/lit/ - Literature

>>5942961
A Message From Your Friendly Local _______

Our purpose is to help you civilize,
your natural tendencies with which you’re filled.
Corruption of your nature we’ll suppress,
if civilized façade you’ll let us build.
An anesthetic numbs the grief in fate,
the cutting pain of anguish it will dull.
A microwave to melt your icy hate,
and melt revenge, its cousin, best served cold.
Department stores and malls your greed will rouse,
then satiate it, eight-four cents a pop.
A modern shower system will help douse
your fiery rage, if ever it flares up.
(But that won’t happen, since you’re civilized,
we’ve tamed you to accept these civil lies).

I like it! Keep writing. Keep sharing. Keep writing

>>5942961
the secret of true inspiration
is that it comes by being patient
one spark of imagination
a moment in your head, the start of causation
an idea that builds up by accumulation
fueled by the power of the minds determination
something that can't be put into calculation
a natural process without any alteration
its hard to explain the process by conversation
a part of your mind it becomes a fixation
like when newton proposed his law of gravitation
an apple on the head to spark the formation
of the idea that we know to explain parts of creation

Breaking the silence
Of an ancient pond,
A frog jumped into water —
A deep resonance.

>>5942961
the secret of true inspiration
is that it comes by being patient
one spark of imagination
a moment in your head, the start of causation
an idea that builds up by accumulation
fueled by the power of the minds determination
something that can't be put into calculation
a natural process without any alteration
its hard to explain the process by conversation
a part of your mind it becomes a fixation
like when newton proposed his law of gravitation
an apple on the head to spark the formation
of the idea that we know to explain parts of creation

>>5942961
Mother is making a cocoon. What will she become?
Will her content change, or merely her form?
Am I to watch over her, or will I be expected to join?
There’s a library filled with what she knows
And what we know about each other.
Will I be forced to start anew?
Will there be time?
Mother’s cocoon is made of many things.
Some precious to her
Some precious to others.
Those things are hers now, they have her smell.
I have taken to disinfecting the things she touches.

>>5943039
i'm feeling it - not much to comment on though
>>5943035
love this one - really fresh concept and layered meanings

>>5943043
Google the frog one hahaha

>>5943045
a poor translation actually imo

>>5943051
Find me a better one, and I'll show you 10 ones that are worse. I don't doubt either of us.

>>5943053
(That is to say i know there's a better one)

>>5943053

>Старый пруд
>Прыгнула в воду лягушка
>Вcплеcк в тишине

>>5943097
kek

>>5942966
>civilized,
>civil lies

>>5943109
>tfw not sure if that's a good or bad thing
it was intended

Um dia seu José acordou morto
muito antes de seu funeral
viveu a vida cheirando a morte
no seu trabalho, em casa, no bar
e, curiosamente, no dia do enterro
lamentou não estar presente em si mesmo

>>5942961
bamp

Eight Inches

An eight inch window – that’s all I get
As I fly up and above the earth.
Eight inches of grass stalk skyscrapers,
Rivers of people and their insect cars.

The window starts changing – grey to green
As I fly from these imitations.
Eight inches of real grass, real rivers,
a bird’s eye view of Nature’s palette.

As green turns blue, I can’t help but notice
The yellowed smudges, long scrapes and pits
Covering my eight inch world, left by
Years of oily fingers and sharp fingertips.

My brief connection breaks.

I’m in a metal bird, staring through
A mere eight inches of plastic,
On a cushion of polyester
Surrounded by people just as
disconnected.

Yet for those brief moments, before
Those eight inches were obscured, before
the scrapes and smears stymied my vision
I felt linked to this beautiful world.

My own fingerprints also remain
On those eight inches. They’ll forever
Break waves and slash clouds,
Dent mountains, blur rivers
And disconnect anyone else who looks at that beauty.

The plane touches down – back to reality,
To redwood skyscrapers and stallion cars.
Where every eight inch world is clear, but
drab and gray, remind us of our ruin.

>>5943129
It's very tacky.

