/lit/ - Literature

>>3584450
Alright. Here is a piece I am working on about the frustration of becoming a post-doc. It should be in iambic pentameter...

As periods of life do come to close
So many melancholy moments mope
A jarring disconnect between the throes
Of change and quick success for which we hoped
The optimistic shift we’re told “expect!”
Voilà, the vacant voice is viewed verbose;
Idealist thoughts distort to lose effect
Which lends itself to thinking quite morose.
Like dog’s rejoicing wag for cars to ride,
They’ll bark and jump for trips they’ll soon regret
When on the way they find their master’s lied;
And catch themselves alarmed to see the vet.
This balderdash of change is not so grand
When nothing ever goes the way it’s planned.

>>3584776
Find your soul and come back to me

>>3584779
Is this feedback, or simply reaffirming the despair that is grad school?

>>3584781
Feedback.

Lines:
1. "do come" is padding
2-3. "mope a jarring disconnect" is not grammar
4. "between the throes of change and quick success-" you can't just write things, they need to mean something.
5. " ' expect ' ! " This is just awkward.
6. This alliteration is just showing off how white you are. Also, semicolons in iambic pentameter; I think it's a bad idea.
7. Idealist thoughts distort - blah blah, needless line
8. needless line
9-12. This extended is the worst thing about this poem
13. Balderdash isn't grand, so you can't say that it is
14. meh

You aren't writing like you mean it. You have to write like the truth will kill you if it stays in. That's the only way to write.

>>3584788
Thank you! I appreciate it.

>>3584788
I kind of liked his cutesy dog going to the vet metaphor. It would feel a bit too angsty for me without it, although it did feel pretty out of place and tone with the rest. Why specifically didn't you like it?

Soujourn by Anon


My Shadow and I, we move
From one winter night
To day
From the sun's nurturing caresses
To INTIMIDATION
From winter's
Slashing sway
Falling,
We Twirl
like autumn leaves, bereft of grace
Tumbling ... Extinguishing
Head over heels,
Heels
over head.
Leaving behind us
Smoke -from ashen pasts-
that wafts and clings
To rolled up shirt sleeves
Until the only remnant, is
a memory left eroding.

>>3584803
I thought it average. Find better adverbs/adjectives.

Over the backyard fence,
where wonder waited
to turn trees to warriors.
But as I grew taller
the fence seemed smaller,
and no longer
could wonder suffice.

"Sexy Spine"

Beat ... beat ...

The heart beats

Alone.

Alone again...

The sexy spine curves upward

Wishing to command the brain

The brain is alone

Locked up in a psych ward

It waits for pills

The sexy spine waits for no one...

The penis engorges with blood.

Pointing the way...

To ecstasy...

Can't it wait...

No...

It comes first...

And later...

Tomorrow...

Is my friend.

My sexy friend.

My spine curves

Knowing it is the future...

My friend.

It is not the brain.

The untapped organ, my friend

Is that sexy spine of yours

Let it curve again...

in outmost
songstricken eyes curvaceous
words is autumnal sunlight and
your choral laugh
whose effervescence
echoes
nubile
in and out of weeks and wrapping around cobwebs in my clockwork heart and
O my spider my
cogs
turn
even
as your glorious venom thunders
through my veins i love you not for the grace of your beautiful polio spindle legs nor the pre-raphaelism of your face but the bayeux words you sew of faeries and virginal adoration O my saccharine spider your eyes and teeth invade my dreams the night tears up her dress in blind joy of your name sometimes i wake in dawn and morning chorus and you your face your body you spider are before me

>>3584940
but then nothing but the fluttering of curtains that maybe hold your shape or could it be the wind? and when all done and burnt whatever is remaining but some threads a few used books and the eternal rocks beneath on whose shrapnel faces are emotions of bygone times? O my spider each injection brings my soul alive every agonising toxic drop makes days seem centuries makes fuchsias rocket like tarantella dancers and reminds old men and girls of how to love-

and such light which spins dropping faery dust and presents illuminates you best ii think but what does that matter to you spider with wrapping and silks and apologies with elegiac relish
your spider body may not be what ii love best but O it is glorious and ii would discard manderly and the heights and the grange and all for one black moment with you spider for even a smile a twinge of lips
whose tongue spells greetings and foulnesses for even a second-long gaze would ii abandon all my spider all.

