A Poem Thread
- Thread starter Angelus
- Start date
Eh, just like the font I suppose..
Thanks for the praise as well..
Thanks for the praise as well..
Imagination is a drag, think about it, Imagination causes the most trouble. All the lunatics and creeps of the world are a result of their imigaination; Adolf Hilter, George W., and even God. The problem is you can't live without imagination, I mean, what are you going to do without imaginaion. Sometimes I think to myself what the world will be without magination, with my imagination. 99% of all the horrible shit that ever happened is because of someone's will and imagination. George Lucas has Imagination, Steven Spielberg has imagination, Karl max, the rich and the poor, the old, the young, and everybody therewithin. Imagining is the best gift we humans can ever freakin achieve. Just Imagine.
My day
Today I woke up with a slight hangover from last night, nothing to do but think about hoes and life without misery so I filled up on some liqor and went to bed the night before. I woke up to play some chess online with whosoeverwho then went to the cafeteria, where I met some of my friends. Its hard to relate with people younger than you when you are a graduate going on a second degree. I ate with a favorite friend of mine, though he doesn't know it yet, I also ate with other friends, one of them a girl I have been trying to go on a date with but her insecurities baffle me and her, both of us. WE talked about stuff, some of us had that i am too cool for this shit look when someone said something really lame or too boring, we ate we drank and we merried our way back to the dorm, some chick nearly fell down. I got to my dorm, went to drink some more. Why? because I think about life without misery and hoes. And after lot and lots of alcohol, I ended up here at 10:17pm MT. Happy times.
Today I woke up with a slight hangover from last night, nothing to do but think about hoes and life without misery so I filled up on some liqor and went to bed the night before. I woke up to play some chess online with whosoeverwho then went to the cafeteria, where I met some of my friends. Its hard to relate with people younger than you when you are a graduate going on a second degree. I ate with a favorite friend of mine, though he doesn't know it yet, I also ate with other friends, one of them a girl I have been trying to go on a date with but her insecurities baffle me and her, both of us. WE talked about stuff, some of us had that i am too cool for this shit look when someone said something really lame or too boring, we ate we drank and we merried our way back to the dorm, some chick nearly fell down. I got to my dorm, went to drink some more. Why? because I think about life without misery and hoes. And after lot and lots of alcohol, I ended up here at 10:17pm MT. Happy times.
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Memory As a Hearing Aid
by Tony Hoagland
Somewhere, someone is asking a question,
and I stand squinting at the classroom
with one hand cupped behind my ear,
trying to figure out where that voice is coming from.
I might be already an old man,
attempting to recall the night
his hearing got misplaced,
front-row-center at a battle of the bands,
where a lot of leather-clad, second-rate musicians,
amped up to dinosaur proportions,
test drove their equipment through our ears.
Each time the drummer threw a tantrum,
the guitarist whirled and sprayed us with machine-gun riffs,
as if they wished that they could knock us
quite literally dead.
We called that fun in 1970,
when we weren’t sure our lives were worth surviving.
I’m here to tell you that they were,
and many of us did, despite ourselves,
though the road from there to here
is paved with dead brain cells,
parents shocked to silence,
and squad cars painting the whole neighborhood
the quaking tint and texture of red jelly.
Friends, we should have postmarks on our foreheads
to show where we have been;
we should have pointed ears, or polka-dotted skin
to show what we were thinking
when we hot-rodded over God’s front lawn,
and Death kept blinking.
But here I stand, an average-looking man
staring at a room
where someone blond in braids
with a beautiful belief in answers
is still asking questions.
Through the silence in my dead ear,
I can almost hear the future whisper
to the past: it says that this is not a test
and everybody passes.
by Tony Hoagland
Somewhere, someone is asking a question,
and I stand squinting at the classroom
with one hand cupped behind my ear,
trying to figure out where that voice is coming from.
I might be already an old man,
attempting to recall the night
his hearing got misplaced,
front-row-center at a battle of the bands,
where a lot of leather-clad, second-rate musicians,
amped up to dinosaur proportions,
test drove their equipment through our ears.
Each time the drummer threw a tantrum,
the guitarist whirled and sprayed us with machine-gun riffs,
as if they wished that they could knock us
quite literally dead.
We called that fun in 1970,
when we weren’t sure our lives were worth surviving.
I’m here to tell you that they were,
and many of us did, despite ourselves,
though the road from there to here
is paved with dead brain cells,
parents shocked to silence,
and squad cars painting the whole neighborhood
the quaking tint and texture of red jelly.
Friends, we should have postmarks on our foreheads
to show where we have been;
we should have pointed ears, or polka-dotted skin
to show what we were thinking
when we hot-rodded over God’s front lawn,
and Death kept blinking.
But here I stand, an average-looking man
staring at a room
where someone blond in braids
with a beautiful belief in answers
is still asking questions.
Through the silence in my dead ear,
I can almost hear the future whisper
to the past: it says that this is not a test
and everybody passes.
[Holy road]
Holy road, you're my Lord,
I stand before you -
a wet soul naked in the rain.
Holy book, I walk your pages with my bleeding feet,
like fakir, like a dancer
I'm on you now!
I'm on you, baby,
one little bag, two little feet,
one brain feeding on your seeds.
A little bird.
Holy road, you're my Lord,
I stand before you -
a wet soul naked in the rain.
Holy book, I walk your pages with my bleeding feet,
like fakir, like a dancer
I'm on you now!
I'm on you, baby,
one little bag, two little feet,
one brain feeding on your seeds.
A little bird.
dead suns of dead civilizations
spinning galaxies our minds' encapsulating
throne after throne fires' rising nations
my role in this war is never finished
the chaotic symphony singing
The whole world after world is not enough
Empires fall, bridges are forever broken
The whole world, little by little is never enough
I wait for direction from above, never uttered never spoken
...
you hate it? you like it?
