Please post a poem you have written and we will read it

Please post a poem you have written and we will read it.

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...

Try not to use cliches.

I do what I want biitch

Whenever it rains
I see dirt being washed away
Purity is born out of filth
Filth is cast away

Whenever it rains
My heart aches, and thinks
O God! Is there rain
That washes away our sins?

Whenever it rains
I think it possible, no, more than probable
because there is no purity without filth
Make it rain God, let us obtain

Cleanliness

Clean our lives and our souls
Wash our faces and our hearts
Make them shine
Let the luster of the heart be born again

Let us live as brothers
With no enmity or hatred between us
For the rain that will clean
I will wait

The fall winds blow
But they're not from Gaea
They're from a machine
Seeking a dream

The children grow
But not on purpose
It's a life thing
So frightening

Myself does know
The times that they have
But they're ancient
My life's stationed

You'll never be cool
Enough to put your cock in
Christopher Walken

(It's a haiku)

NO THE BLOOD OF CHRIST WASHES OUR SINS, NOT THE LIVING WATER WHICH NOURISHES US. HALLELUJAH! THE LORD IS GREAT

>They're from a machine
>Seeking a dream
NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO HAHAHAHAHAHAHAH YOU CANT WRITE BRO TRY AGAIN DO IT AGAIN AND IF U CANT STOP WRITING SHIT LKE THAT THEN JUST GIVE IT UP MAN FUUUUUCK HAHAHA

"The Smith and the Artisan"

A breezy melody gently flowed
From the calm house by the brook.
Every note rose in time with the mallet,
Coloring the air that fueled the blushing furnace.
The piece whispered to the humming artisan,
Silently coaxing the relaxed hands to
Guide the wandering silver
As it manifests its will.

The sculptor, fully immersed in this journey,
Did not notice as the sun finished its own.
The embers in the furnace and in the sky
Cooled in the stream of the song.

“When will you feel complete, my friend?”,
Asked through the sweat of satisfied arms on a brow.
At its reply the artist silently nodded in respect.

The stale air was repeatedly bludgeoned
By the feverous workshop near the road.
Every strike resonated in the panting bellows,
Disturbing the smoke wheezed by the sweltering forge.
The smith exhaled with great force,
Commanding the steel with taught fists
To contort and bleed to his vision,
Demanding it fill the mould.

The smelter, wrought by fatigue,
Welcomed the sun as it left.
The cinders in the forge and in the clouds
Choked at the last sigh from the bellows.

“Why are they never perfect?”,
Whimpered through the defeat of powerful shoulders.
With disappointment the wasted time was
Thrown into the pile of the other forced attempts.

Artists find fulfillment through their labour.

"bibbity bobbity
millity mollity
bully bully bully bully boo"

that's what George Clooney
said to Wayne Rooney
but i don't think he meant it. do you?

the hollow song of my soul
moans in tune
with resonance,
deeply moved.
together in harmony
with the voices
crying for freedom
we become one
collapsing in surrender
to the absolute

Brazen roof, journeymans kite
Children aloof, parents holding tight
So content, am I?
Or has my kite flown away?

Dilapidated roof, bastards exploring
The forest I once had been foraging
I looked towards the branches
I found the kite that had flown away

kill yourself
retarded ignorant faggot nigger
how self-absorbed are you to think that anyone would actually give a shit about your opinion?
kill yourself for every stupid fucking thought that's ever passed through that useless mush you call a brain, and kill yourself for all the resources that have been wasted to sustain your sorry excuse of an existence
you're a waste through and through
fuck off and die you useless faggot
kill yourself.

I am only quarters now
Of what I used to be
I am only piece and shade
Of bold humanity

I have given all I had
It was not much at all
But it may burn like any flesh
On my flag-patterned pall

Now come, you wasted memories
Come find me where I'm laid
For they have made a name of me
And a mirror from my blade

But if I may yet linger here
I'd speak and have you see
See time and love and promises
And bold humanity

Light through light
like through glass
That lilting beam crosses.
That lilting rhythem of El
Shaddai. That lilting rhy-
me of El Cid’s glory in
lyric. Valencia I’m coming
home. Valencia is my El
Dorado, that golden light.

