Original Poetry

Tall are the sandstone monuments of pattering secretaries on delicate ankles connecting men to men and money

Fountains of modernity trickling from lightbulbed steeples down down and misting over rushing nobodies

Tar covered cobblestones breathing in the next ideas of the great society, witness to the ones that were

But the streets are slowly sighing and the scurrying citizens are panting on its slopes while the sky seems farther away

It seems great but i wouldn't know. Me no speak english

But you're speaking English right now

a brief pause it's the main reason for a line break, ne

mexicano? argentino? Bastante bien

muy bueno. Más por favor

Listen to these fragile songs and feel them wither away,
But never hear their melody and you may one day say,
Maybe I should have sacrificed to know these noble lies,
But do you have a choice between what lives and what dies?

(Wrote this after me and my ex broke up)

I don’t know where to start but I have a problem
Despite how hard I try I’m always rock bottom
Just like the weather my mood will swing
I’m sorry for any pain my words will bring
At first light I’ll be manic
Then at night I’ll be in a panic
I wear a mask with a happy expression
Despite an overwhelming sense of depression
Growing up in my youth was tough
Because of this getting to know me will be rough
Deep inside I’m quite broken
So helping others has made me outspoken
But when others try to help me
Deep down inside I want them to see
I don’t like to be the one in need
Nevertheless my pain will still bleed
Then the day came when someone I found
The feelings of joy were so profound
AT first everything was swell
If only I’d known you’d put me through hell
I still can’t believe you wanted it to end
Now I’m sorry for being a shitty friend
I’ll never be the same for better or worse
This is just my life’s curse
I used to look up at the sky like an idealist
Now I look down and became a realist
There always was an issue with giving my trust
But to find new friends giving is a must

I wonder now should I still show kindness
Despite my habit of perpetual blindness
But in trying to see I realize my fears
Things always end with another’s tears
It’s then I know how I am a fuckup
Thanks to all the relationships that’ve burnt up
Or being used and thrown out with the trash
All this has made in my heart a deep gash
It all just happened so fast
But now it is just in the past
It really was a lot to endure
Will I be alright I don’t know for sure

Genius sees not further
but the unseen,
it creates
the 'ohs' and the 'aahs'
and the new.
If I knew if I—
all I know is I see genius in others
in the rain droplet in the storm
and coin on the beach
but never in myself.

I collect precious gem stones,
or I did when I was seven
two years after my business card
collection disappeared
like the teardrop
pearl I bit into inside an oyster in the alps.

And my Romanian nanny sang to me
waiting for my sister in line;
playing with sixteen bantam chickens
replaced the hole I threw into the window
at my sister running away, my ire screeching.

Cattle catalyst, bullish-shit,
cat's demeanor, I'd've quit
if I could cut these Hermes ties
to my blood breaching skin
flinging from orbit into sin to fling again and again

till accreting satellites and other orbitals
rotating and rotating and rotating
like a carousel turnt burnt star in Detroit.

What about maxims?

Hapiness is looking foward to the soothing comfort that comes after crying.

Achachacha
Cat's cradle on the playground these were
Leftover days with Suzy on the playground
With Suzy by the bleachers underneath
Suzy was with me when it happened and
I was hurting so bad
So so bad
And I felt cold
My eyes got heavier
Suzy was there

>starting a stanza with and

Nice, desu i dig the convolution
a rap im writing:

yo give me a jackknife and three mannequins
I'll slice these fake mc's up with a mandolin instead, all they got is cheap cannabis rap,
I got three honeys in the back with a line of rack Now beckon “FACK” for this heliotropic shit–
I grow pot with the synapses from my brain And all I hear from stoners is this kids insane But whose to blame:
When this Aussie rap game stays so lame and Stagnant–
You hear me, its dreary, without a tab of Lucy and a sick beat in an earpiece I got this kookaburra who manufactures near me
A bush ta-ta-ta that would make a rapper
beg for mercy now you thirsty.
Bush rap...
I rap non sequiturs, you know its unheard that im ashamed,
these ladyboys yellin my name now im trapped,
scat as fuck with no ritalin, australian afternoon tea the boys chillin en, then out the corner of my eye I see a million grins like you’re kids again and these verses just spit; their new oxygen
Aussie rappers are like Sisyphean lemons,
makin nothin out of nothin like yo local 7/11
Going home at about a quarter to 7
they yellin bitter as hell and spell: S.O.S
Sell out sounds
They ain’t buying you rounds
Nosebleed section ain’t nowhere to be found
This shit ain’t profound it just real.
So bounce: we starbound larrikins
The man from snowy river just called and blessed me sacristan
of Bush rap.
Now we’re glowing with the force of a radiator If it fuelled an A380 I’m snapping you up- without an alligator so see you later
Next time come with a percolator
For your caffeine and hype yourself up but fo now Shut it down.

