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Reincarnation of the poetry thread
I'm fed up of wondering why this thread was deleated, it's time it was brought back. Also, what Santarea said made me think that this is indeed a literature site, so it can't exist without a poetry thread; so your poetry here! :)
Here's one that I made for shits and giggles. Winter Everytime, every year, Winter comes around. With pouring rain against the windowpane Laughter can be found. Indoors where people close Eat crumpets and toast And enjoy the time That we have to boast. |
An excellent idea Corpsey.
Your creation of a poetry thread inspired me to write one of my own. Its tone is admittedly somewhat morbid, but I think it's inherited this quality from the story I'm working on... Tears being the soul’s lifeblood I thus applied a tourniquet Can’t loosen it for fear the flood Unleashed will carry me away. Numb is what I am inside Clamped off the feeling part of me I’m now just along for the ride No more than a crash test dummy. Became plastic and synthetic Just a broken automaton If I could feel I’d feel pathetic - Living heart does not belong. I feel it beat against my chest… Like a psych ward patient ’gainst the walls of a padded cell Chemicals still grant me rest Mask the acrid stench as I burn in my own private hell. Feel this car accelerating Fast approaching a terminal wall A passenger I sit inert waiting For something that will end it all… |
I usually write in Dutch so posting my poems here won't make much sense, but I wanted to say that I'm really glad you decided to make this thread, this forum needs a poetry thread indeed! :)
Hmmm, I might try writing an English poem now because I would love to contribute to this thread, but I'm afraid it will, well, suck. |
Yellow Rose
Look how a white gull seems gray
Against a pale blue sky. Love on demon wings Recedes into the shade. I’m drug through the mire While my captors laugh On the wrong sides of their mouths. To ones shame be it spoken What no words can paint. Speared in the back by one carrying a yellow rose While running on ground that’s falling away. I wash my hands in my own filth Just to rinse away their putrid scent. As they dance on stage in confusion, And the yellow rose lapses into rotted black. |
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But yet, another great idea of Corpsey *hugs Corpsey*, long live this thread. |
Thanks, *hugs back*, but I'm sure plenty of people wanted to remake this thread, I simply got fed up of waiting. Also, I thought any effort to bring back people such as A Simple Poet and Delvin would be worth it, as they both made great poetry.
So what if we can't understand it, we can still admire each person's work through www.babelfish.com, and quite a few people here can speak french, It shouldn't be too hard to read french poetry. Anyways, a new poem I made up. The waiting line. For those who went to war for a cause For Queen and country, or the glory of war Not all were to return But to those that were spared from the gore and the death Recoignition must be given! But what of those who served from colonies, what do they recieve? A general wave of thanks by those Who didn't have to put their backside's on the line. But if they are admired For their service's that they gave Why must you make them wait Alienated and segregated By the country that they served. They fought for you and could have recieved The kiss of death for their efforts And yet they wait, like second class citizens And are ignored for the strife they paid |
The Human Forest
Like a seedling I pushed up through,
A thick layer of dead leaves laying strewed - Fed on this dead knowledge passed down from old to new, From a canopy of ancient trees of history stripped nude - By the passage of time which had not subdued Their unnatural hoarding growth which so occludes The precious light of life from those below and generations new. How I struggled to grow thus far I have no clue, Down amidst the shadows that those elder trees threw; Competing with the many here where shafts of light are few - I won’t become a parasite as the majority seem to do, Entwining themselves round the trunks of giants towering into blue - Seemingly taking life from them when the inverse is true - It is always these elder trees which draw life from the new. Would that this human forest observed the cycle nature's knew - The time of death for these old trees is surely overdue. Where is the bolt of lightning in its white electric hue - A spark to start the forest fire as I wish I could do? So I could rise above it all tall and proud anew, From the ashes of establishment which the fires slew. |
Here's a quick lyrical poem for my deathrock band. I had Alien Sex Fiend's batcave sound at theatric wackiness in mind when writing this one. By the way, it makes PLENTY of sense, but not everyone has a third eye, you know.
"Theatrics" since when did razor-blades become puppy dogs? theatrics! since when did being unoriginal become a trend? theatrics! close the door to the basement theatrics! castrate your face if it will make you scene theatrics! chorus I'm so sick of just pretending throngs and facets were made for bending walk the line for once in your life theatrics! paint yourself up for a night on the town of course you must avoid turquoise because I created the fucking rules! sell yourself to slavery theatrics! just to see if you're original theatrics! the pot calls the kettle black theatrics! but for heaven's sake don't look back theatrics! chorus 2 I'm so sick of penetentiary walls pushing me down just so I can fall if you seek freedom don't remove the chains just slip on another straight jacket theatrics! theatrics! x4 |
I found a poem I have completely forgotten about.
