Your eyes are like diamonds,
Your face is so nice,
Just give me the word,
And I'll murder my wife.
Your face is so nice,
Just give me the word,
And I'll murder my wife.
National Poetry Month, let's share some!
- Thread starter BlindMessiah94
- Start date
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Well i wrote thise one awhile ago but here goes!
My glass heart shatters
All i hear is the clatter
You said you'd always be with me
whenever i was by you i always felt so free
I wanted you so bad just for you to remain with me
but it was to much to ask and you ended it prematurely
all i hear is this ringing sound
to you my heart was bound
everythign i did was for you
my hopes my dreams what did they bore you?
i loved you so much you were the meaning of my life
but now i'm surrounded with this strife
i hope you burn in hell for what you did to me
but how can i think so selfishly
but then again how could you abandon me!
now this is the end of the life known as me
My glass heart shatters
All i hear is the clatter
You said you'd always be with me
whenever i was by you i always felt so free
I wanted you so bad just for you to remain with me
but it was to much to ask and you ended it prematurely
all i hear is this ringing sound
to you my heart was bound
everythign i did was for you
my hopes my dreams what did they bore you?
i loved you so much you were the meaning of my life
but now i'm surrounded with this strife
i hope you burn in hell for what you did to me
but how can i think so selfishly
but then again how could you abandon me!
now this is the end of the life known as me
Thank you. I'm not prone to flights of narcissism, or even pride, really. It's just difficult for me to find value in my own work. I'm usually the first one to write myself off or put me down, but I am genuinely proud of that Masochist poem. I thought I was being quite clever with it!Uilleand said:
I haven't written any poems in ages, so here's a snip from my all-time favorite one from Silent Hill 2:
Dead men, dead men
swinging in a tree
How many dead men
do you see?
Tongue turned blue and
face gone grey
Watch them as they
twist and sway.
The first one killed
the butcher man
Then cooked him in
the frying pan
Served him to his hungry guests
And gave them seconds on request.
Dead men, dead men
swinging in a tree
How many dead men
do you see?
Tongue turned blue and
face gone grey
Watch them as they
twist and sway.
The first one killed
the butcher man
Then cooked him in
the frying pan
Served him to his hungry guests
And gave them seconds on request.
If - Rudyard Kipling
If you can keep your head when all about you
Are losing theirs and blaming it on you;
If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you,
But make allowance for their doubting too;
If you can wait and not be tired by waiting,
Or, being lied about, don't deal in lies,
Or, being hated, don't give way to hating,
And yet don't look too good, nor talk too wise;
If you can dream - and not make dreams your master;
If you can think - and not make thoughts your aim;
If you can meet with triumph and disaster
And treat those two imposters just the same;
If you can bear to hear the truth you've spoken
Twisted by knaves to make a trap for fools,
Or watch the things you gave your life to broken,
And stoop and build 'em up with wornout tools;
If you can make one heap of all your winnings
And risk it on one turn of pitch-and-toss,
And lose, and start again at your beginnings
And never breath a word about your loss;
If you can force your heart and nerve and sinew
To serve your turn long after they are gone,
And so hold on when there is nothing in you
Except the Will which says to them: "Hold on";
If you can talk with crowds and keep your virtue,
Or walk with kings - nor lose the common touch;
If neither foes nor loving friends can hurt you;
If all men count with you, but none too much;
If you can fill the unforgiving minute
With sixty seconds' worth of distance run -
Yours is the Earth and everything that's in it,
And - which is more - you'll be a Man my son.