Oh shallow frothing mildewy stone, on the lakebed of some pond yearning for forlorn something or nother, twixt beneath the grains of roosters crow and the cackling of the seedy wind, spinning toils around the suns beaming brood, painting the forest steppes steeped with frost and crawling trinkets of pain and temptous suffering, the old oak creeks in the quiet nothingness of storm, and the cabin doors rest wearily on their rusty nails, but there are men who walk these hollowed halls, and women who follow and lead them, and children who run and play to a fro, strong bones and blood climbing and chopping and straining and rest, in dark the speckled sky trumpets a triumphant call, all of whom see it hear, the hooting owl sees no evil, and the mouse whats not coming, trapped for cheese, the fog rolls in again dancing down the mountain pass, what lovely slopes the valley does display, what gentle merriment, what sublime gaiety this faggy nature prances twords my foresight, as if to say, come dance in me you stubborn creature, you brutish fool, show me what you are made of, I will show you mine if you show me yours, the deer do look lovely, and the hummingbirds how they float for a suckling on the sap of flower, a sweet nectar runs through our veins, let me rest in these meadows after my work and play, and I will not so much pray, as thank thee, oh masterful one, or more, who could dream such a splendid wonder, beyond my imagination, surely, for sure, certainly, for certain, a chest of treasure, so much so that is hidden, and all the more succulent the reward

Senor, do you know where we're headin'?
Lincoln County Road or Armageddon?
Seems like I been down this way before.
Is there any truth in that, senor?

Senor, I can see that painted wagon,
I can smell the tail of the dragon.
Can't stand the suspense anymore.
Can you tell me who to contact here, senor?

Senor, you know their hearts is as hard as leather.
Well, give me a minute, let me get it together.
I just gotta pick myself up off the floor.
I'm ready when you are, senor.

We're gonna build a Wall
It's gonna be Yuge
So strong so Tall
It'll make you Spluge

I stopped to pet a spoopy cat, one fine morn upon the door sill, the porch in the mornin, was fine, was a growlin lil sucker, nearly pricked me on my finger hand, why dont you bick on something your own stinky size i say with a snooty huff,

the wood boards creaked like creepy creaks, in the winter when the cold water runs down like icy veins

I put some water on the stove to boil, as you know sometimes I like to make tea, little did the kitty know, that water twas naught for moi

I rushed out the door with a hoot and a hollar, and to my surprise, the kitty was a fright, and he left off with a wist, a whispful whiskery ball of afraidness, a silly little pussy, so dumb and pointless, ran away as I chased with my water, nearly tripping down the stairs

a tumbling down the lawn, 'get back here you stinky rascal', I saw my neighbors were not scared

running and running all day long, and road kept getting longer, like a highway road with a big stick ball, bristling, like a hair ball,

and then I drank some water, for my thirst was not quenchable, like a desert in the summer,

the end.... or was it

>Do you write any poetry?
no

pt 1 of 2

pt 2 of 2

>6666

I rarely ever write poetry (I prefer prose) but I was experimenting the other day. I know it's shit and unfinished but I'd like any opinions:

Have you ever wondered at
Those ecstatic leagues of snow
The pregnant clouds begat
Trembling silent in their rows?

The hoary stones, the choking streams
Thick with frozen valentines
Once dancing scarlet leaves
Etched in frigid pantomime?

The purpling sky at dusk
Brings the cooling hills alive
With light through winking tusks
Dead branches the light revives?

The snowballs that arc and splat and shatter
Against the house's slanted eaves
And the family that chats and gathers
Around the fire's brief reprieve?