It's about slavery before the Civil War. Black Man's Poem Born in the wrong world In the wrong color By the will of Irony we were hurled No answer to our tears, the callers Pain, misery and toll These are the feelings we know We have no wealth, we have to hold We only have mournfulness and woe I haven’t known any bliss I don’t want to forever be just an emcee Can there be more for us than this? Is it possible for us to be free? Can we have other goals? Other expectations? I can’t even guess It seems we only live to serve in their plantations They discard us If we’re not strong or we’re not rough People look upon us in dismay; If someone pities us enough They give us a meal that day, That’s as far as we get for benevolence. Our children begin to think THIS is life In America there’s icy water in abundance And corn and bread are rife But not for us No, never for us |
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This one is a bit old.
Twilight Hysteria, pt. I She slept soundly on a bed of cigarette ashes and regrets that shuddered at the slightest hint of sky, or the sound of a clock or a searching hand And when it rained, her eyes clamped shut, her stitches opened and sweat dripped down like molasses spelling out letters in languid procession--- One by One o'clock: her hands quivered glass shattered below and spread with curious elegance shimmering with shameless pretension vomiting vodka and desperation at her feet, groveling, nipping at her sanity while Nicotine and chanel no. 5 trailed behind like a bitter memory nipping at her heels.. The television screen blared with self-righteous fury, flashing lies in technicolor grandeur: Wide-eyed and acid-tongued plaster-skinned Insanity salesmen, offering quick fixes and fruit mixers for a mere nineteen-ninety-nine brain cells. And the moon cried, It's a fine time for slime As she danced herself out of her skin on a dance floor of spilled wine and linoleum tiles (Tears threatened, but lacked a motive) Mind was no matter, it was shut tight inside the cupboard guarded by daydreams and maggots, while madness ripped her innards to shreds and said, "Lady, check your problems at the door," with an urgent rapping on her skull, and a peculiar echo. "The show must go on," urged the Fish-tailed, Fire-Eating Swamp-Thing. Cue departure: Sanity sauntered off left of stage in a single-file line with Prozac smuggled in their suitcases. |
All good stuff!
I'll post one soon, but keep it going please! |
Here's a rap I wrote a few months ago...called "The Show Must Go On"
Verse 1: I can see it in the mirror, a reflection of a fucked up man with frightened eyes/ who could never realize, paranoid that everyone's planning his demise/ Too cowardly to tell the truth, and must rely on lies until he dies/ Yeah that sums it up, that's a summary of me/ I become hot, and suddenly everybody loves me/ But they have no souls, let alone brains of their own/ I have both, but problem is, they're usually out of control, became dangerous to the point cops patrol/ to some stupid shit I said, must of snapped again/ So many times before, said I'd never rap again/ Point was, I was fucking sick and tired of being used/ Am I still? Somebody help me out, I'm a bit confused/ Sometimes I just feel I've got nothing to lose/ If I blow up, I can drop out of school, too much of a short fuse/ To find myself in that place without making mistakes/ that are fatal and unforgivable, as I watch them take/ everything I have, including sanity, morality/ This shit about to get ugly, you could say I'm even deprived of vanity/ Course I'm already fucked up, my idea of fun/ Is shouting the word "PENIS!" at the top of my lungs, but/ the show must go on, and that's the reason that I made this song/ I'm hip-hop's motherfucking Marquis de Sade, so Chorus: On...(what you muthafuckin' say?)...the show must go on...yeah, On...(what you muthafuckin' say?)...the show must go on...yeah Verse 2: Break it down for the finalists, winners and runners up/ Hold up, runners up? They suck, who gives a fuck/ If you ain't walkin' out with a victory, your dumbass is history/ all that effort in vain, so defeats a disease blistering/ cracking and opening, and you start to bleed/ I'm too smart to follow these herds so I got to lead/ In fact fuck it, evade society as much as I possibly can/ Sometimes, I don't even like to talk to my fans/ for the fear I might fuck up and wind up in deep shit/ But at least I've come to recognize this primary weakness/ That's why I rap to get some fucking shit off my chest/ So if I say some dumb shit in that, it has less of an effect/ One day, I might find myself talkin' some shit/ while hammered as fuck off of a quart of the creme de menthe/ Piss off the wrong guy, and experience a sudden flash/ find out my fucking life's over and that's that/ I'd get to see the bullet that entered my cranium/ But now for the next match in the stadium/ I tell you, it would suck to leave, y'all/ But even the day I do, the show must go on... On...the show must go on...yeah |
-STILLBORN-
Entering in spite of Rowes and Wades No hose and sink, unwanted yet chosen No lessons learned, but spiritually alert I think, I wonder, somewhere it was understood. See, Love is supposed to work Unconditional love, the love of a child How the hell, did we get so old, jaded and so cold It's not designed to be this way I think deep down, we know. This world, our lives, so much to grasp Who played this false, stacked the deck When was it stolen away in the night Leaving a bloodless corpse in its stead. Crowds in life, and in our homes, so many It's hard to find ones self alone, isolated By familiar faces, once warm arms, hands, lips It is by this visage that one becomes abandoned Hearth, heart and home now become the other. I think the old toast, so old now, was prophecy For in it hearth has turned to 'Lofty timbers, the halls around are bare, echoing to our laughter, as though the dead were there'. I believe it was not to be this way Is it? The why's that it is, brings no comfort I never dreamt life could be death To rot without release, an end Clinging, with no promise, no hope. No trust in God anymore And no one cares, that He trusts in us Is He a fool, or does he know how to love His clergy all the other, now His flocks flee the shepards The shepards carry knives. No. History repeats What were the options at the start Was it really an escape, or delay, forestalled I wonder... I think, sometimes Salvation means abortion. To remain is to be Stillborn. (c)~BELOS |
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Twilight Hysteria, pt. II
Drip, drop Midnight slid off the clock.. and slipped in between the lines, between parted lips to rest on ivory headstones etched with implications and regrets, desolate and draped with dust Because one is too uncertain of a number and any further digit is just wishful thinking. Time threatened in its shady corridors, juggling diamonds tempting her with grand promises: she swatted them like flies Absentmindedly as she watered plastic potted plants with love in her ears, waiting For them to grow and fester. Her very own child!--- could you imagine? A clever contraption of broken glass and cracked mirrors. A spitting image of glamour. Drip, drop--- Midnight slipped off the clock and she came fumbling after writhing in the satin abstractions of her mind, draped loosely 'round her conscience where regrets hung in golden-framed, picturesque splendor. Tick, tock Midnight slipped off the clock and the moon came tumbling after it. |
That was good, Veira.