If you can keep your head when all about you
Are losing theirs and blaming it on you;
If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you,
But make allowance for their doubting too;
If you can wait and not be tired by waiting,
Or, being lied about, don't deal in lies,
Or, being hated, don't give way to hating,
And yet don't look too good, nor talk too wise;
If you can dream - and not make dreams your master;
If you can think - and not make thoughts your aim;
If you can meet with triumph and disaster
And treat those two imposters just the same;
If you can bear to hear the truth you've spoken
Twisted by knaves to make a trap for fools,
Or watch the things you gave your life to broken,
And stoop and build 'em up with wornout tools;
If you can make one heap of all your winnings
And risk it on one turn of pitch-and-toss,
And lose, and start again at your beginnings
And never breath a word about your loss;
If you can force your heart and nerve and sinew
To serve your turn long after they are gone,
And so hold on when there is nothing in you
Except the Will which says to them: "Hold on";
If you can talk with crowds and keep your virtue,
Or walk with kings - nor lose the common touch;
If neither foes nor loving friends can hurt you;
If all men count with you, but none too much;
If you can fill the unforgiving minute
With sixty seconds' worth of distance run -
Yours is the Earth and everything that's in it,
And - which is more - you'll be a Man my son.
"Hey, old friend,
What do you say, old friend?
Make it okay, old friend,
Give an old friendship a break.
Why so grim?
We're going on forever.
You, me, him-
Too many lives are at stake..."
-Stephen Sondheim,"Old Friends"
"He said the dead had souls, but when I asked him
How that could be-I thought the dead were souls,
He broke my trance. Don't that make you suspicious
That there's something the dead are keeing back?
Yes, there's something the dead are keeeping back."
-Robert Frost, "Two Witches"
Couldn't think of any offhand, so here are two of my favorites from Neil Gaiman's American Gods.
What do you say, old friend?
Make it okay, old friend,
Give an old friendship a break.
Why so grim?
We're going on forever.
You, me, him-
Too many lives are at stake..."
-Stephen Sondheim,"Old Friends"
"He said the dead had souls, but when I asked him
How that could be-I thought the dead were souls,
He broke my trance. Don't that make you suspicious
That there's something the dead are keeing back?
Yes, there's something the dead are keeeping back."
-Robert Frost, "Two Witches"
Couldn't think of any offhand, so here are two of my favorites from Neil Gaiman's American Gods.
This is my disagreement poem, I wrote it myself and use it every once in awhile in forum threads when logical discussion just doesn't cut it.
Friend we do not see eye to eye
Unless we agree to disagree,
Ceaseless enemies will we forever be.
Knowing this I say to you,
You have these choices two.
Opinions held by you are either wrong,
Unless I was trolling you all along.
Friend we do not see eye to eye
Unless we agree to disagree,
Ceaseless enemies will we forever be.
Knowing this I say to you,
You have these choices two.
Opinions held by you are either wrong,
Unless I was trolling you all along.
Let me tell of a time where life was good
Where bad was good and good was creation
Where battles ended and never started
Where grandma made cookies just for me
But that time has come and gone
Now times have changed and life is bitter
Where good is bad and bad is evil
Where battles start and never seem to end
Where grandma?s cookies are sugarless
Where is my peace?
Where is my cookies?
Where is my life?
These are my memories?
This is my reality
Let me ask you do you feel happy?
Do you feel like a winner?
Or do you feel down?
Do you feel the power of your memories?
Do you taste grandma?s cookies?
Or do you choke on its leftovers?
Now tell me this, can you answer my questions?
I wrote this one.
Where bad was good and good was creation
Where battles ended and never started
Where grandma made cookies just for me
But that time has come and gone
Now times have changed and life is bitter
Where good is bad and bad is evil
Where battles start and never seem to end
Where grandma?s cookies are sugarless
Where is my peace?
Where is my cookies?
Where is my life?
These are my memories?
This is my reality
Let me ask you do you feel happy?
Do you feel like a winner?
Or do you feel down?
Do you feel the power of your memories?
Do you taste grandma?s cookies?
Or do you choke on its leftovers?
Now tell me this, can you answer my questions?
I wrote this one.
Clever and honest ... which is a difficult pairing...J. Reed said:
Oh, believe me, I know how that works. I can't even *look* at something I wrote without loathing for years, at least. If I go back to a piece (prose OR poetry) after a couple years, I can sort of forget that it was ME who wrote it and find bits of it that feel like they could be salvageable.
Of course, anything I am actually proud of is generally met by choruses of WTF? or cricket chirps from readers....LOL....