>>3584942
Ii remember when our shoulders touched and O few days were brighter, few breaths sucked faster few smiles more relieved my spider even if it was cold it was a good day but was ruined by mislaid things and my excitement made you say all these things we did come to no end set fire to the library and slaughter the librarians O my spider ii love you more so consecrate oncemore these days these Chronos breaths whose roots are shaved by a stone sickle to lifetimes that i couldn’t enjoy without your jackets and sense of humour the on and off laughter like a quaking brook spider i remember when we first met and i was late and we talked about a dead girl and salutations and i went home

in my bedroom i lay on the floor and thought of your eyes spider your eyes and i was happy

I look back and see nothing worth of remembrance
I look forward and see nothing of importance
I am sitting on the fence hoping for a sentence
Asking to myself the reason for this existance

>>3584960
This scans disturbingly like rap. But...try this:
>Asking myself for the reason of existance.

disney

I told her I didn't love her.
how could I? she was imperfect.
she didn't understand my musings
or hinge on my every word.
she'd often say, could you explain?
I'd say, how could I? you're no good.

sometimes her voice
would awaken my soul
only to turn to her,
ambushed
by blemishes.
I really couldn't get past
that cellulite haunted ass of hers.
it'd sour my stomach.

other times we'd be
sitting on the couch
and I'd look at her smile
and fall in love all over again,
then she’d climb on top of me
and I'd see her tits sagging over me
and stretch marks riding down her body.
now why the fuck would she do that for?

I put my hands on her once,
I remember she deserved it
for being so imperfect,
for being so god-awful
with showing me
how imperfect she was.
she'd come home from work
and I'd give her
that same solemn glare,
cursing my rotten life
with a rotten woman.
it made me sick.
I left her and never turned back.
why waste my life on someone
so imperfect,
I said.

after several months
of sterilizations,
I had a dream about her last night.
she was singing.

I cried in the morning when I woke up.

>>3585127

>shit, sorry.

that should be

sometimes her voice
would soothe my soul
only to turn to her,

>>3584964
Thanks anon

>>3584450
whyyyy notttt

//

fine fantasies

I

an ingenue flails, dismissing reason
with a quick sketch that shows what might have been
when may have been was but a breath away...
in a bird's morning song of stillness held back

II

le soleil se lève/ draws charming
slowly the painter from slumber
anìsthetic. La fée overtly
flutters her vertumnal film
across a moist-eyed glare into a mirrored gaze
behind greenglass bottle/ the sky looms pink and parenthetical—
as well his longing, a spoonful
desired and half fulfilled:
angry at everything for being
not nothing, his wine-dark whirlpools
are drained of sight. And widened lips hint,
to an eglantine dream at whose expense?

III

knee deep in the shallow end
she cuts his reed and out comes a flute;
they make ugly music

IV

He frowns a little at the hopelessness
in a waxing moon smile that comes
from crossed legs, when tight jeans cleft
the ass's palate.
Mona Lisa lips intimate. Lo, a nubile
story asks a theme of his eyes.
A perplexed malevolence stares
back: by the burden of words he's broken.

I'll bite.


Hermione

I remember, sixteen years had passed –
Each winter at the fountains spent.
Our children lost, the guilt at last
Sufficient for our punishment when
The first few bricks began to roll
Down Church Street that spring day,
And beams of steel from Jersey stole
Like fleeing ships that knew the way.
From records, monuments, coffins and trash,
From junkyards and museums in every state
Came mountains of concrete, paper and ash,
Billowing backwards to climb into place.
And in the sun’s glow, the smoke now dispersed,
Two towers stood, the wreckage reversed.
It sort of requires a familiarity with Shakespeare's The Winter's Tale.

we already have 3-4 threads like this, check before starting up a thread

The Straggler


The sun is an apple.
on the gray branch of morning
And I am out walking
to school in the dawn

The streets are all empty
and tenantless swingsets
cast shadows forlornly
on unmown back lawns.

The moon is a canteloupe
sliced very thinly
as grandmother used to
when i was just five

And I walk very fast
in my lemon-checked jacket
past the homes where my friends lived
when they were alive

I walk fast by the houses
where i once met my schoolmates
and the parents blank greetings
and frail, haunted looks

I pass by the graveyard
where the smell of fresh digging
makes me think of the farmers
in our picture books

There are names on those white stones
high up near the hilltop
that I don't like to think of
in connection with tombs

There are some that last autumn
with careful side glances
were scratched into desktops
in my old home room.