Let that light lift you
on your horse.

From his vantage point he sees
what seemed an infinity
now, a swimming pool.
This was the lords domain
but men rule now

And tacks another useless feeling splashed across the white white page
And no one cares or notices or sees the Crazy’s not on stage
And someone laughs at things they think are funny though they’re never said
For no one cares or cares to care the thoughts that haunt the Crazy’s head
And nothing no one says is true, and all you think is deemed a false
And life and being holding space is measured with the throbbing pulse
That no one ever cares to feel or notices until it bursts
And no one knows it’s what’s before and what you felt before that hurts
And every line is just another ‘and’ upon a white white sheet
And someone sane will tack it up and smile mocking your defeat
And lists are long and days are pointless face the facts you’re in your cage
And all that’s needed now’s you’re Crazy splashed upon a white white page

i ain't read none of this shit lmao

You're in luck: I recently came across an old notebook I kept when I was 16. Here's a couple of first lines from a few poems I wrote down and you guys tell me which one you want to read:

"Let us go then you and I..."

"Often beneath the wave, wide from this ledge..."

"Mark but this flea, and mark in this..."

Excerpt from my Vignette "Ad Absurdum"

And the black one called Tristal
gave unto her some of their morsels
and all with the others they passed all around
them in earthy great tankards with dark oily liquids
with rolling erratic fumes tasting of chemicals.
Blurring the starlight and bringing delir'um,
wrapped up in warmthful forgetting her carelessness.
Tristal's pale face and dark even eyes over all
into the mythic things called out in Ilkrish tune
Caught in the ringing she drinks down the alcohol
Rapturous singing he sings in his island runes
Easily musical memories drowning now.
Fearing no fearfully ember-eyed cynical
elderly evil eyes wanting to disallow.
But understood she him almost.
Caution hers her own and others
like it too. Carefully going
forthwith but haste without.
Why having stopped?
But to listen to foreign folk tunes
under fading firelit night?
Oh, one could continue
yet on the road, even as night.
For to of this contemplation?
For which?
For what?
Oh, but to torment thus
under the aegis of drunken self-doubt,
planted here on the hard dirt.
And look at all to whom this song brings joy.
And look unto herself and wounder why.
Metallic and bitter and bitterly sipping still.
And when Tristal's song was finished thus
he sat and warmed the fire.
And thereamoung themselves discuss
with interceding quiet.
And written there upon the arm
of Waden's leather coat
Are symbols most unknown to her
and in a foreign tongue.
Asks Tristal who is nearer her
abandoning her miming.
Wondering aloud at him
oh what could be their reason.
He smiles brightly seeing her
with melted stars that shine.
And then replies so easily
Absurdity of meaning.

A Price to Pay for the High Crime of Individuality
By Matthew Frazier


Fasten me to the rack
I’m stretched so thin-
my tissues’ sinuous,
I am my sin.
The opposing forces pull me tight and then
my grimace meets the applauding crowd’s grin.

Lock me in the brazen bull.
At least one our stomachs are full.
The fire lit under the metal cast,
he flame will never engulf me,
but the humid scorching air
like an arid dessert, will force the
despaired cries and nauseous moans
from my heart, my lungs, and brittle bones.
But from the bull’s mouth
an amplified bellow only sounds.
But the restless watchers-
the partial arbiters-
listless and bored,
wish to hear my unadulterated howling screams.
Bolts and nails penetrate my feet
The metal rivets affix me to this wooden spine.
It branches out so to spread my wings wide.
I wait for martyrdom
but I am a pariah.
They treat me as they treat the holy
Peace likened to leprosy
I am affirmed dead,
but not yet.
Instead I rot slow-
a victim of the citizen’s show.