>>5943998
this is something like I read in one of my poetry workshops. The concrete descriptions are good but it reads as prose with line breaks.

>>5943039
Good. But if you ask a question, try to at least hint at an answer. Otherwise it feels incomplete. Also, avoid words like "things" because it just begs the question "what things?" Just tell us! Don't make us guess!

>>5943038
Good idea. Horrible feminine rhyming. Try rhymes on the stressed syllable just to mix things up.

mine:

I.
Open the flame, test the honey light loving moth,
come forth to burn the flesh, turning to ash damming the waters’ flow.
Tell me men: who is careful through these eons of floods?
Birds feasting seed or the now feasting flowers?

II.
Men, search in the flocks consuming
the crops’ feast on your soul.
Higher these pilgrims will fly – greater
than any imagined savior.

III.
Bare forth your old stones, etch into them nothing
more than the soft cotton after slavedom.
The people have heard your ripple through the land:
they will release the aviary and the seeds will be sown.

>>5943998
I WISH I HAD EIGHT INCHES

>>5943998
>My own fingerprints also remain
>On those eight inches.

>>5944077
It's not the size that matters but the technique.

>>5944082
Bud, if I had 8 inches, technique wouldn't matter

>>5944084
Yes it would, vaginal orgasms are a myth.

>>5944084
actually it does, given that the larger your penis the less concentrated the bloodflow. Having too large a penis makes sex almost impossible, because you can't become stiff enough

>>5944086
How are vaginal orgasms a myth? Explain

>>5944088

The worst thing about having a big dick is when you're having a shit and you realise that the end of your knob's cold and then you realise it's dangling in the shitty water you just shat in.

It's a really horrible sensation.

>>5944088
The porn guys make it look easy

>>5944094
Wow uh

>>5944094
Male genitalia are not a pretty sight anyway. Big dick freaks only scare a girl off.

>>5944098
encyclopediadramatica.se/The_Big_Black_Dick_Hoax

>>5944101
What no they have to love it

>>5944102
That article doesn't seem very... real, or serious

>>5944107
God, you're so naive...

>>5944116
Please help me

>>5944114
Why, what's wrong with it?

>>5942961
Confidence by design,
A guilty eye falsely bold
A fortnight's worth of fascination
Before I am alone again.

>>5944082
>>5944084
>>5944086
>>5944088
>>5944090
>>5944094
>>5944098
>>5944099
>>5944101
>>5944102
>>5944107
>>5944114
>>5944116
>>5944118
>>5944119
>>>/pol/

>>5944114
it's joking but serious, they've measured dick lengths and blacks don't have bigger dicks

>>5944127
I liked it, ok, that seems legit.

>>5944127
You've been officially red-pilled, my friend. Now go and live a better life!

>>5944131
Gee, thanks, mister!

>>5944101

Yup. It's not all beer and skittles, that's for sure. People used to laugh at me in the shower at school as well (although that was easy to pass of as jelly).

>you're going to have to stop, it's hurting me
>you've got to be mad if you think I'm putting that in my mouth
>Look, I'm sorry, you're going to have to leave

All things I've heard when I've dropped my kecks. True story. Sad story.

>>5944133
You're welcom, I'm always glad to help.
Why aren't more people trying to post their gay attempts at poetry anymore?

My muse bedecked in her death garm
My rhymes bereft of all their charm
Twas long ago she was interred
From archaic forms could be infered
And by my pen she is exhumed
My great regret she was entombed
Herein is written nothing new
Of idle pursuits I have few
No other thing I seek to do
But wile the hours thus without rue