So few of us come here.
we sit three seats apart now
to leave room for the ghost girls
as we bend to our tasks

and we never shake hands
and sneeze into our elbows
and we try not to cough
and the teachers wear masks

and I don't stay up late now,
I drink lots of water
i eat very healthy
and try to get rest

but late in the mornings
I hear somthing rustling
like dead leaves on dry carpet
down deep in my chest

Please try to remember
you few who will read this
not poor shrivelled dollthings
rolled up in our shrouds

That there was a time
we were all girls together
and the sun was an apple
in the leaves of the clouds

>>3584891
10/10

Sunhawk was a tripfag from /lit/
who was completely devoid of all wit
He still lived at home
and was forever alone
yet arrived every day to post shit.

I posted two of mine in another, less active poetry thread:

"The Vampire"

Oh, circle and fly, pale vampire
Your eyes are bloodshot, green and hollow,
Today we drink at an insane feast
Our victims we'll hide in satanic holes.

Last night, somebody wounded my arm,
Last night, somebody cursed me in fear,
Stars, lights and roads in the midnight quiet
I kissed her hair in the in the dusty streets.

Oh, fly, fly, my dear pale vampire,
I give you my heart tonight, the tragedy of goodness,
We'll fly embraced at an insane feast
From extremes of horror into extremes of beauty.

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------

"Comfort"

Why should I whine, when I look forward to pain,
Like a wave against rock, beaten by the wind,
Or like a stream amidst hot sands,
Eagerly longing for the canyon's bottom.

The blacker the pain, the sweeter tis to my soul,
Like a flower in summer, watered by the rain:
To make it young again, dried up by the heat;
Perhaps later it will again grow green.

The anxiety's in vain. The world is being torn apart,
Bit by bit, like a spider's web,
No force is strong enough, to heal the wounds,
Or to stop time whenever it wants.

Eternal struggle everywhere. And all that exists
Without the soul, chasing each other passionately, -
Even heroes bow their heads down,
Not knowing the way, not a crumb of hope.

Why should I whine, when I look forward to pain,
Like a wave and a rock, beaten by the wind,
Or like a stream amidst hot sands,
Eagerly longing for the canyon's bottom.

>>3584891
Second 10/10.

>>3584891
very nice, but are you sure "suffice" is the right word?

>>3585275
>>3585336
>>3585342
I appreciate the kind comments, thank you. And as far as suffice goes, I'm never sure of anything. Any suggestions?

>>3586311

I feel like 'suffice' finishes the poem on an antiseptic note. If that's what you intended, I think it's fine as it is but otherwise, I would use language with a hint of longing or growth depending on your vision.

>I'm never sure of anything either.

>This is a response poem to Robert Frosts' Fire and Ice.

I never thought I would die in ice
With my faith in fire
Now that I have learned the price
I have found I favored ice
And though you may brand me a liar
I feel as though I must state
I find in death little fire
At any rate
That I admire

>>3584450
Forms dance quietly on my wall
A dance strange dark blue silk
But this is how our shadows fall
Are they real or just an illusion

We walked fell and stumbled
As I left the house that night
But it was they that mumbled
Free at last from our inky bonds

That was the night I found them
They knew me and I knew everyone
And friends were never again a problem
The night the shadow came to life.

>>3585254
This is very good, I like the imagery you use.

>>3584450
>
There’s an array of
light up from the
water’s surface.
Alejandro, I say,
tearing, at
nothing in
particular, turning
shoulders meanwhile
away, your shampoo
mouth moving
like the ocean foam.

>>3585254
That was amazing.

The moon being a canteloupe struck me as lacking compared to the brilliant sun as an apple image. I also really liked the leaves rustling in the chest image. Very pleasant to read.

Dreaming the end of the world
I saw a tall wall and a deep alley

Rise, fly into a water sky
Where tall pine trees grow upside down towards the ground

Enter the water into the structure of iridescent machinery, cogs and bridges

I saw only that half of it

...and they told me that you were to die within the week
I took your hand in mine and held you ever so close
Setting a bed for you to lay with your weary head
Your muscles are trying, your heart is sighing and you body is weak
I read your beloved poems and adored with you your favourite prose
But before the day's end, in mine arms you were dead.