How I might've chased you
Across that gelid quiet
And held and held and held you
Until our arms were weak and pliant

How we might've leapt across, then
Those creeping frozen streams
Towards a place of distant quiet
Beneath the templar evergreens

We might've danced like drunken people
Amongst the snowy silent trees
(Those stellate shining steeples)
And leant against their lees

We might've danced, then
Done twisting pirouettes
And the stars might've crept in
And jewled your silhouette

Bliss n Eso tier rap. It's shit.

At least go full lad bra

Amara Anderson - By Amara Anderson

Our topics as grey as our folly.
As if the navy underfoot could,
as say a field of lilacs would,
get anywhere near to you, Molly.

You, woman, you.
Slit me with seeds
of your sterility,
your foul grasping virtue.

Myself is pleased. I, not so,
that this written route you'd crudely go.
Have it, then, you and your cunt.
Your hellish replicatory runt.

It's a translation I made quickly so it doesn't read that well, I wrote it in Dutch originally. It was free verse to begin with though.
I used to write lyrical poetry but I got sick of it so I'm now trying out how I can use more plain language.

Then

Oh, then, we will sigh,
peering through the window damped by nostalgia
behind which lays the winter white
and all that has been forgotten

And then will seem as far as a long journey
and close by as the warm embrace thereafter
as if you could just hop on a train
and then would be waiting for you in the station

She Forces Herself to Laugh so it will Seem Like She's Happy

In certain situations, it does not matter whether the laughter is forced or not because it is socially necessary.
Is it bad? Yes.
But she's forcing herself to do it because she wants to.
She might as well force herself to do something that she likes.

Lmao these are garbage

Write something good then.

I will

Gracias

"Ballade Employing The Refrain, 'Timor Mortis Conturbat Me'."

O Who is that, Whom brightens day?
The Sun is here, see how He glows?
The World may rise, & start its fray,
but Sun Himself confounds all foes,
above them all, He laughs & crows.
Of course, it's all futility:
His end will come, as well He knows--
Timor Mortis Conturbat Me.

& Who will reign, while Sun's away?
The Day is done, The Moon's arose.
She bathes The World in placid ray,
& how Her beams on us compose.
She bids us Peace, and holds us close.
In Fine, She forms Serenity,
& yet, to none, She speaks Her woes--
Timor Mortis Conturbat Me.

& All You Stars that round us play,
will Nova flare, or dark enclose,
in Galaxy, or gone astray,
Who'd murder many in death throes,
Who'll try to hide what fires disclose,
can't fool us with your gaiety,
& we will know what you suppose:
Timor Mortis Conturbat Me.

ENVOY:
My Prince, I don't know where this goes,
or even if it's Poetry.
I hope new life within it grows--
Timor Mortis Conturbat Me.

Muchas gracias!.
Éste es el, a mi parecer, el más complejo que he escrito. Tengo otros que son algo más simples y cortos.
Me gusta éste:
El partir del alma al sueño frío
Empieza por el sentir de tu ausencia
El cantar que el ávido vacío silencia
Las aguas que se secan en el río
Sumergirme en éstas, mágicas en tu rostro
Lo guardo, un deseo de polvo
Se extingue entre mis manos
Ya no existe más que en la palabra que ahogo
Surgen y mueren, tristes campos llanos
Y en éstos la melodía del antaño es desafinada
Al envolverme de su imagen y
Despertar de mis pies y seguirte
Buscar el sendero que atrae tu voz
Ser ajeno a éste libro atroz
Cual páginas buscan decirme
Vete
Quema nuestras manos que danzaron en lasos
Ser nada tuyo lo que encierran mis brazos
Y ciega mis ojos de no ver tu pasión
Queda solo ser ignorante a la distancia
Y en mis pasos que se acercan ti la nostalgia partirá desangrada
Celebraré el instante que nos coincide en la instancia
Transparente descubriré a éste en cada ocasión
Y Siempre, tus labios saludarán mi llegada

A man has told me god is good,
and stands above all men,
that he will never cast us forth,
though drenched with lust and sin,
That though we heed him little,
and pursue our own accord
he will not seek our bane nor yet,
unsheath his deadly sword
that he forgives excesses
and will not our prayers reject.