They abolish me from existence;
Their joy will pay my penance.

purpose, paper thin
a steady hand to reel in
to pull the ferris wheel forward
to tuck us into
sizes too small
pinpricks push outwards to
perforate, emanate;
a thrum of thunder
a shiver of light
falling into every moment this
momentum is making me ill.

and in two sizes too small, two sizes too small
you're bursting just to breathe
a fever dream, fever dream in
oxytocin makes make-believe
of a sigh barely heard, of a sigh too small
how did this happen to happen at all?

finally, finding your fingers
faint, scoring furrows into
skin, into folding
love, like plastic
now, for all we know.

White, always plain
Blue across
Streaks, two too red

He tolls
Lighter than deep depths,
Not yet

New light, it coats.
As he always does,
Madman no longer

For Centuries
Clench'd teeth
And
Eyes wide

Tumbling into ecstacy

Strapped in,
Ready for fun
No,
We will not keep our hands, feet, and other appendages in the car at all times

And later,
Laughing at the deep wounds we've given each other
Because,
Well,
What else is there to do?
We wonder how they got there like we aren't utterly aware we never even broke the ground for the foundation of the tracks.

to wake up in a deconstructed plate
of spills and crumbs that kiss
the sides andof your cheek,
and grace your palate.

fervent to be to be whisked.
you are freckles upon bread (slivers or bits)
missed and kissed in wheat.
we miss and MISS by
happenstance, i say, or
fate of forks and
bone (cliche cold cutlery)

merlot of falls and golden thread.
we are scraped, indefinitely.
morning glory or sunday holy, (all is you)
kiss me as though i am a rotting leaf

This is about waking up next to you lover.

Amidoinitrite?

Kroater kastar granater
marken skälver, serber värjer.
Chetniks mot ustasha,
bakom serbens rygg, där står Pasha
hållandes i en kniv, beredd att avsluta ett liv
helt plötsligt tar alla ett kliv och hoppar in i en bil
vem körde bilen?
det var polisen

Sometimes I think I should collect absolutely everything in these threads for inspiration or profit.

"Booger Bridge"

Green chain fence on either side
Concrete path for bikes to glide
Rapids churning far below
Booger Bridge is were we'd go

Spray can pictures on its span
'Ozzy' spelt in mangled plaid
'Iron Maiden' painted red
To booger Bridge and then to bed

Tired laughing, crying fits
Flashing censored body bits
Gladiator crayfish fights
Booger Bridge on summer nights

On this bridge all kids would go
To feel the sun and swim below
Now it stands all alone
To Booger Bridge I'll always know

Criticism please:

I rent my clothes and beat my breast
Because I cum to my behest
When ladies scream and squirm for more
It only makes me blow for sure!
I didn't mind when plowing a broad
But now I've a girl whose prowess I laud
Will she go if she can't cum?
I guess I'll just learn to use my tongue

Poetry is gay
You're all a bunch of faggots
Kill yourselves, you queers

I wrote a rap (Rhyming American Poetry) a long time ago about my pedophilic 8th grade health/gym teacher who would take pictures of girls during the yoga unit. He was a balding manlet, built like a deer (big doughy body with 4 Popsicle stick limbs attached) and had the most bizarre baby face I've ever seen. He referred to "pubic lice" as "public lice" because "you get them in public," and he often bragged about his police officer girlfriend (who I can only assume was his oneitis parole officer)

Hey ladies, do you wanna see my biceps?
Maybe I could fuck three of you, make a tricep
Follow me into the weight room, do some squat reps
Onto my dick, just be careful, 'cause you might get
Hepatitis, I need the tightest vaginas in my class
I would kill my cop girlfriend just for some underage ass
See my umpire rings? They ain't made of brass
They're pure gold, like my locker room view through the glass
Window of my office in the lockers of the gym
That's the place where I look at boys while touching my foreskin

I like it. Needs more smut though. Something like this for inspiration: youtube.com/watch?v=y_HhzMpuJR0

He sounds like an okay fella. Wanks it to little girls and gives no fucks.

gimmegaborinna cobanna
nirinorigumer manna
didigibobiggy banana
jimininny noo scanner
wytus ex fanta
blagus eggs panner
wytus eggs fanta
blagus ex panner

You forgot to add bix nood. 0/10

Cosmic ray, muon decay
The picture I paint will never become the landscpape it deciphers
So why bother

You put the ass in your ass if your dick fists your tits and your balls finger your asshole and you cum out pussy piss all over yourself faggot.