I'm a grown man
Am a manchild in terms of my style of living

But there are children in me
Banging on some door
Stealing cars and driving them
Leaving backpacks in public showers

Children with no parents
Living dangerously

Kind of a Peter Pan crew

A poetry with the most beautiful words in the world is still shit if it has no rhythm, just like how a book with the most beautiful lines and characters is shit without a plot.

sticky fingers, sticky palms,
meager cash for meager alms.
click and clack and one sent back,
oh well, try again.

this one from a suited man,
this one from the garbage can,
this one from the alleyway,
had to stop there any way.

a day of life each twenty pieces.
miss a day and it all ceases.
sticky fingers, sticky palms
just enough from meager alms.

Fluffy cat with sweet orange fur,
Watch it pounce, watch it purr,
leave me happiness in a champagne bottle,
To drink when I see my sweet cat.

She was a runt, a babe, a gem in a litter,
Required no time, no love, no sitter,
Yet at 10 years to the day I found her so quiet,
sitting and staring but not really seeing,
And I brought her to a man who said he could heal,
Yet he could not heal what he could not heal,
and told that death claimed my sweet cat that sorrowful night.

Now she is the earth, the sky, the sea,
Where she can play and move so lovely,
To pounce on her prey made of sticky white clouds,
And lay in a bed made of thorn-less rose bushes.

Death walks like a kitten,
around on your bed
and curls up its paws,
where you lay down your head

Death sleeps in the window
and out on the stairs
and out in the study
in grandfather's chair

death follows your sister
when she climbs in the trees
and pricks up an ear,
at the baby's small sneeze

atop the old guncase,
it rustles the lock
and follows the swing
of the pendulum clock.

Death hides in the bathroom,
up on the high shelf
beisde the white clotheslines
all by itself

Death walks in the kitchen
and makes the knives clink
and rattles the big bottles
under the sink.

Yes, death's like a kitten,
swift, silent and black
it may leave for awhile
but it always comes back.

>>3588390
The NiNth Life

he is careful of dogs now:
he makes shorter leaps
and he stays on the inside,
when frost starts to creep

round the borders of windows.
he still walks the ledges
but nowadays two or three steps
from the edges.


The mice whom his forays
would terrify nightly
he just looks on and nods
as they pass him,
politely

When he dreams of the kitten
of eight lives before
he shudders, and takes
a slow stroll to the door

And I rise and assist him
out into the sun
and he shuffles along
where he once used to run

And I take shorter steps
and I take smaller breaths
and I want to inquire
about his other deaths

But he'd just raise an eyebrow
and look up to heaven
and say "I wouldn't worry
till you get past seven."

A Winter Journey

an icicle breaks
driving silence from the night
none stirs save myself

beneath a white veil
the flowerheads all slumber;
a cloak hem wakes them


fog obscures the road
as one's white misted breathing
occults a mapline


ahead the whiteness
is hiding my destiny,
and behind, my deeds.

thrusting through the mud
a pale green shoot of wild rice
promises the spring.

the small grey night-owl
calls from the trail behind me
among the dark pines

You know we gon' get it punk
Live 22 years, just to find the kid in us
All them other years, I was clear, I was growing up
Killing of my fears as I steered through the going rough
Veered through the years, as my peers started blowin' up
Knew I'd be there and gone past from the soul in us
Treasure turns to trash from the gold in us
But all will turn to ash, when I pass what I'm holding brah

Sonnet to Bansky (Wake Up and Fuck the System feat. Zack de la Rocha)

I got my Banksy calendar at War
-terstones. Its p submersive. Did u saw
the pic where 2 policemen kiss? Its gay!

Old ladies turn from Songs of Praise in shock.

Hes got so many clever things to say
about whats bad like use of child labour
by western nations rotten to the core.
He paints these things and then they go away

and decorate my room 4 the dumb flock.

The extant modes of domination suck!
This revelation hits you too hard maybe?
Well Ill paint something dissident as fuck
like Mao Zedong shaped after Donald Duck
or Spongebob Squarepants strangling a baby.