Behind my frontal lobe
a little man starves to death
He has gone through his whole life
settling for mediocrity by his standards.
thusly, he has developed a self destructive procrastination habit
I hear the little man call out to me
begging for me to focus harder
but I don’t listen to him anymore,
I am cold to his calls
he can’t save me anymore.
I am beyond his control,
I am a translucent peach,
I have transcended his productive claws.
I am free,
and I am lost.
But that man is getting stronger
eating the half rotting fruit of my minds wishes
keeping his belly barely full
and soon he will take the reigns
if
I don’t strike him down again
But there’s another man in my head
of a different position he’s got a different volition than mine
He is infatuated with my death
He is the voice of my demons
He is m addictions
and he most definitely has the control of my being
He is the boy I used to be
Full of hate and confusion and ignorance
and loneliness
But I’m a man now and I have a current campaign against him
there will no longer be my existential emotional experience
crying on the inside and shielded stone eyes out
No one can know
no one will hear you
they see only the old you
the man you are pretending to be
you liar you cheat
you deserve
no love
no love
no love
more time on a screen
than with the real me
the one who loves
the one who wishes to not only please
like I used to care about
but be pleased
I’m tired of other people’s thought being my own
I am not your mirror
I am tabula rasa
I AM A NEW MAN
I am free
wish I believed that
wish I had the strength
wish I had the faith to trust a higher power
to give me the next step on the path,
but I can’t even see my hand in front of my face
and the only voice that I can hear is the old me
and he has an idea
and I can’t stop listening;
can I?

>>5944190
>My muse bedecked in her death garm

literally couldn't read anymore. You're joking, right?

You know that we could sell your magazines
If only you could give your life to literature
Just don't read Jane Eyre!
Work on your algebra and stand out in the rain
And give yourself to simple pleasures but
Never play card games!
Meanwhile, back at home
Not in Communist Russia, well only on my headphones
We plot our march on to the town hall
And if we'll take prisoners or simply simper at those fools

Please don't tell me to do the Math(s)

Tonight we're gonna smash this place up
And then we're gonna deck it out in fairy lights
Til we are content!
And then we'll maybe drown in Dewey decimal
But leave our shoes off at the door
'Cause that was the point!
Of us at home with the moon
Pouring through the curtains, working on our attitude
Towards the second hand book shop employees
Reading the inscriptions that were never meant for their eyes

Please don't tell me to do the Math(s)

I'm stitching up each one of your pockets so when we are together you'll maybe look a little less bored
I'm sticking your fingers into sockets to kick-start your little heart and maybe sleep a tiny bit more
Oh maybe we should read more into the books that we adore, perhaps we should drink less vitamin C
And now I'm shouting out in capital letters "I WILL THROW YOU HIGH FIVES IF YOU KEEP YOUR OWN SECRETS!"

>>5943109
i had the same issue
but it's hard to tread the line between clever and trite in rhyming

>>5944202
Your critique is as bad as my poetry

>>5944214
You're a professional thesaurus user, m8.

>>5944190
ridiculously forced rhymes

>>5944214

Can't critique your poetry, because that first line made me puke so hard.

Maybe the rest of it is Berryman-tier brilliance, but fuck off if you're starting with death garms

fucking death garm honestly man?

My name is Lazarus of Bethany. I spent my death peering
through the cracks in a tomb.
I liked the sleep. I liked the dark dust–
no, I did not care, or even ask to be raised
from the peace of death–Jesus wept– Martha wept
as she removed my damp wrappings

of linen. In the night, we burned my wrappings
and I could not stop peering
into the smoking fire pit. Still, my sisters wept.
They (and I) thought I was lost to the tomb.
Even as we added branches, and the fire raised
the flames still smelt of fabric, and the dust

of death. In sleep, I still smelt dust;
In my dreams, constricted still by funeral wrappings.
In the morning, when I was again raised
from a kind of death, sleep, I faced the new sun peering,
covering eyes against harsh light. The tomb
upon the hill was open still, where Jesus had wept


and had pried me out. I too then wept
not for Jesus, or my sisters, but for boats of dust
built, scattered round river Lethe like floating tombs.
Ss I poked the ashes of my burned wrappings,
In the distance I spotted converted Jews peering;
down at me, the good souls who had not left for the Pharisees. I raised

my arms, and waved back to them. They knew I was raised
from dead– I was the man for whom Jesus had wept.
Animated again, brought to life, spent peering
into the emptiness of death–the Kingdom of dust–
that had healed my rot– I can still smell those wrappings–
and how sudden light burned my eyes from the darkness of the tomb–


Now, life is death again, and I sleep in my tomb.
Resurrected every morning, yawning, raised–
blankets and furs slide off like funeral wrappings
after chilled Bethany nights. When my sisters wept,
thinking I was rot, decaying bone, disintegrated dust;
they should have known that one day we will all be peering


towards nothing but our own funeral wrappings. Yes, they wept
over my tomb–misplaced faith– amazed as I was raised;
But I am sorry Martha– Sorry Mary– it is into dust–that we are peering.