An Ode to a Hedgehog
Let me tell you of my life
So many many years back
When the world to me
Was just a big running track
My adventures were quite great
Though might screw with the mind
I had to rescue furries from a fat man
Who build creatues of the robotic kind
And the people they loved me
They gave all their heart
I got movies and cartoons
And somewhat creepy fan-art
But eventually I slowed
With all this new technology
They put me in Sandboxes
Exposed me to the dimension number three
And now when I appear
There's no longer the fans roar
Just jokes and jeering
They don't love me anymore
Let me tell you of my life
So many many years back
When the world to me
Was just a big running track
My adventures were quite great
Though might screw with the mind
I had to rescue furries from a fat man
Who build creatues of the robotic kind
And the people they loved me
They gave all their heart
I got movies and cartoons
And somewhat creepy fan-art
But eventually I slowed
With all this new technology
They put me in Sandboxes
Exposed me to the dimension number three
And now when I appear
There's no longer the fans roar
Just jokes and jeering
They don't love me anymore
Ode to Melancholy, by John Keats. (it's also that poem that Yahtzee read from for his April Fools video).
NO, no! go not to Lethe, neither twist
Wolf's-bane, tight-rooted, for its poisonous wine;
Nor suffer thy pale forehead to be kist
By nightshade, ruby grape of Proserpine;
Make not your rosary of yew-berries,
Nor let the beetle, nor the death-moth be
Your mournful Psyche, nor the downy owl
A partner in your sorrow's mysteries;
For shade to shade will come too drowsily,
And drown the wakeful anguish of the soul.
But when the melancholy fit shall fall
Sudden from heaven like a weeping cloud,
That fosters the droop-headed flowers all,
And hides the green hill in an April shroud;
Then glut thy sorrow on a morning rose,
Or on the rainbow of the salt sand-wave,
Or on the wealth of globèd peonies;
Or if thy mistress some rich anger shows,
Emprison her soft hand, and let her rave,
And feed deep, deep upon her peerless eyes.
She dwells with Beauty?Beauty that must die;
And Joy, whose hand is ever at his lips
Bidding adieu; and aching Pleasure nigh,
Turning to poison while the bee-mouth sips:
Ay, in the very temple of Delight 25
Veil'd Melancholy has her sovran shrine,
Though seen of none save him whose strenuous tongue
Can burst Joy's grape against his palate fine;
His soul shall taste the sadness of her might,
And be among her cloudy trophies hung.
NO, no! go not to Lethe, neither twist
Wolf's-bane, tight-rooted, for its poisonous wine;
Nor suffer thy pale forehead to be kist
By nightshade, ruby grape of Proserpine;
Make not your rosary of yew-berries,
Nor let the beetle, nor the death-moth be
Your mournful Psyche, nor the downy owl
A partner in your sorrow's mysteries;
For shade to shade will come too drowsily,
And drown the wakeful anguish of the soul.
But when the melancholy fit shall fall
Sudden from heaven like a weeping cloud,
That fosters the droop-headed flowers all,
And hides the green hill in an April shroud;
Then glut thy sorrow on a morning rose,
Or on the rainbow of the salt sand-wave,
Or on the wealth of globèd peonies;
Or if thy mistress some rich anger shows,
Emprison her soft hand, and let her rave,
And feed deep, deep upon her peerless eyes.
She dwells with Beauty?Beauty that must die;
And Joy, whose hand is ever at his lips
Bidding adieu; and aching Pleasure nigh,
Turning to poison while the bee-mouth sips:
Ay, in the very temple of Delight 25
Veil'd Melancholy has her sovran shrine,
Though seen of none save him whose strenuous tongue
Can burst Joy's grape against his palate fine;
His soul shall taste the sadness of her might,
And be among her cloudy trophies hung.
Here is one I wrote at college (while studying engineering, not poetry)...
Why dogs are not musically inclined.
I had a guitar,
And went to the bar,
I didn't get far,
Because a dog bit my cobblers.
Why dogs are not musically inclined.
I had a guitar,
And went to the bar,
I didn't get far,
Because a dog bit my cobblers.
This was a little poem I did a while back. Yes, it is based on a TRUE story:
Super Spectacular Spelling Bee
Follow me, so you can come and see a marvelously literate adventure.
