I seem uninterested
Or I'm not listenin' or I'm indifferent
Truly, I ain't got no business here
But since my friends are here
I just came to kick it but really
I would rather be at home all by myself not in this room
With people who don't even care about my well-being
I don't dance, don't ask, I don't need a boyfriend
So you can go back, please enjoy your party
I'll be here, somewhere in the corner under clouds of marijuana
With this boy who's hollering I can hardly hear
Over this music I don't listen to and I don't wanna get with you
So tell my friends that I'll be over here

Oh oh oh here oh oh oh here oh oh oh
I ask myself what am I doing here?
Oh oh oh here oh oh oh here
And I can't wait till we can break up outta here

Excuse me if I seem a little unimpressed with this
An anti-social pessimist but usually I don't mess with this
And I know you mean only the best and
Your intentions aren't to bother me
But honestly I'd rather be
Somewhere with my people we can kick it and just listen
To some music with the message (like we usually do)
And we'll discuss our big dreams
How we plan to take over the planet
So pardon my manners, I hope you'll understand it
That I'll be here
Not there in the kitchen with the girl
Who's always gossiping about her friends
So tell them I'll be here
Right next to the boy who's throwing up 'cause
He can't take what's in his cup no more
Oh God why am I here?

Oh oh oh here oh oh oh here oh oh oh
I ask myself what am I doing here?
Oh oh oh here oh oh oh here
And I can't wait till we can break up outta here

Hours later congregating next to the refrigerator
Some girl's talking 'bout her haters
She ain't got none
How did it ever come to this
I shoulda never come to this
So holla at me I'll be in the car when you're done
I'm standoffish, don't want what you're offering
And I'm done talking
Awfully sad it had to be that way
So tell my people when they're ready that I'm ready
And I'm standing by the TV with my beanie low
Yo I'll be over here

Oh oh oh here oh oh oh here oh oh oh
I ask myself what am I doing here?
Oh oh oh here oh oh oh here
And I can't wait till we can break up outta here

Oh oh oh oh oh oh
Oh oh oh oh oh oh

I meant to respond to not myself

It's a nod
I love when people come that close to hazardous cliche only to steer it away so well. The lack of punctuation makes is work for me.

This is me so you can judge whether or not to discard my comment based on the merit of my own writing

you bastard

If you aren't dead prove it.

If your limbs and tongue are lifeless

Don't dread, you've quit.

Mindless masses sway off-beat

Maybe they were born with rhythm

Joyous molasses weigh down feet.

Domination
Exploration
idle chat
the roses are lying flat
beautiful coral in the sea
fatality, we won't be free

Calling the boiling cauldron and heat. Wailing befailing all that i need. Sailing bailing the ship is sinking. Maybe, just maybe i'm overthinking.

Prototype start to a bigger poem

so it's crap?

There's a difference between what needs to be improved upon and what is not there at all, and can therefore be assumed was left out purposefully

i have no idea what half of you are even writing about and that's not a good thing

also

>writing about women

Modem talking, modern walking in the streets.
New desire.
Take me higher,
Lift me higher with your speed,
I need fire.
Get the satellite if you want to see me.
Talking on the net,
I know the way you like it.
Get your credit card,
'Cause I need no money,
All I wanna get is you baby.
Running in the nineties, is a new way I like to be.
I'm just running in the nineties, come on baby run to me
We are running in the nineties, is a new way to set me free.
I'm just running in the nineties.
Yes I wanna know, yes I wanna see.
Cyber talking
Cybersex is on the line
New desire
Take me higher,
Boost me higher with your mind
Set me on fire.
Get the satellite if you want to see me.
Talking on the net,
I know the way you like it.
Get your credit card,
'Cause I need no money,
All I wanna get is you baby.
Running in the nineties, is a new way I like to be.
I'm just running in the nineties, come on baby run to me
We are running in the nineties, is a new way to set me free.
I'm just running in the nineties.
Yes I wanna know, yes I wanna see.
New desire.
I need fire.
Running in the nineties, is a new way I like to be.
I'm just running in the nineties, come on baby run to me
We are running in the nineties,is a new way to set me free.
I'm just running in the nineties.
Yes I wanna know, yes I wanna see.
Take me higher.
Lift me higher with your speed.
I need fire.
Get the satellite.
Talking on the net.
Get your credit card.
All I wanna get.
Running in the nineties.
Running in the nineties.
Running in the nineties.
Running in the nineties.

I'm outta knack,
yet however
I'm given luck:
I hear a quack,
for endeavour
grants another duck.