Why does everything have to be about myself?
Like this question and this poem?
Well, because I can't ignore the nose at the foot of my vision
that dangles there like low hanging fruit
(in July (wut)).

So, I take drugs to kill myself because bullets are scary;
yeah, bullets are scary.
But I'm not afraid of death,
(just the dying part)
despite traditionally held views on the matterless matter.
No,
in fact,
I'm not afraid of The Reaper's grim scythe,
but I am a-scared o' life.

>>5944226
don't write poems like this again

i don't know why people think they can just put no effort into something and then put it out there and expect someone to put more time into critique than they put into thinking about their work

>>5944216
>>5944217
>>5944221
How do I wipe lord byron from my memory?

>>5942966

I enjoyed it. Great half-rhymes (dull/cold), and super-fine flow: quality stuff + the meaning. And don't listen to the last-line h8ers, it works.

>>5943035

And fuck off Basho-bish.

>>5944225
very competent. im not convinced the structure is necessary but i've only read it once.

>>5944230

Abstract expressionism in wrote, señor. Anyway, despite your incredibly accurate comment, do you have any redeeming criticism? Tips?

The merry-go-round goes merrily round
and round
and round
and round
(ad infinitum)
and then,

the conductor croaks.

>>5944237
you don't need to wipe lord byron from memory. you need to learn how to write good rhymes, which takes time.

"The world's a stage,
without a gauge.
I caught a phage,
my skin's a-rage.
You're underage,
so turn the page,
for I'm a gage"
–Nicolas Cage.

–––––––––

So, this is how it ends:
Destruction coming first,
Remains recomposing into
Almost what they were,
When the war swelled and the
Killing was mushed by inertia, and the
Cowards succumbed to
All their fears of greatness and
Becoming remembered by history.

>>5944243
keep nothing and begin again after actually reading some poetry

here's a great self-aware diaristic poem:

http://www.poetryfoundation.org/poetrymagazine/browse/124/1#!/20596370

An amateur truth
Conclusion I seek
But there was no proof
Well, back to the Greeks

>>5944200
the first part was pretty cool but i didn't like it after the second little guy appeared

Feel the epic burn
of a thousand household items
merging into your consciousness
as you sleep with them

>>5944256
merci beaucoup

>>5944360

change "merging into" into "merging with" and you got yourself a decem

>>5944200

we are one and the same

>>5944373
What's a decem?

>>5944373
OH a rating
: 3 thx

The Sea Isn't Opaque Inside a Submarine


Tentacled foyers grope the
athlete's blues ridden rhythmless face,
covered in blankets sewn
from small-town facial hair, grown
by award winning trophy makers
for the Raiders, not the park
where crusaders grovel for
a ruined lost ark: a messy, meso
Mayan delight. (All prophecies are a
silly beverage, i.e. Sunny-D.) So sons of the
lightweight-less detergent, amidst
a mist of Googling gregarious gurgles,
stop at green lights just to shout–It's
the gargoyle! Now, hide the ribs from
snapping alligator gars, who beg, not for
the begetting of aurora borealis, but
jamais vu: the ubiquitous nothing that is
visible; when everything unseen is,
eyes have you in their custody. So can
gloveless hands catch a home-
run ball, a glimpse of odd-numbered
feet and feats and wins? (If I knew,
I might answer.) The running,
weary King George III feels
tickled. (Ears bleed, my dear deer. So
smear the blood from the jet. Leer.)
Now he says without showing fear:
Hear, hear! Hear, here!
The silence
sieges epileptic seizing: the wriggling
nervous capillaries forged by burning
limelight. Seething piles of human-less meaning:
slimy slats of slizz. Has the grapevine told:
The Jabberwocky is on trial for identity
fraud? Ixnay, so I pack three nines to defend
my moat with more than lead. No, not
just with bullets–I lead them to Victor's
place. Then lead them to my
disgrace, a forsaken space, and
ask: who forsook the big apple? Ay,
it is an addict of decay. (Thankfully,
though, I decide to mention nothing
regarding the cyanide in the seeds
at its very core.)