A path that few have ever tread, and those that have, wound up dead.
Indeed, it's quite an epic quest, now follow me, friend, no time for rest.
The story starts in a galaxy far, far away in a state called Pennsylvania.
North Wales is the town in which the hero resided in-what rhymes with Pennsylvania?
This boy named David was a wee lad, only in 6th grade.
But, he was a mammoth monster speller and could make some killin' lemonade.
Yes, David was a child prodigy, if I don't say so myself.
He had stacks of fine literature lining his bookshelf.
One day, at David's incredibly moldy, they announced that there was going to be a spelling bee! Now aint that cool?
With the Spelling Bee on its way, David nonchalantly relaxed, ready to play.
The fated day had finally arrived, the Spelling Bee started;one by on they dropped like flies.
They bit the dust, and kicked the can, but awesome little David would still stand.
Finally, it was David against his last opponent, this was it.
No time to step down, no time to quit.
The two dueled like swordsmen for a few minutes.
David gained some courage, now it was time to win it.
The kid had to spell "Marbled", a particularly easy word.
He spelled the word wrong, who would have thought?
Now, David gave the word a shot.
M-A-R-B-L-E-D. Dang, David is hot!
And with that last word, David was crowned a champion.
This isn't a little thing, David is now KING!
Ah, but the battle was far from over!
David moved on to the regional finals.
He was given a book full of useless words to study.
Next thing he knew, he was on a giant, chilly stage, spelling to the audience.
If only he knew of the forthcoming silly mistake. He was given the word "Foliage" , easy enough, am I right?
F-O-I-....can I start over?
The nasty judge spoke through his nasally voice "You can only spell where you left off from."
David, puzzled and flabbergasted let out a confused "Hummmm...."
F-O-L-I-A-G-E. "That is incorrect" stated the judge robotically, as David felt crushed and not as bright.
No, I cannot be wrong, I can't give up the fight!
True, David lost that day, on the easiest word in the competition.
But he went to Burger King later, as a consolation.
I hope you enjoyed this tale of happiness and woe.
This also serves as a warning so you may not fail, also.
THE END
This isn't an auto-biography or anything....
Super Spectacular Spelling Bee
Follow me, so you can come and see a marvelously literate adventure.
A path that few have ever tread, and those that have, wound up dead.
Indeed, it's quite an epic quest, now follow me, friend, no time for rest.
The story starts in a galaxy far, far away in a state called Pennsylvania.
North Wales is the town in which the hero resided in-what rhymes with Pennsylvania?
This boy named David was a wee lad, only in 6th grade.
But, he was a mammoth monster speller and could make some killin' lemonade.
Yes, David was a child prodigy, if I don't say so myself.
He had stacks of fine literature lining his bookshelf.
One day, at David's incredibly moldy, they announced that there was going to be a spelling bee! Now aint that cool?
With the Spelling Bee on its way, David nonchalantly relaxed, ready to play.
The fated day had finally arrived, the Spelling Bee started;one by on they dropped like flies.
They bit the dust, and kicked the can, but awesome little David would still stand.
Finally, it was David against his last opponent, this was it.
No time to step down, no time to quit.
The two dueled like swordsmen for a few minutes.
David gained some courage, now it was time to win it.
The kid had to spell "Marbled", a particularly easy word.
He spelled the word wrong, who would have thought?
Now, David gave the word a shot.
M-A-R-B-L-E-D. Dang, David is hot!
And with that last word, David was crowned a champion.
This isn't a little thing, David is now KING!
Ah, but the battle was far from over!
David moved on to the regional finals.
He was given a book full of useless words to study.
Next thing he knew, he was on a giant, chilly stage, spelling to the audience.
If only he knew of the forthcoming silly mistake. He was given the word "Foliage" , easy enough, am I right?
F-O-I-....can I start over?
The nasty judge spoke through his nasally voice "You can only spell where you left off from."
David, puzzled and flabbergasted let out a confused "Hummmm...."
F-O-L-I-A-G-E. "That is incorrect" stated the judge robotically, as David felt crushed and not as bright.