>>3584450
The light that breaches,
Unwanted, unneeded,
In a dark hole below.
Pours light, which seeded,
In deep soil reaches,
To strangle what might grow

>>3588613
Simple, short, interesting. That's all I really need in a poem.

How's this?

Poetaster, why are you here?
There's no rhyme or reason with you
And you've got the sprightly cheer
Of molasses in January smothered in glue.
Your mind is miscellaneous and cluttered
And full of bullshit and such
And when you want your toast buttered
It's either too little or too much.
Your prose is unfathomably loopy
Full of dingbat fonts and Comic Sans
And I heard from one of your groupies
You rarely ever get ink on your hands.
That's one of the signs of a true writer
There's many more, and you have nil
So run away over the mountains
Run away over the hills.

What comfort on so dire a night
when wending home with funeral light
to hear the wail of the pale banshee
"Oh lover, lost, return to me"?

Cold Iron is nailed above the door
I've said those prayers you'll say no more
still out across the fallow Lea:
"Oh lover, Lost. Return to me!"

She rides the high and chilling wind
as to the skies her cries ascend
On to the tempest-troubled sea,
"Oh lover lost, return to me!"

See from her seat the widow start
the cry she hears within her heart
speaks to a soul so late set free
""oh lover lost, return to me!"

Take up the monster's grim refrain
and rise , to follow in her train
and echo back that awful plea.
"Oh lover lost, return to me!"

black
red
green
blue
yellow
orange
Pink
Purple
Gold
Silver
Gray
gray
gray
Red
Green
Blue
white
Black

>>3588704

i like you.

>>3588704
>le rimbaud ripoff

Cask uh tuedy?

>>3588704
>no teal
>no mauve
2/10 see me in class

>>3584776
>ABAB rhyme scheme
>Rhyme
please leave

>>3584891
Lovely little section.

Has anybody thought of collecting these? I am starting a library of Anonpoems in a .txt regardless

...and once more in your arms I find
Sweet solace, and a homeland for
My weary, lonely, refugee mind.
Far from the same- no, this is more
Than what was once the fullness of
Our passion, and springs forth from
A truer place, birthing a truer love:
These same two numbers now become
A wholly different sum.
Swim in my eyes one more time,
And therein find a fabled peace;
Damn the cold- let passion's fire spark for us a brand new clime-
In that place we shall have our sweet release.

just wrote this for you fuckers

I Am Going To

Going to start FOLK-PUNK
out of sexual frustration.

NON CUPIS DICERE QUOD DICO,
NON CUPIS DICERE QUOD DICO:
I am going to belt to seven people
who watch and going to empty my
voice into MADLY encouraging banjo
solo.

Then going to jail (INTENTIONALLY)
avoid everyone, read read read
and straighten my life out get out
get job design PARKING LOTS
design perfectly PARKING LOTS.

Just wrote this for you fuckers

I Am Going To

Going to start FOLK-PUNK band
out of sexual frustration.

NON CUPIS DICERE QUOD DICO,
NON CUPIS DICERE QUOD DICO:
I am going to belt to seven people
who watch and going to empty my
voice into MADLY encouraging banjo
solo.

Then going to jail (INTENTIONALLY)
avoid everyone, read read read
and straighten my life out get out
get job design PARKING LOTS
design perfectly PARKING LOTS.

>>3589026
waaa someone actually made a poem with meter and rhyme, ie. took the time to format it beyond a bunch of pretty sounding words. Shakespearean Sonnets are lovely, if you don't like the fact someone decided to put in a little extra work then kindly fuck off back to your shit free verse.

>>3589026
>implying poetry with no rhyme isn't babby-tier

>>3589026
It's a Shakespearean Sonnet you twit, and it takes technical skill/time to format. Go on dailyjournal if you just want shit-tier stream of consciousness free verse. The poem this guy made isn't fantastic but it's infinitely better than most of the ones posted here due to it's rhythm and rhyme. You can only properly do free verse if you have already mastered rhythm and rhyme

>>3589066
Here's another, feedback?

a Pear his Body was

a pear and so yellow bruised
outside, round always bulge
like a pear his body was
naked in basement grime
insides not incessant whites
like the pear his body was not
but dark red dark churning.