–so say the cephalopod

Because
U
Might
Perish

Rotating with geometric precision
Bits of shit rise to join the torrent
Into a universal liquefied remnant
Memories of food and wine and blood
They flow on through the pipes
They harken back from whence they came
The eternal Mother of filth and pestilence
Of mirth and sorrow, of ecstasy and pain
Only to accumulate once more
To spin in that most perfect of circles
When laundry day falls again next week

>>5944487
HA

>>5944493

I'm going to go ahead and reduce my critique down to a single syllable: meh.

Trapped hallways of the mind
Labyrinth of numbness
Nothing but tired-out thoughts surrounds this tomb
Nothing but a decaying voice which seems as distant as mortality is to a young child, yet volumes everything else in it's wake:
"act"
It says
In a gentle, soothing, content way
But as the voice travels the sullen halls of thought
Passing through rooms flooded with dullness
It slowly decays to a whimper and disappears.

'Poem' is an anagram for 'mope,'
and this one is a metaphor for depression
except now it isn't because I literally told you.
But I'm really good at back-tracking disillusionment,
which is why I don't have detailed memories of childhood,
so I think we can still continue.
Anyway, pain courses through my veins like
blood I guess.
The mirror is my best friend, except I really don't like him
(the guy in the mirror, who's the only guy I think I know).
I have no human counterpart, no divine recipient of my love,
no body to love me; even my dog shit's on my carpeted soul,
for which I blame myself because I didn't train him
(which I could say to my parents about me).
I should now mention that this isn't really a poem
and that I lied to you, myself, and everyone in between
in saying that it was.
Really, I just transcribed a page from my journal
which is bound in leather like I'm bound in skin.
Anyway, back to whatever it was I should have been doing but wasn't.

Chicago
December 25th, 1994

Gave this to my wife before we got engaged.


I’ve seen you, your hands diligent and quick

your red leather glistening, legs bent

beautiful back pressed so tightly against white brick

as though you are printing flowers

--

I’ve seen your eyes, windows

to what you experience, I want you to share, to open

me to experience you with intimacy

to watch you, to understand behind your smiling eyes

--

Luscious and full, fire streaking down upon your cheeks

black fibers reaching, striking shoulders so perfect,

your taste is delicious, the scent reaching over mine

so overwhelming, so perfect, I experience your love

intertwining with mine

--

Eyes like orange fireballs

double frowns, so black, to compliment a smile

cheeks enlarged, creases so beautiful, fireballs piercing

you look so deeply, to penetrate, to love, understanding

do you wish I didn’t understand, for difficulties sake,

because I love you, do you love me?

Thought I'd post this here to see how it compares.

Just a little background; I'm a shit poet. This poem was a complete accident while writing a scene to a short story. Feel free to tell me it's garbage. Haven't edited it at all because I don't even poem.

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

My heart imprisoned, pounding, screaming to burst.
The ribcage spread, battered by lungs that thirst.
They breathe uneven, painted with panic,
I endure to gasp and suffer to thrash.

Parasites burrow, the ringing mind,
Torment in scurrying—incessant skittering.
The symphony of terror; I lament with audience—
Only alone in jittering.

Blood rushed; vessels popped.
Eyes engorged, and toes chilled numb.
I dangled, strung by ankles—
A cocoon embalmed in silk.