No, I cannot be wrong, I can't give up the fight!
True, David lost that day, on the easiest word in the competition.
But he went to Burger King later, as a consolation.
I hope you enjoyed this tale of happiness and woe.
This also serves as a warning so you may not fail, also.
THE END
This isn't an auto-biography or anything....
I think what comes off as poetic to most people just comes across as pretentious when I look at something I've written, though I'm not a poet by any means.Uilleand said:
If we can have song lyrics then I am rather partial to Sequoia Throne by the ol' PTH.
Stuffing corpses full of shit and faith
They bloviate about a future beyond the moon
To bring about another planets doom
To discover peaceful life
And beat a war-drum to it's tune
Unless my prayers are answered
And our end is coming soon.
Dare not to sleep!
by Arnulf Øverland, 1937
I was awakened one morning, by the quaintest of dreams
?twas like a voice, spoken to me
It sounded afar - like an underground stream,
I rose and said: Why do you call me?
Dare not to slumber! Dare not to sleep!
Dare not believe, it was merely a dream!
Yore I was judged.
The gallows were built in the court this evening,
They?ll come for me ? 5? in the morning
This dungeon is teeming,
And barracks stand dungeon by dungeon
we lie here, awaiting, in cold cells of stone,
We lie here, we rot, in these murky holes.
We know not ourselves, what does lie ahead
Who will be the next one they'll reach for.
We moan and we shriek: But do you take heed?
Is there none among you who?ll hearken?
No one can see us,
None know what befalls us.
Yet more:
None will believe - what the day will bring us!
And then You defy: This dare not be true!
That men can be utterly evil.
There has to be some one with merits pure
Oh, brother, you still have a great deal to learn
They said: You will give your life, if commanded
We?ve given it now, for naught it was handed
The world has forgotten, we?ve all been deceived
Dare not to sleep in this hour - this eve.
You oughtn?t go to your business hence,
Or think: What?s your loss ? or what is your gain?
You oughtn?t attribute your fields and your kine,
Nor say you?ve enough - with all that is thine.
You oughn?t abide, sitting calm in your home
Saying: Dismal it is, poor they are, and alone
You cannot permit it! You dare not, at all.
Accepting that outrage on all else may fall!
I cry with the final gasps of my breath:
You dare not repose, nor stand and forget
Pardon them not - they know what they do!
They breathe on hate-glows, and evil pursue,
They fancy to slay, they revel with cries,
Their desire is to gloat, when our world is at fire!
In blood they are yearning to drown one and all!
Don?t you believe it? You?ve heard the call!
You know how infants will soldiers remain,
While dashing through streets, fields, chanting ?bout pain
Aroused by their mothers? assurance of glory
They?ll shelter their land - and they?ll never worry
You know the fatality of the lies,
that glory and faith and honor abides
You discern the dauntless dreams of a child,
A saber, a banner, he?ll flaunt them so wild,
And then they?ll leave home for a rainfall of steel,
?Till last they hang ragged on barbed wire will,
Decaying for Hitler's Aryan call,
That is what a man?s for - after all?
I couldn?t imagine ? too late now it is
My sentence is just: The verdict's no miss
I believed in prosperity, dreamt about peace
In labor and fellowship; love?s fragrant kiss
Yet those who don?t die on the battlefield,
Their heads for the axeman, will certainly yield
I cry in the gloom - if only you?d knew
There is but one thing - befitting to do
Defend yourself, while your hands are still yearning,
Protect your offspring - Europe is burning.
***
I shook from the chill. To dress, up I rose
Without stars were shining, so far, yet so close
?twere simply a brilliant ray in the east,
Admonishing warning from the dream that just ceased
The day that soared up from earths furthermost strand
Augmenting with blood ? and with firebrand
It grew with terror - like a breath that was lost
It seemed like the starlight - was slain by the frost.
I weighed: Something is imminent - and it?s dire
Our era is over ? Europe?s on fire!
by Arnulf Øverland, 1937
I was awakened one morning, by the quaintest of dreams
?twas like a voice, spoken to me
It sounded afar - like an underground stream,
I rose and said: Why do you call me?