Alright. Currently working in this contrived little shit. The way I see it I'm avoiding rhyme and focusing on metric but English is not my native either. All help appreciated. I'm sure there's a multitude of wrongs here so be honest:

Do you assume no life inside of those that do not shout
or post it on a wall?
And when they look defeated, do they not in silence call
for unconditioned love?
And could you give yours freely without profit to be made
or witnesses in sight?
But also, could you understand bliss spoken without words
-the foreign voice inside?

This words of grace: "How small a thought it takes to fill a whole life",
spoken first and repeated next by Wittgenstein and Reich,
are as true of every man today as they were in the past.
I doubt it then that man and man are far each other's thoughts.

>>3589230
>spoken first and repeated next by Wittgenstein and Reich
fuck that was:
spoken and repeated next by Wittgenstein and Reich

>>3589138
for the past ones:
why the stress in wrong sentences (i.e. "design perfectly parking lots.) and why the choice, why does he choose parking lots? Also, no latin knowledge, whats NON CUPIS DICERE QUOD DICO?

>>3589280
The inverted sentences have been something I've been trying to use lately. Maybe it didn't work so well? I was driving through a parking lot yesterday and I thought "this is fucked up, who the hell designs these things?" and imagined some crazy person designing impractical parking lots. non cupis dicere quod dico means "i don't want to say what i say" literally or it could be read "i don't want to say what i mean i think.

>>3589347
"i don't want to say what i mean," i think*

Anyone know where I can learn/read more poetry? Some of these poems are beautiful. I wish to write like them.

>>3589417
It was suggested to read The Ode Less traveled by Steven Fry as a starting point. I hate Fry, but still found the book to be pleasant and a good jumping point. I am sure there are better ones out there, but that's how I began to go from bewildered appreciation to a more astute appreciation.

>>3585254
This is by far the best poem in the thread. It's one of the best poems I've seen on /lit/ . don't get me wrong: it has trite, obvious, sentimental aspects, but it's simple, it doesn't go for wordiness or obscure images or pretentious diction, it reveals its surprises in a careful and appropriate way and the significance of the title becomes chilling at the very end.

this can't be original to /lit/. was it copy/pasted from something? Is there any way to tell?

>>3588405
this is all haikus, interesting

Poem of Fury

Dirty plebians spit their shit-thoughts onto the pristine, white, new untrodden snow perfectly flat,
warm streetlight, early saturday morning, no one there, that is the garden of my mind

the warmth of the shit melts some snow

I'm a girl btw

part 1 of 2

Porn
You are awake.
You are young, and there is time.
You have lots of money.
There is no work to do.

You are awake.
You have no pain.
You feel light on your feet.

You start to move.
Every part of your body
moves as they are meant to be moved.
You are using them correctly,
Like an athlete.
Efficient. Effective.
It is enjoyable to move this body.
It is like driving a fantastic car.
So you keep moving, always ecstatic,
And that's how you get your exercise.


Women love you, instinctively.
You don't know what it is about you
that they like so. It is the way you move, the way you stand,
the minutest movements, the angles you position your limbs,
your speed, your air, the location of your gaze
you don't know what it is.
Their hearts skip a beat.
They freeze up and stiffen, some break into uncontrollable smiles,
you have what they want. You make them happy.
They go home and think about you.
Wish they were with you.

"Porn" part 2 of 3

You write poems, but you are not a poet.
The thoughts, the ideas pour into you
surprisingly, as expected, a more or less steady stream, in terms of the amount of ideas,
and you just want to write them down in the best form you can.
They delight you. You enjoy them. They are for no one else.
You are never bored.
There is no pain, you are comfortable in your body,
you are comfortable anywhere, weather permitting.
In the sun you bathe.
In rain you feel romantic,
and you listen to the rain.

You stare at the moon, and think about
femininity, stuff like that, moon related stuff.
You are never bored.
When you do nothing,
You think about friends and family. They are all well.
You have no worries.

You drink coffee, smoke cigarettes,
drink energy drinks, alcohol, do some light drugs.
You can afford a bit of a wild living, to this extent,
and you know it.
No heroin or anything like that. You stay hydrated.
You feel no pain. All this, moderate destruction
is even good for you.

You are, a well maintained
well oiled machine. You are high tech.
You are electric. You are science fiction,
You are magic. You are fantasy;
You are a mythical animal,
But you are real,
You are a beautiful ape.

Next morning, you wake up
And you are still young
There is still so much time.
You still have lots of money.