Shoulder dislocated, misplaced, unhinged;
Pinned under a spine that curved and cringed.
Swollen throat, choking with shivers.
A throbbing warmth, pulsation, a jugular quivers.

The struggle, jerking, twisting—strangled by string. It rend as well as steel wiring.
Fibers flowing, resisting the gnaws of chattering teeth and flailing claws.

Strands viscid, a delicate web coated of glue; a finger skewered through . . .
. . . Stretching a fissure to which I could peak.

>>5942961
I eat tha pussy like a vegetarian
i dont eat meat bitch
damn yo pussy smell agrarian
get that shit fixed

>>5943150

I like this one very much. Are non-English poems welcome?

Kind gestures,
Twine vespers,
Ash jesters,

Uncle cake,
Cathexis wake,
Ascension snake,

Hand on steer,
Ahead's all clear,
There's nobody here

Con el pánico torpe del recién despertado
observé a la persona que dormía a mi lado.
Cuando vi de su cara la expresión tan atroz
de quien ya no sostiene su mandíbula abierta
La tomé de las manos, le gritaba: '¡despierta!'
Pero fue todo en vano, no escuchaba mi voz.

Me quedé de repente sorprendido de verla
con su piel sobre el cráneo reluciente cual perla
con sus labios brillando con un dulce barniz.
Sin saber bien qué hacía, acaricié sus cabellos
y trajeron recuerdos de los tiempos aquellos
nuestros años primeros, en que fui tan feliz

La visión impasible de su cuerpo ya inerte
que tan plácido bebe del color de la muerte
ha calmado la angustia que al principio sentía.
No se puede luchar contra el paciente destino
Has llegado al final ya de tu largo camino
¡Nada más que decirte, sólo adiós, vida mía!

>>5947407
10/10
quality
better than keats

Everyone alive will die in order
And I can't help but think
I can't help but wonder
Where my name will fit on that list

Life began as organs inside our mothers
Shared her heat, shared her protein
From cells we grow, organs like any other
In the warm black between bone and meat

My body was born on a snowy morning in February
And I wasn't there that day
An organ broke off a body and coughed and cried
The atmosphere fell in and it opened it's eyes

A new machine with old heat
Since the star, the same warmth
Since the heart, the same beat

Some years later,
My first pieces were laid
When I learned where I end
And where the air begins

A tree branch broke sunlight
Painted angels on the bedroom wall
A memory of a memory of
The first thing I saw

I see you through blurred vision
as tears from from the well in my eyes
and I feel as if I'm drowning;
falling deeper, deeper into water.

I feel as if I'm being saved
as you wipe my expression of sadness
away. Except I'm only being saved
from drowning, not from this sorrow

that I wish to escape from.

while I'm training troops in parachutes how to act froufrou
so when their sergeants return from butterscotching Mr. Lynn
they can do the Charleston
while I paint the face of Private Fontaine on his enemies face and do the same to him
until the ballroom's filled with soldiers wondering if they like themselves
and all are forced to forgive and forget

the return of the pressure
there's a hole in my battle ship
sealed under waterline
bars of the cage rattle, whips
cut as they sing
into skin and i weep
and descend into darkness
into darkness so deep
under bourbon soaked eyelids
there's a tunnel, no light
fear of scorn sets me running
but there's no end in sight
i'll just make it to morning
and hope I'm still learning
tomorrow's all maybes
but tonight I am yearning
on battlements, standing
i sit in self-seizure
i still see her in the car
and it's no thing to reach her
but the gap is too vast
and that present has passed by
all the should'ves i've counted
and i should've still said bye

there's a hole the battle ship
and you feel like you're drowning
salt water can gush through
as your live's days keep counting
and you want to just scream
and cry and punch asphalt
and you feel you're blameless
and you feel like it's your fault
and then you can't even feel
or it all rushes through you
and you're taking on water
and you wish they could see you
and you want it to end
but to not go away
i hope tonight's dreams are good
cause tomorrow's one more day

writing shmi fanfiction
thinking of ways
ejaculation, obsession, true love?
no pants
various bottles around me
no education
no employment
no training

my lungs were weak
so i just used edibles
dude weed lmao
hoggle has no morality
hoggle is evil, hoggle is a puppet
the captcha was affu

A question about style when writing poetry in French:

I am writing a romantic villanelle in French for a qt, and I've written one draft using "vous" to refer to said qt. However, would it be more powerful to use indirect pronouns or other work-arounds throughout the poem, and then finish with something like "Et cette personne, c'est vous." ? Or is that gimmicky and trashy?