There was rumor in Gomorrah,
to that very same effect.

A friend avers that government,
has all our cares in mind.
And will not neglect the comfort of
the poor, the halt, the blind.
he maintains unreservedly,
his faith in policy.
to bring the fruits of honor to
the strong the just, the free.
he says the great in power seek
the profit of all men

It was mentioned in Treblinka,
but I did not heed it then.

Technology will save us,
i have heard a stranger say.
The wonderment of science,
skill, and tools will win the day.
Our comfort and our safety
we may leave to wise devices.
And men who build and train them up,
will coddle all our vices.
they’ll see the futre clearly
and avert all waiting dooms.

I think I heard it spoken in
Titanic’s smoking rooms.

The forgiveness of the strong is great,
I’m sure most meen agree.
The wisest and the best of us
will surely all be free.
the bold men, wise in letters
with their eye on public weal.
will never be cast out or forced
their knowledge to conceal.
Time alters soon the hearts of kings,
and all will be put right.

I heard it in the Gulag
almost every single night.

So go forth with the banner
of of redemption wafting high
and shout the slogan “Liberty!”
in land and sea and sky.
Of justice, peace, forgiveness, love,
proclaim the coming reign.
And cry the truth to power,
and the vanity of gain
That mercy always triumphs,
and that men will all be free.

Go tell them in Gomorrah,
but you didn’t come from me.

Whatever happened to the guy that wrote this? i think its like four years since i copied it from here.

>Éste
¿Es correcto usar ese acento en las palabras como "éste" o "ese"?

De lo que yo tengo entendido, si te estás refiriendo a un objeto, como "éste libro" sí, sí usas el acento.

he's probably still writing overly pessimistic and didactic poetry.

MY FUCKING CREATIVE WRITING PROFESSOR DOESN'T ACCEPT MY PROSE AND WANTS ME TO WRITE POETRY REEEEEE

Writing poetry will only help your prose. (you may start to write slower though)

He wants free verse but it's so hard to write poetry in free verset that doesn't turn into prose.

nah, just look more carefully as the sounds of the poetry and how you break your lines. it's kind of weird he wants you to write specifically in free verse though. Why not blank verse?

Write a paragraph of prose then cut out everything but the imagery. He'll cum everywhere.

>He wants free verse

for what purpose

He really wants entries into the colleges creative writing journal this year so he doesn't want to limit us.

Says it gets published more often now days

I'd personally encourage a good understanding meter (and how to write it), blank verse is the easiest way to do that. Try it out, i doubt he'd be like "NO! user! Not meter!"

also parallelism is the easiest way to make a text into a poem, see the bible (especially consider something like ecclesiates or psalms), gilgamesh etc

modern poets use it too

Monsters rise from the ground,
wrought from iron, glass, and concrete.
An old world under shadows drowned, their conquest nearly complete.

Grotesque forms rise to the skies,
Heavens territory is ceded.
The old from consumption dies,
its ancient spirit depleted.

Soulless blocks of glass now stand,
where once stood old forms proud.
Gone are the days of beauty grande,
replaced with a more modern brand.

Heavens shade
Cast upon my night
For I don’t long for
Will to fight

Undress me spirits
For you
Know the able path
Transcend my human hue

Walk away from me
Know that I too bleed
I just want to
To kiss that frown

how's my haiku cycle?
I lowered the syllable count cuz of the difference in languages (syllables vs morae)

I feel like this is almost really good. Some of the imagery is very evocative but I don't think the poem as a whole has enough cohesion or purpose to justify it

Through fear
And trembling
Do we find self
In a forest dark

Through fear
We find faith
With faith
We trump fear

Fear is
Lack of faith
Faith in
Something to fear

i like it

Thanks not sure what you mean by convolution. I truly don't get rap so i can't really comment it critique

Thanks Which parts did you like? I wrote this very quickly and i have similar feelings as you do but i wanted some feedback cuz I'm struggling to find direction with how to improve this

A splash of the gull imbues love
A spurt of passion renews love
Beatous malor O’er quiet Del’ Air
The icthic seines swash what is love

And in my momentum of lust
Of in my heart of which i must
I would be the gull’s companion
The nets wound coagulation