You don't know what pain is.
You have forgotten the feeling.

And you just feel good

you are the avatar
of happiness.

You were not always this happy.
You were miserable once.
You remember that fact.
But to only the perfect extent,
the feeling of misery, too.
This allows you to recognize
the happiness that is now.

All this, given to you.
All of it utterly yours.
Where you walk
is the place to be.

You don't doubt it for a second.

You are beautiful
and life is good.

The time is summer.
The place is NYC, Paris, London, never Berlin
Tokyo, Beijing, Buenos
Aires
Rio

You're depressed again?
Why don't you go ahead and
Quit your job
Let's get drunk in a parking lot
I want to travel
You want to leave

There's a map in the back of my jeep
Let's pin it to the wall and
Throw darts at it - let that decide
Where we go next
It doesn't matter anyways
I can't stand it here either.

Small-town blues
Too small, too blue
Big-city heartache
Too big, too painful
Let's go where there's nothing there
We'll dance in the field, we'll stare at the sea

I'm just trying
Trying to find where I can
Rest my feet
Just for an hour - or two
Life's too short to stay
Life's too long to leave
Let's go.

Thanks for all these lyrics you fucking faggots. Look out for my album.

>>3589603
>implying my stuff hasn't already been posted under my name on my website
>implying I won't sue your smug ass

>>3589603

One evening in the fire, as I traced down solitude
I met young Séan Dell Tracy, who was carrying a lute
And putting down my heavy plough I prayed the boy a tune
So he sang there through the evening, to the rising of the moon

"Where green eyes lie in Bandon, when God puts out the sky
They rise there deep as lushest fields
Shining brightest in the light"
I sat there in entrancement, and my mind danced to his hands
And he sang me then another tale, of green-eyes from the Strand:

"God gifted us with roses
He placed them in her pearls
And when I see that same green hue
Out looks a perfect world.
For all the Godly graces
Dealt out among mankind
She must have cut our Lord a deal
For there's twice more in those eyes!"

My weariness was growing, for green-eyes of the Strand
So I asked the poet Tracy, to sing verse of God and man
And the young bard cocked his nose high, with all an infant's hate
But still this songbird crooned to me, as the morning light came strait:

"For all the Lords above, and all my friends below
I'll play this song long as time goes on
And it's from their words it's grown"

Then a tear fell from the poet, and the moon shone in his eyes
And I asked him to relay the pain, that could drench this songbird's eyes
But the poet Treacy stumbled, and his tears did quench the ground
And I realised the bard had sang, since the clock's had spun once 'round

So I thanked the poet treacy, and I went to grab my plough
But the fearless bard gave rise again, and said "One more song for now"
And I stood there washed in reverance, as Seán Dell strung his lute
And he sang once more his reveries, as the moon gave rise anew:

>>3589618
"Those green eyes walked out on the strand
Far out into the waves
And no loving verse nor singing lute
Could stop them as they came
And after monstrous tides had swept
And after water's feast
The green eyes of my loving girl
Came swept in from the East
So now I look upon my lute
My life, my soul her keep
And everything reflects the green
The strand had deemed to keep."

Crucial
This is crucial.

So listen carefully.

I, I...

Don't know what to say.

To Turn My Back to the Mirror


To turn my back to the mirror...

>>3589629
shit/10
>>3589631
-10/10

Lately he hasn't been listening to me
Lately he hasn't been listening to me
I guess he's a man and he's meant to leave

Well I'm standing here right next to me
I got no girl to listen to me
What can I do?
What can I do?

And so I pray the child's prayer I was taught as a little kid
Before my head was stretched
Before my mother died
Before my brother died
Before the plague... ruined my life

I'm gonna change my prayer
I'm gonna change my prayer
I'm gonna change my prayer

So Mary...
So Mary...
So Mary...

So Mary, Mary, Mary would you merry me?
Mary, Mary, Mary would you merry me?
And me and you and Jesus could be a family
Mary, Mary, Mary if you'd merry me?
Me and Jesus could play and do child-like things
Oh Mary, Mary, Mary would you merry me?