I got no idea what the fuck that is, but I like it.

I can honestly say I enjoyed this one.

Pater Noster

Father I have outgrown you,
With your sickman blues and imaginary homelands,

Father I have suppressed with Stalinist fingers,
The very possibility of you.

Father I have killed for you,
A thousand innocents in my dreams,
One after another.

Father I cried out for you in the rose ward,
Stinking of chemicals and fever,
My lungs overflowing with blood.

And I left you in the Mymms,
For the demons you fed me to,

And I rose again,
Building a ladder from my ever-regenerating bone.
To scale the padded walls.

Father, I mourned you,
For never having existed at all.

Father, I have burnt you away,
Only the afterimage remains.

I really would like criticism to what I write. I feel my writing style is overly influenced by my mother tongue of Chinese, and thus I tend to focus way too much on delivering an image and making the poem sound good to the ear. Some words feel very mismatched, but I really can't think of a way to make it sound good (and be meaningful) without destroying the general flow.

A stare into the depth
Which yields no return,
The world beneath,
The world bequeathed.

The subtle, the blunt,
The kind words to shunt,
A kindness forged
With a reply

A reply for hate,
A retort for love,
A rejoinder like the peace of a dove.

An answer which seems to hold no end,
An antiphon with an intent to amend,
A passion that cannot be held too long
But will when it is time to hold strong


And so I tell thee with the wisdom of life
(Not of pure tranquility but of deep, dark strife.
Walk on, walk on, for wherever you go,
The future holds mysteries which none of us know.

Read my lips, I do my own stunts
Bitch wanna go on a date
Pull up to Suntrust
Wear my hat to the front, yeah
Like I drive a truck
Like I drive a truck
All white Bentley truck
ATM go nuts
I do what I want bitch
I say what I want
I grew up on Pac
Kush smell just like must
Turn it into dust
Man my style is tough
Y'all huffed all that puss
Twerk like she from Russia
Try hard not to love her
But she so damn bad
I might have to cuff her
Rock like Billy Ray
That's a nigga idol
Forbes list, Forbes list, Forbes list, Forbes, read it like the Bible

Heres my poem. Enjoy
>Lit is a shit board
>full of dirty trash people
>im here for the lols

I read this in Stefan Burnett's voice

i ran out
with my bomb out
because i thought
it was part of our plot
to achieve a dream
of transcending a meme

durr no idea where the .doc is
i still have a pic of it tho

subtlety

>crop
>rainDROP

Incense is burning.
something something Natural man
He was born into infinity, lived infinity, and died into infinity.

thanks man

The essence of her being gratified by the action
the effect traversed a mile of mind
Coming into being with the best of yourself;
The art of the moment, as if you were painting time with your movements and mannerisms.


Dont hold back im experimenting with prose so yeah

Could you guys tell me if this poem is way to autistic to give to my crush? We have a very strange relationship, we both love each other very much but he wont commit because of anxiety issues. He asked me to write him a poem (taking poetry at uni) and this is what I came up with.

The shortest way between two hearts,
Two arms.
Baring hearts across their fingertips, never to touch.

Two souls intertwine, a future uncertian
Time will fly, and you may leave
Beyond the reaches of my arms.
But when you leave I'll let you know,
My heart will keep you near.


Plz no bully, first try in a while to write something like this.
Keep in mind that the both of us are super sappy.

I, young, promised myself I’d not go over

To the old, the adult, the imagination-sober.


King of my own mind, I decreed this and followed

To the ultimate word, straight on ‘til morning proud.


Poor misspoken worlds of a child’s love,

Unknowing, I sought an out, but the boat stove.