Allow me to mimic the sun
And coalesce with she, the one

What´s with the sudden french sentences i keep reading from a lot of writers? Why would you do that?

no french in there, 'Del Air' is referring to my state (DE), that's all

fresh prince of del air

Darkness, shadows the starkness of my barren soul
an empire laid ruin to dirt and dust
even the worms mock my cruel fate
lingering in the dungeons of my dreams
demons snicker and cackle like the moon
eclipsed, furthest from ecstasy
a knife, dangles in the darkness
a splinter, sends shivers down my skin

boulders continuously fall and crush me
i howl at the cool moon light
the fire rages, the fire always rages
take me home,
please, take me nowhere

What rose does owe its life to sun,
or to the earth where its roots run?
For roses simply live, and grow,
and die before the coming snow.

See reaching toward the sky, the rose,
so see the rose return to ground,
where back unto the earth it goes,
where one more rose may yet be found.

No debt can roses bring about
for nothing does a rose amount,
but another rose.

edgy and predictable. Not being a party pooper, but that is the most blunt criticism I can provide.

Try to imply things, rather than state them. Your rhythm is off a lot, and you skip around to different thoughts a lot

Alone, I lie, to best the night,
That so mercilessly keeps
My thoughts in whirling agony,
Far from existence breached.

I'm soon to drift to olden wood,
Where the World-Tree grows.
To hear the whispers of the wind,
And dream of fallen stones.

As I succumb to nightly death,
My breath grows calm and deep;
I hear the pale lake calling me
And so I drift to sleep.

nice and simple. I like it :)

Thank you :)
I feel that it helps if people can actually read my poetry.
Joking aside, sometimes it's the simple things that really get us thinking, you know?

weeping steel bullet melts heart harp tender folly falls cascading decadent negligence proceeds post enormousness fleecing felt down the coat of arms in carriage display the bumpy dirt road tossed the marbles from the loose case garment on the wagon floor bumps the maiden tore in door her pantaloons a jumpy shriek the light heat blinds the white dress sun hat in not yet evening drowns the midnight ball a power feast with pleasentries siphon the mysterium of the union of towns folks dancing in the eternal day breaks the calling horn the bell tower rings and children cheer to hear the shouting whispers of declaration from the hill tops abode castle hanging shadows on the hill side geese flock and pigeons carry notes the fauna fawn and berries pie flowers wink bumble fruit light hands on the nape down a patch of cabbage carrots snicker frogs in the background pond across the meadow double scared of double time deer run rainbow patterns eating seed from palm happy eternal smile and sigh is here in pleasant ville and joined are the manners of wo and men who do rightly declare themselves fine and is that so, yes

Very vivid. I like

I was driving to work when the policemen forced a detour.
There had been a forest fire, and they were worried it was spreading.
Of course it was spreading, what am I saying, Of course it was
Much like any other fire, but huge and brimming. The basin
Held it like a child to grow, but as I drove around I never saw the smoke.
I didn’t know it was a fire at the time, and assumed some monster
Was running about shirtless and bloody. I guess i thought someone had been killed.
Maybe someone had been killed, but because of the fire, not the monster.
Maybe the monster was running from the fire too, its heat too much like hell’s.
Still, whether or not anyone had died, I began to breathe rapidly, needing quiet
I shut my radio off. The window won’t close all the way. That whistling sound
Grew out of my door and wrapped around my mind, like these country roads
I drove much too fast on. Maybe the wind whistled louder in the heat of the fire.
Maybe the monster whistled to stay calm as he fled the infernal basin.
As the monster grew out of my door, I began choking on the smoke
Of hell and felt the heat of the whistling screaming from my radio.
I knew something wasn’t right, because I had cut my door off already
And was sitting in the parking lot getting the nerve to call-in at work.
Maybe work was on fire and that’s why the detour made me so late.
Maybe the fireman that pushed my car down the country road
Knew how dangerous the situation was and needed me to drive
In silence for a bit. As my breathing slowed down the smoke stopped
Rising and I felt the oxygen rush back into the door. I was afraid
To turn the radio on, so I drove back home in silence.

tried playing with stupidly long lines in this one. did it work out?