>>5942961
0
01
012
0123
012
01
0

>>5949743
Concrete poetry is the best.

>>5949743

wow
o o
wow

>>5943150
This is actually pretty good, I'm a native portuguese speaker and I approve this.

>>5949788
I want to know what it says,. Pls translate?

>>5949626
2deep4me

>>5949798
Um dia seu José acordou morto
(my anaconda don't)
muito antes de seu funeral
(my anaconda don't)
viveu a vida cheirando a morte
(my anaconda don't want none)
no seu trabalho, em casa, no bar
(unless you got bunz hun)

the rest of it is just unnecessary.

>>5949798
>Um dia seu José acordou morto
>muito antes de seu funeral
>viveu a vida cheirando a morte
>no seu trabalho, em casa, no bar
>e, curiosamente, no dia do enterro
>lamentou não estar presente em si mesmo

Someday José awoke dead
Way before his funeral
Lived his life smelling his death
in his work, in his house, in his bar
and, curiously, in the day of his burial
He regretted not being there (in) himself

not the same flow though, also there's a play with words in the last verse that is hard to translate

>>5949875
That's utterly gorgeous.
>>5949831
Lel.

In the alternative universe where
I hugged you when I was supposed to hug you
and kissed you when I was supposed to kiss you
and I told you that I loved you
and you repented of giving your virginity to that guy who didn't
and I said it was alright, and then we got pregnant
and we got married, and lived that life . . .

and we have the perfect baby boy
because we're the perfect match
and we raise him and his siblings in the same little village we grew up in . . .

but this isn't that universe
it's the one where I didn't hug you . . .
and so here this imperfect poem
will have to substitute for the perfect baby boy that'll never be . . .

>TFW disqualified from a writing competition because they found it in the /lit/ archive

Never posting my stuff on imageboards again.

>>5950435

yeah that's the problem with posting your work online. it is considered "published." that's why the work i put up on my blog belongs to my blog period--i'm not going to send it around to magazines for publication.

>>5950413
grow up

>>5950435
That's the funniest shit I've read today.

Ambition

What is talent, ability, intellect, industry,
But a means to feed what resides in the heart?
That longing for worth so distinctly human,
And gladly do we comply
With arms open, with eyes to the sky,
But your master is yourself, and to yourself is all you will prove
So why bother?
------------
Not really good with poems, sorry. It's a question I honestly want to ask though.

>>5950435
I would be more upset/embarrassed that they found my stuff here, not that I was disqualified.

>>5950707
Are you saying talent etc. is for securing nutrients that'll travel through the heart in your blood and keep you alive for awhile? Maybe also a reference to love, and the worth one might feel when they supply their loved ones with said nutrients? But we're all alone even if we love, so why should we love and contribute to the nutritional intake of others?

http://uprightbasedplayer.tumblr.com/

throwing stuff up there. feel free to follow/critique on here

I'd like to post one of mine. I've always wondered if my ESL shows and if the poem itself is any good.
...

Angelic

Eternal mirrors, counting the seconds
Gleam of stars, a distant promise beckons
Brighter still, and close to my trembling soul -
How can joy and awe coexist with woe?

However much can there be in silence
The creature of unending penitence?
I am but lips, arms and a heart, all yours -
A sinner and the sin he most adores

Am I to sink into vain perdition
Never again graced with the sight of you
For having but once shown my feelings true?

On this night I shall embrace salvation -
Not the fondest form which Heaven denies
Yet teases - for all sins have wrought God's sighs

>>5950801
Heh.

nutrients/10