On this cove the waves gather user

The lot of manhood’s accreted accoutrements done.


It is a woe-shore on a longer shadowed sea

Of travels not yet come and accretions yet to be.


Here I by the surprise of time was smote;

The feared age came on unbid, but rote.


How else? So I now know a little, I own,

Of what is in an adult; what the years make groan:


Moon-drug tidepools of days are enough;

The moat of a mind’s determination is shallow stuff.


I kept my dreams and notions,

But existence is a poultice to make a tear an ocean;


Little me, beside myself, soon drove upon the boretide

Along with never-neverland and eight years of stories, bedside.


Crashed along this present bank, I nurse a secret book,

A note took with at which ‘tis now difficult to look;


A beautiful, too-simple word or two that’s more than I can own,

I think, mired here, alone with memory of what has gone.


Adulthood’s not a state of mind, nor an accomplishment.

To be a man crusted over a child’s but a space of transition spent.


And oh, but digging out that oyster’s sorry rounded rock

Is bloodstained work. So here’s my oath to do it before my last tock’s on the clock

Kill yourself Eliot/Crane/Donne

True love is being able to forgive bad poetry

idk i was drunk. i think it was moreso focused on throwing two people together and having them fit beautifully, like pieces of food on a deconstructed dish.

Roses are red
Violets are blue
Suck my dick, and the nutsack too.

I enjoy writing poetry that sometimes rises to the level of mediocrity. Here is a poem called "A Suburban Tuesday Morning"

Out back, the chickens are squawking,
At nothing in particular.
A solitary crow flies overhead,
and screeches.

In the front, the drip-line irrigation system
Shudders to life, and waters
The new landscaping, which is
Drought Tolerant.

A trash truck lumbers down the road,
Stopping at each drive way.
Its motorized mechanical arms
Reach out, and take away the refuse
Of our domesticity,
Leaving behind empty bins.

A light fog rolls in,
And I think of Richard Yates,
And how I believe that I am happier
For knowing that I am not special.

This poem has no name
I feel empty
This poem has no name

Goodbye Mother,
a poem for the earth

Well we stabbed her

Then we asked her for a favor
"Forgive us, please we didn't know"

Her milk had fed them
Her body bred them
Yet they had forgotten her beauty

As she bled
And slowly wept
Her children rejoiced
Carefree playing with splendid toys

As she gasped
Heads turned to the sky
Our mother's dying!
Laughing now, twisted in the mind
"Shh, Don't worry mother, this will all be over soon"

The child sat with a smile and looked in her eyes
"It's nothing personal,
you see mother the world is cruel
the world is a savage place
mother it was all necessary to escape."
Then one final blow to the chest

"Child have you forgotten
When you were cradled?
My labor pains?
How could you damn it?"
And tears rained down
Pitter, patter, pitter, patter
Raining down faster, faster

Then the child began to wonder
What had he done to his mother?
Rolled her over
Into a grave
But took the time for one last dance
On her grave the headstone read
"It was for all of us she bled,
Her sacrifice kept us fed."

Would be better if it didn't have the subtitle, tbqh. Past that, it is fine for what it is, though I find all eco-poetry generally repulsive, since it's written by 'poets' who don't know anything about science, or 'scientists' who don't know anything about poetry.

Don't mean to bully; I could see this or an equivalent poem being published in The New Yorker or something. Just isn't to my tastes.

I met a girl tonight
who seemed by all accounts
desirable in form and mind
and whose eyes seemed to search for mine
out among the others
looking with a soft intensity
and complexion that betrayed
no pretense or cruelty
but instead formed marble
with curiosity.

The hours swam away
spilled into our cups
liquor and laughter.
We peers stood sculptured
with smile and camaraderie
before the time stamped flash
captured us in
that perfect ignorance
clad in each others arms.