Dare not to slumber! Dare not to sleep!
Dare not believe, it was merely a dream!
Yore I was judged.
The gallows were built in the court this evening,
They?ll come for me ? 5? in the morning
This dungeon is teeming,
And barracks stand dungeon by dungeon
we lie here, awaiting, in cold cells of stone,
We lie here, we rot, in these murky holes.
We know not ourselves, what does lie ahead
Who will be the next one they'll reach for.
We moan and we shriek: But do you take heed?
Is there none among you who?ll hearken?
No one can see us,
None know what befalls us.
Yet more:
None will believe - what the day will bring us!
And then You defy: This dare not be true!
That men can be utterly evil.
There has to be some one with merits pure
Oh, brother, you still have a great deal to learn
They said: You will give your life, if commanded
We?ve given it now, for naught it was handed
The world has forgotten, we?ve all been deceived
Dare not to sleep in this hour - this eve.
You oughtn?t go to your business hence,
Or think: What?s your loss ? or what is your gain?
You oughtn?t attribute your fields and your kine,
Nor say you?ve enough - with all that is thine.
You oughn?t abide, sitting calm in your home
Saying: Dismal it is, poor they are, and alone
You cannot permit it! You dare not, at all.
Accepting that outrage on all else may fall!
I cry with the final gasps of my breath:
You dare not repose, nor stand and forget
Pardon them not - they know what they do!
They breathe on hate-glows, and evil pursue,
They fancy to slay, they revel with cries,
Their desire is to gloat, when our world is at fire!
In blood they are yearning to drown one and all!
Don?t you believe it? You?ve heard the call!
You know how infants will soldiers remain,
While dashing through streets, fields, chanting ?bout pain
Aroused by their mothers? assurance of glory
They?ll shelter their land - and they?ll never worry
You know the fatality of the lies,
that glory and faith and honor abides
You discern the dauntless dreams of a child,
A saber, a banner, he?ll flaunt them so wild,
And then they?ll leave home for a rainfall of steel,
?Till last they hang ragged on barbed wire will,
Decaying for Hitler's Aryan call,
That is what a man?s for - after all?
I couldn?t imagine ? too late now it is
My sentence is just: The verdict's no miss
I believed in prosperity, dreamt about peace
In labor and fellowship; love?s fragrant kiss
Yet those who don?t die on the battlefield,
Their heads for the axeman, will certainly yield
I cry in the gloom - if only you?d knew
There is but one thing - befitting to do
Defend yourself, while your hands are still yearning,
Protect your offspring - Europe is burning.
***
I shook from the chill. To dress, up I rose
Without stars were shining, so far, yet so close
?twere simply a brilliant ray in the east,
Admonishing warning from the dream that just ceased
The day that soared up from earths furthermost strand
Augmenting with blood ? and with firebrand
It grew with terror - like a breath that was lost
It seemed like the starlight - was slain by the frost.
I weighed: Something is imminent - and it?s dire
Our era is over ? Europe?s on fire!
It's a tad long, but it's a great poem nonetheless, I doubt most of you have read it.
Roses are red,
Violets are blue.
Some poems rhyme,
This one doesn't.
A better one:
Violets are blue.
Some poems rhyme,
This one doesn't.
A better one:
This is A Boy and a Girl by Octavio Paz. Eric Whitacre has also written music to it. Beautiful.
Stretched out on the grass,
a boy and a girl.
Savoring their oranges,
giving their kisses like waves exchanging foam.
Stretched out on the beach,
a boy and a girl.
Savoring their limes,
giving their kisses like clouds exchanging foam.
Stretched out underground,
a boy and a girl.
Saying nothing, never kissing,
giving silence for silence.
Stretched out on the grass,
a boy and a girl.
Savoring their oranges,
giving their kisses like waves exchanging foam.
Stretched out on the beach,
a boy and a girl.
Savoring their limes,
giving their kisses like clouds exchanging foam.
Stretched out underground,
a boy and a girl.
Saying nothing, never kissing,
giving silence for silence.