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Thank you =)
Here's one more, for now (I don't want to be a thread whore): The city hissed static lullabies into my ears as the night rolled on its back, legs opened wide--- the same old Routine waiting for the next sunrise to penetrate the skyline, wrapping its tentacles around the clouds with clandestine intentions cold steel penetration hog-tied neon crosses dragged, worshipped, beaten, hung by a noose on the dark corner of the moon. Back on Earth, hanging deep down in the gutter, Crusty eyes peer out from sagging eyelids all lined up against the alleyway--- God's soldiers, the rusty knights of hell riding on ceramic stallions of the mad merry-go-round, creaking and groaning, grimy and glittering. And the man with the face of a clock unzips the sky, and gazes at the moon in a bedazzled stupor checking his watch, checking his pockets eating the spare change, pacing beneath a street light. And the mannequin in the window sheds her boutique clothes, and sells the last threads of dignity, while eating the receipts, watching the man with the white face of a clock hanging dead from a street light. Back in the sewers, nestled inbetween the shit and flowers, the Clock Man and Mannequin Woman lie blissfully together, cigarette in their hands burning steadily into the plastic--- "You may be dead darling," the Mannequin said, "But even Death looks good on you. And after all: we have all the time in the world..." The walls turned from red to blue, holding its breath as the night froze in its tracks, exhaling the last breath like the sigh of calendar. Lightning locked and thunder shattered, twisted, falling off with ultraviolet violence, blindfolded and flying straight toward a dartboard in the sand, mirages swirling in the whirpools of the gutter. And together they joined hands painting dark sentiments with their tongues crawling into eachother, inside and back out the hollow domes of their skulls. Intestines decorated the halls, draping elegantly and lurching forward, peeling shedded skin off dirty mattresses Where The Clock Man and the Mannequin Woman lie for always and forever. |
Again, that was good, Viera. You write very well.
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All the poems I write are very short, and I dunno weird I guess. I'm post one shortly.
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Wow, I didn't expect to see this thread take off so suddenly. I definately look forward to reading more poetry here, especially from you, Belos.
Thankyou, bulletsinmyhead. It was for my grandfather, as it was about him and how he had to stand in the alien line in heathrow when he went to visit England. He was rather passionate about that, and gave his spite to his grandchildren. |
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Thanks Corpsey :)
I'll have to post a "smart-ass" one I put up for some of my In-Laws that just LOVE to look thru my site, just POSITIVE they will find proof that I'm planing to be a serial killer. *I shit you not....my wife's youngest sibling has got a real jones on for trying to prove I'm dangerous. *you would think after 5 years of picking apart everything I ever put up and twisting it..........she'd get worn out :) |
This was a poem I wrote when I was 11. It got published in a poetry book from the International Library of Poetry. My biggest accomplishment yet. :)
She walks the lonely and empty streets. Rain falling about her. She saw what was coming, she saw it all along. She stopped, hearing the familiar shuffle of his walk; she knew he was behind her. The knife pierced her heart from behind. As she fell, she whispered in her last breath "I love you." Left beside her body was a single white rose half covered in her blood. He walks the empty streets. Silenced by her death. The images of his knife, her body, and that rose still replaying like a bad dream in his mind. Her last words are still whispering in his ears. He killed her. He's killed before, although he never really meant to. She watches from above, watches him cry and scream in his sleep. She wonders to herself, could I have saved him? Should I just have left him? Was it really love? I know it was, yet what made me think I could change him? He sleeps and dreams of her. He comes home every day expecting her to be there. Her warmth filling his tired soul. He loved her so much. Yet he killed her. Finding something he took back from her heart, he now pierces his own heart with it. His tears falling into his puddle of blood. When he was found, they found him, and a single white rose half covered in his blood. |
Wow...that's actually really good...
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