The ink runs from the polaroid
but the image remains
timeless as sand
scattered millennia and
forgotten rocks
stolen up from the Levant
by the hand of God.

you lean on her elbow
she leans on yours, soft and tight
you take a look at her smile
and you just know that this is right
but three more days and you'll never see her again
why would you, you fucking kangaroo
after all you're still trying to figure out how to die from co2

1) YOKO: I am confused
To think about him: he is my father, and I was supposed to
Love him, or to feel sorry for his crimes,
But his image, when it erupts
In my mind only smears and tar it
With the reek of anger and fear, and nothing else.
Rape is one of the masterpieces of violence,
It is what we have learned to expect
Of monsters, but when your own father
Is the one who commits the crime, and at an age
In which he is still your hero,
Your protector ... It is as if your God,
Who you believe have created it you with infinite
Affection now returns only
To harvest your organs, as warm fruits,
To eviscerates you while still alive,
And you, in your blindness, have confused cultivation
With love: that is a wild disappointment,
Visceral frustration! It's almost like
Seeing God crack the heavens, tear up the clouds
To get access to you, your daughter,
But not to embrace you, to comfort you,
But to puncture you with the thorn of a lightning
For several hours, laughing at the torture,
Just like the cruelest boy
Of the village when he finds a poor frog and proceeds
To poke the animal with a toothpick or a splinter.
The angel have soured in a faun.
I use to ruminate, looking at my father:
"I thought that inside of you
There was so much love, so much joy,
So much beauty ... Fool! I was so stupid!
I should have known you were empty,
Or rather, that you were nothing but a dark and fetid cave,
And your soul a fat salamander,
Without awareness, compassion, affection
And attachment, but only blind hunger "

2) KUMORI: You don’t know anything about me:
Your own nightmares are unable to
Dream with nights as terrible as
The acts that these hands of mine have consecrated.
I have seen death, glutted and full, with the stomach
And the intestines pulsating with victims
- Souls are roundworms whose howls
Pullulate and itch in the bowels
Of the reaper - yes, I have seen death itself
Begging me to stop forcing her
To eat, but in vain, for I have disemboweled the thorax
Of genocide itself and plunge,
In the trough of his purple organs,
The muzzle of death (already nauseated)
For the black sow to choke
In the wash of hot and oily blood.

3) SADAMICHI: I have never seen in my entire life
The nocturne hour entomb life
In such a complete way with its silence.
The darkness was so dense, so
Thick the grimy blanket of the shadows,
That it even seemed like some God, drunk,
Had knocked down, when he stumbled,
The bucked of nankin in which the night
Wets the brush that invokes the evening hours,
With the black ink of an entire month gorging
A single twilight; or maybe some
Ambassador of the skies, some minister
Of the clouds has spilled the cup
Of coffee that he was sipping above
The atmosphere, frightening the timid world
Of us mortals, that do not comprehend anything
Of the clergy and the politics of the heavens,
Of the gears and wheels that operate the universe.

4)FIRST GENERAL: I have here with me letters that are still wet,
Letters from spies that I have sent to the coastal
Cities that report seaquakes and maritime pandemonium,
Gigantic waves and earth tremors.
They say that the salty fertility
Of the sea has frown into a broth of hate, heartburn
And convulsions, that the mating of the waters and the wind
Have shouted a brood of titanic
Leviathans, riding mountains
Whose crests of foam bite the clouds,
As if they desired to disembowel them
To gain access to the orchard of candles of the stars
And drain them as if they were gleaming candies,
Sucking the honey and the silver sugar
Of light, silencing the fire and condemning
The whole world to eternal night. Against the coast
The typhoons have spurred their green steeds,
Colossal hippocampi roaring tsunamis.
The letters say that the elderly that in fisher
Villages and harbor cities
Have live for their entire lives have never seen
The sea throw himself with such bestial fury
Against the seashore, against the rocks, cliffs and beaches;
That never so many seaweeds, so much foam,
So much rheum and bile of the abysses
The waters have vomited thorough the coast.
It is as if the ocean desired
To devour all Japan, disintegrating
With salty saliva and foaming
Mastication the rocky vertebras
Of the archipelago where the sun has his nest.