>And went down to the ships

Este lo había visto en un hilo anterior, note el uso erróneo de

>cual
que debe ser
>cuyas

pero aparte de esto, no esta nada mal

I have never seen a rose that was not black
nor am I blind of color

The razor edge is sharp like a cliff
while the wind whips my naked nape
on the precipice

a vast canyon is my future and I am scared to know it, no, to show it

to not save face, is not my saving grace

I like it quite much, much interesting aspects, when it finished I was wishing there was more

Here is a clearer version, without the image.

What rose does owe its life to sun,
or to the earth where its roots run?
For roses simply live, and grow,
and die before the coming snow.

See reaching toward the sky, the rose,
so see the rose return to ground,
where back unto the earth it goes,
where one more rose may yet be found.

No debt can roses bring about
for nothing does a rose amount,
but another rose.

thank!

>pic related

An acknowledgement

I eat a big bagel and walk away
You follow me and shout, you say
"You ate that bagel so big today"
I say I know and shrug, as if to say
"It's no feat or gauntlet I was hungry
I had the money and a jones for something crumby"
You say, quietly now, that you have seen me eat a bagel each day. But today's the day, THAT YOU TELL ME.

Inside me is only death

Inside me, is only death.
I looked, I saw, and what I saw, well, it was literally death.
I don't know about you, but that seems crazy to me.

Heres your meter you cunts

I pushed into my girls pussy with glee
Above the gods forsaked
Delusions are not good for the psyche
Masses slurp the red drink
Alternatives are bitter manicly
But they are free energetically

I enjoy this emphasis on a small moment
Its what life is truly made of.

He is the happy wanderer, who goes,
Singing upon the way, with eyes awake
To every scene, with ears alert to take
The sweetness of all sounds; who loves and knows
The secrets of the highway, and the rose
Holds fairer for the wounds that briars make

Thou art the blossom
Which becomes
The ever-growing heart
Of Man
Painted in colours of the sea
And so resembling all the tides
That wash ashore
From day to day
All the little memories
Of naked apes
Clothed in the skins of lesser beings

The rain has stopped. The waterfall will roar like that all
night. I have come out to take a walk and feed. My body--foot,
that is--is wet and cold and covered with sharp gravel. It is
white, the size of a dinner plate. I have set myself a goal, a
certain rock, but it may well be dawn before I get there.
Although I move ghostlike and my floating edges barely graze
the ground, I am heavy, heavy, heavy. My white muscles are
already tired. I give the impression of mysterious ease, but it is
only with the greatest effort of my will that I can rise above the
smallest stones and sticks. And I must not let myself be dis-
tracted by those rough spears of grass. Don't touch them. Draw
back. Withdrawal is always best.
The rain has stopped. The waterfall makes such a noise! (And
what if I fall over it?) The mountains of black rock give off such
clouds of steam! Shiny streamers are hanging down their sides.
When this occurs, we have a saying that the Snail Gods have
come down in haste. I could never descend such steep escarp-
ments, much less dream of climbing them.
That toad was too big, too, like me. His eyes beseeched my
love. Our proportions horrify our neighbors.
Rest a minute; relax. Flattened to the ground, my body is like
a pallid, decomposing leaf. What's that tapping on my shell?
Nothing. Let's go on.
My sides move in rhythmic waves, just off the ground, from
front to back, the wake of a ship, wax-white water, or a slowly
melting floe. I am cold, cold, cold as ice. My blind, white bull's
head was a Cretan scare-head; degenerate, my four horns that
can't attack. The sides of my mouth are now my hands. They
press the earth and suck it hard. Ah, but I know my shell is
beautiful, and high, and glazed, and shining. I know it well,
although I have not seen it. Its curled white lip is of the finest
enamel. Inside, it is as smooth as silk, and I, I fill it to perfection.
My wide wake shines, now it is growing dark. I leave a lovely
opalescent ribbon: I know this.
But O! I am too big. I feel it. Pity me.
If and when I reach the rock, I shall go into a certain crack
there for the night. The waterfall below will vibrate through
my shell and body all night long. In that steady pulsing I can
rest. All night I shall be like a sleeping ear.