>>3589001
never read any rimbaud

Through the lights cameras and action, glamour glitters and gold
I unfold the scroll, plant seeds to stampede the globe
When I'm deceased, by then the beast arise like yeast
to conquer peace leaving savages to roam in the streets
Live on the run, police paying me to give in my gun
Trick my Wisdom, with the system that imprisoned my son
Smoke a gold leaf I hold heat, nonchalantly
I'm grungy, but things I do is real it never haunts me
while, funny style niggaz roll in the pile
Rooster heads profile on a bus to Riker's Isle
Holdin weed inside they pussy with they minds on the
pretty things in life, props is a true thug's wife
It's like a cycle, niggaz come home, some'll go in
Do a bullet, come back, do the same shit again
From the womb to the tomb, presume the unpredictable
Guns salute life, rapidly, that's the ritual

Poet,

Are you a maker of beautiful mazes?

If not,

stand where I can see you.
So I can shoot you with my 9, faggit

An Exhortation of Robin Williams


Come, savages,

Class!

let's dance around the flame.

>>3589638

I liked this one
because Mary is already married to joseph, so if she would marry(merry?) the poet that would be some hot shit

>>3589695
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3xL5ImaC1Tc

there ya go /b/ro

Too many Th's. Like the lisp; It is maybe why I sound like a faggot.

Weak syllables, weak, weak, weak

Bunch of short lines of weak syllables.

That's a bad poem.

It can only incite pity or disgust, some fear.


But a poem?

I forget why I wanted to write

what I would call poems.

Under, over, in, out

who cares,

the point is that they are together.

Right?

The banner hung from my doorway
like crepe paper

The door would close
and the flag would falter
with the breeze that was stirred

It fell down one day-
I put it back up
with new nails
from the hardware store
down the street-

I love my country

Daisy leaves rub against each other in red wine -
the currents flavored with light green petals and stems
‘till all that’s in the cup is blonde and tastes of sugar,
and all that I drink of it makes carefree my soul;

like jazz chords set to snare drums is my arms and heart
when I dip my tongue into that sylvan tan skin
and taste of the cool juices that drip from flowers -
now captured in my vase of spring-time wines and figs.

I will listen to the forest nymphs laugh in jars
and fauns pipe mad notes to no set rhythm -
all when I look into the expression of your eyes;
how content a god can be to live with no time!

Ah, isn’t that the ancient tale? That Jupiter
hit with a white crack of thunder upon a snake
and it curled in on its long tail to make the world -
every sip of wine I have had will come again.

So I drink each cup down with gulps! When each spring comes
I will again be staring into your blue eyes
and reciting these leaves of honey in your ear;
these drops of daisy-wine will once more be dripping.

So long as lute-notes play along tom drums and flutes -
as arches of colors fill each drop of water -
as within your smile is sunned white plum blossoms,
all that I have witnessed will be eternal truths.

Bite of the catfish--
like juice and rum--
is in my head.

Lute notes--trembling
like the naked skin--
fill up my ears.

Weed smoke and tea
mix in the cup
I’ve spiked with myths.

Tree-leaves grow green -
like boughs of youth
dipped in juices.

>Pure self-indulgence of my consciousness, did not bother to once over, did not bother to edit.

I envision myself serene and asleep,
falling through a cyclone of words.

Endlessly they spout forth from my consciousness,
enwrapping me so tightly until they bond with my very soul.

I become the words and they become me.
We spin together in a trailed descent upon a whitened canvas,
pulsing in growth with every passing of my heartbeat.
I am lost but found, infatuated with deafening and unreliable self-realization.

The words and I, we spread and expand until there is only thickened blackness.
I know not if I am secure, but only that I am in love.

>>3590481
Obviously it's more prose than poetry.

Love is a malignant sickness
most legendary malady
drives wise men to great fickleness
makes the bravest man turn and flee
yet for you I would dare this might
deny the fears of eternal night

>>3585295
>enough, to heal
I don't like this comma but as a whole these poems (especially the latter) are very enjoyable.

>>3589983
i like everything in this poem, monsieur. if you changed one word, it would be horrible. perfection.

Note: This isn't my OC, but it's OC. I'm interested in what you guys think of it, for the sake of the guy who wrote it, as I am aware that many of you are not on here merely for feedback, but also out of interest in the poems of others. I enjoyed this OC, hope you do too.

>>3590984

blatant plagiarism, intermittently cliche, mildly incoherent at one part

0/10 wouldn't bang, if troll 2/10