SECOND GENERAL: I have heard similar news: panic
Spreads across many areas of the nation.
Nature and chaos have copulated:
Thus it is croaked across the villages
By old man, homeless, lunatics and prophets
(Those people that, in the art of injecting wisdom,
Contorted logic and illuminated insanity
With wild words that bite us
Are usually brothers). Some fanatics
Say that Japan, rotten and corrupted,
Like a giant corpse, will wreck
In the ocean, and our beloved earth
Will not see the crystalline cheeks,
The violet face and the smiling
Gaze of the serene skies ever again.
Temples, castles, towers and palaces,
The marmoreal beehive and the stony gardens
Of civilization will all dissolve
In slime, the heavenly vault and the winds –
A farrow of acrobatic foxes
Of breeze – in perpetual solitude, silence
And night will freeze,
And all of our clans, the empire, the sun
Will, in the desert country of the shells,
Anchor in collapse and oblivion.

All of that comes from my play; the original is in portuguese. If the gods help me I will be able to finish the damn thing until the end of 2016.

This is the song that a drowned entity chants in a play that I am writing. These are ghosts, kind like the witches in Macbeth: there are a few of them, one of them a drowned man (or demon). When one of the creatures ask him were he were he sings this song as an answer. The original is in Portuguese (I will post it in a second post).


Thorough lakes and through rivers, on the sea, on the abyss,
In the steppes of slime and pitch I wandered,
Under shrouds of salt, under liquid thunders:
Worlds where light never stepped I stepped.

Ghosts of babies I found crying in the lakes:
They're mothers have drowned them in perpetual cold;
For affection and warmth they are claiming for centuries,
But in vain: not even they're mothers love them.

The specters of raped girls
I saw on the rivers, slime is now they're sepulture;
They died for the hunger of some knave,
And the water consecrate them in mermaids of bitterness.

A green tiger is the sea, sweating foam,
Getting fatter with the winds, roaring waves;
Boats are fleas that pollute his back;
His hurricanes clean him of such wounds.

Man is the caviar of the shark,
And the mariners are the spawn of the ships;
They're crying involves the sea with mist, the choir
Of the Golgotha of masts lost in the emptiness.

The abyss his on abysses have, nights on the night:
There the Kraken waltz, the Leviathan dances;
There they breast-feed the whales, their calves;
They are kings of chaos, they are the angels of Satan.

Like anchors the human spirit languishes:
It marches from the sun into the cold den of the ocean.

The original Portuguese version. The rhymes are xAxA, xBxB, xCxC, etc: only the second and fourth verses rhyme.

It ends with a coda of rhyming verses.

Por lagos e por rios, no mar, no abismo,
Nas estepes de limo e breu vaguei,
Sob sudários de sal, sob trovões líquidos:
Mundos que a luz jamais pisou pisei.

Fantasmas de bebês choram nos lagos:
Em frio perpétuo as mães os afogaram;
Por carinho e calor clamam a séculos,
Em vão: as próprias mães não os amaram.

Espectros de meninas estupradas
Vi nos rios, lodo é sua sepultura;
Morreram para a fome de algum biltre,
E a água as sagrou sereias de amargura.

Um tigre verde é o mar, suando espuma,
Com ventos engordando, a rugir vagas;
Barcos são pulgas que poluem seu lombo;
Seus furacões o limpam de tais chagas.

O homem é o caviar do tubarão,
E os marinheiros ovas dos navios;
Seu choro envolve o mar em névoa, o coro
Do gólgota dos mastros no vazio.

O abismo abismos tem, noite na noite:
Lá baila o Kraken, dança o Leviatã;
Amamentam baleias, seus bezerros;
São reis do caos, são anjos de Satã.

Qual âncora definha o espírito humano:
Marcha do sol rumo ao covil frio do oceano.

lits where the faggot goes

faggot face who thinks he knows

rambling about nigga knows

never been to sold out shows

matt damon goodwill hunting or like hawking when he still rows.

drive infront of every one on my roads

bump

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