The green catalpa tree has turned
All white; the cherry blooms once more.
In one whole year I haven’t learned
A blessed thing they pay you for.
The blossoms snow down in my hair;
The trees and I will soon be bare.

The trees have more than I to spare.
The sleek, expensive girls I teach,
Younger and pinker every year,
Bloom gradually out of reach.
The pear tree lets its petals drop
Like dandruff on a tabletop.

The girls have grown so young by now
I have to nudge myself to stare.
This year they smile and mind me how
My teeth are falling with my hair.
In thirty years I may not get
Younger, shrewder, or out of debt.

The tenth time, just a year ago,
I made myself a little list
Of all the things I’d ought to know,
Then told my parents, analyst,
And everyone who’s trusted me
I’d be substantial, presently.

I haven’t read one book about
A book or memorized one plot.
Or found a mind I did not doubt.
I learned one date. And then forgot.
And one by one the solid scholars
Get the degrees, the jobs, the dollars.

And smile above their starchy collars.
I taught my classes Whitehead’s notions;
One lovely girl, a song of Mahler’s.
Lacking a source-book or promotions,
I showed one child the colors of
A luna moth and how to love.

I taught myself to name my name,
To bark back, loosen love and crying;
To ease my woman so she came,
To ease an old man who was dying.
I have not learned how often I
Can win, can love, but choose to die.

I have not learned there is a lie
Love shall be blonder, slimmer, younger;
That my equivocating eye
Loves only by my body’s hunger;
That I have forces, true to feel,
Or that the lovely world is real.

While scholars speak authority
And wear their ulcers on their sleeves,
My eyes in spectacles shall see
These trees procure and spend their leaves.
There is a value underneath
The gold and silver in my teeth.

Though trees turn bare and girls turn wives,
We shall afford our costly seasons;
There is a gentleness survives
That will outspeak and has its reasons.
There is a loveliness exists,
Preserves us, not for specialists.

En serio? No recuerdo haberlo posteado antes.
Te agradezco mucho la corrección.

this is not very good, try to not be so boring if this isn't bait i guess. doesn't seem like the kind of poetry that you share with others if you wrote it just to get some feelings out

Sometimes
I pause & check my pulse, hold my neck
& my vision pulses with my heart
which quickens in panic, and my eyes
become useless, as I only consider my heart
and obsess over death.

I like it a lot. it feels good to read out loud

the money tree

Someone gave me a money tree.
I planted it a few blocks away.
Everyday i must tend to my money tree,
hoping it grows big and wide, and makes me rich.

But caring for the money tree is not a simple task.
Sunlight and water do not nourish it.
Only blood, gasoline, sweat, and tears make it grow.
And those things don’t always come cheap.

Plus everyone is trying to steal from my money tree.
It’s small and pathetic right now,
but hey, money is money.
So I had to build fences around it, and keep guard all day.

Now I sit around, surrounded by barbed wire,
with the smell of blood, gasoline, sweat, and tears in the air.
Every once in a while, the greasy old tree coughs up a 20,
and i run to the corner store to buy fresh gas and syringes.

>mfw too intelligent to understand poetry
what should I do instead of killing myself?

A professor stood before his class
Thousand of eager eyes watching him
The dust in the corners of his mouth
Wells of knowledge and righteousness

His lectern stood a mile high
His voice a silent bellow
With his worn out hand
Which barely had another grade left in it
He held up the picture

It was orange and white, a touch of blue
Tan stick. Thin.
He talked for days about the pretty picture perfect match
The class wrote volumes of notes.
He inspected every element
Espoused every theory
He showed slides of campfires
He talked about sulfer
He smiled, he laughed, he scowled, he screamed.

And while he talked

And while they listened

I burned the whole town down around them.

Tightly woven around a mothers tit
The race of man yet still around it
Hesitant about gracing from the cradle
Undecided of when it's able
It's pillows feathers ruffled and loose
Sail back upwards to the goose
And so graceful as it flies
Our eyes are swayed softly to the sky
Till we see the stars as they sway
Fixated on them until the day
As youngsters do we will forget
Till the feather flies again a bit
This cycle as it may shall still stay
Until our cradle starts to decay
Our mother won't listen to our cries
For in her sockets she has no eyes
Only love radiating
Until the day we die.