I like it. Couldn't fins any words at the moment. I was actally going to post something of mine. I suppose I will do that now..
[The Driftwood Theory].
So when does the heart hide the meaning behind?
Who's to say what I really said?
I want you to know that I don't know my way back..
Look into my eye, and tell me I know. Tell me that I know-
I built the pyramids with my pride and all of my lustful sin
Sank the boat you and I were in
And now what the fuck do I have to show?
How hard is the time to turn the tables and grind the dust?
"Broken by pride and filigreed as a must," you said
I work my way down the disassembly line
It works it's way all the way down my spine
Is this life worth living?
Tell me how you're so perfectly happy. How do you make it work?
God should know how hard I've tried-
Time and time and time again
He is him thrice removed
So open up the driftwood and see the absence inside
Every line is about what I don't want a n y m o r e.
A n y m o r e . . .
Change is changing changed by ten
The worm is the one who'll always win, but only if you let him in
'The eye in the apple? The watchful worm?'
The tyrant will laugh and cheer and dance but only while you squirm
M y d e a r -
So push the driftwood back from shore
His petrified bones are aching for all but more . . .
[The Driftwood Theory].
So when does the heart hide the meaning behind?
Who's to say what I really said?
I want you to know that I don't know my way back..
Look into my eye, and tell me I know. Tell me that I know-
I built the pyramids with my pride and all of my lustful sin
Sank the boat you and I were in
And now what the fuck do I have to show?
How hard is the time to turn the tables and grind the dust?
"Broken by pride and filigreed as a must," you said
I work my way down the disassembly line
It works it's way all the way down my spine
Is this life worth living?
Tell me how you're so perfectly happy. How do you make it work?
God should know how hard I've tried-
Time and time and time again
He is him thrice removed
So open up the driftwood and see the absence inside
Every line is about what I don't want a n y m o r e.
A n y m o r e . . .
Change is changing changed by ten
The worm is the one who'll always win, but only if you let him in
'The eye in the apple? The watchful worm?'
The tyrant will laugh and cheer and dance but only while you squirm
M y d e a r -
So push the driftwood back from shore
His petrified bones are aching for all but more . . .
Twilight of Reason
Soft light,
green where trees gather in misty twilit silence,
distant blue and emerald, framed by the looming grey of evening's fall.
The song sings its returning:
A softening sussurus of wings,
that swift unnumbered
through dying light to a shadowed shore.
(example of alliteration and metaphor: "poetry" -D. P. LaTrobe-Easte, Oct 2007)
Soft light,
green where trees gather in misty twilit silence,
distant blue and emerald, framed by the looming grey of evening's fall.
The song sings its returning:
A softening sussurus of wings,
that swift unnumbered
through dying light to a shadowed shore.
(example of alliteration and metaphor: "poetry" -D. P. LaTrobe-Easte, Oct 2007)
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THE WOMBAT
The wombat lives across the seas,
Among the far Antipodes.
He may exist on nuts and berries,
Or then again, on missionaries;
His distant habitat precludes
Conclusive knowledge of his moods,
But I would not engage the wombat
In any form of mortal combat.
alice meynell
The wombat lives across the seas,
Among the far Antipodes.
He may exist on nuts and berries,
Or then again, on missionaries;
His distant habitat precludes
Conclusive knowledge of his moods,
But I would not engage the wombat
In any form of mortal combat.
alice meynell
Sentire sapiens callide ti solum paucissimu scit.
Incend Occultus, ti flamm Anoris ministro. Caligi incendi frustra est, flamm Udunis. Ad Umbra regresse! Non praeteritor.
dude, hope you don' mind, I liked this bit:
Tiens, alors!
Aliqui omnis disco numquam discebo.
Omni didic pars omne parum, discuntur et discebo. Non haecine dedecus sed modestia.
I just like the way Latin has that rhythm. One more (just a bit grimmer):
Excelsum grvitas it arae humanis in torquens et percutens imperi diem, ub ingraviscens venalis convenire.
Incend Occultus, ti flamm Anoris ministro. Caligi incendi frustra est, flamm Udunis. Ad Umbra regresse! Non praeteritor.
dude, hope you don' mind, I liked this bit:
Tiens, alors!
Aliqui omnis disco numquam discebo.
Omni didic pars omne parum, discuntur et discebo. Non haecine dedecus sed modestia.
I just like the way Latin has that rhythm. One more (just a bit grimmer):
Excelsum grvitas it arae humanis in torquens et percutens imperi diem, ub ingraviscens venalis convenire.
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If you think that was a little odd, check this out:
An observation:
The Observable is that which is:
either a stable condensation of objects: a mass/energy which projects the structure of its own condensation, so that it orders and binds, or attracts; a record or memory: a store of energy itself as matter.
Or a cloud of unstable, chaotic potential distance and mass/energy, uncountable of itself: when it collapses or condenses, change becomes observable.
An observation:
The Observable is that which is:
either a stable condensation of objects: a mass/energy which projects the structure of its own condensation, so that it orders and binds, or attracts; a record or memory: a store of energy itself as matter.
Or a cloud of unstable, chaotic potential distance and mass/energy, uncountable of itself: when it collapses or condenses, change becomes observable.
This is one of my personal Fav's that I did.
"Im Only Human"
By, Joshua Davenport
Im only human...prone to sickness and disease. At the mercy of whatever infests me.
Im full of mistakes lies and deciet.
My flaws and imperfections will forever haunt me.
Im the cause of all my misery
Im the reason you can hurt me.
Im the mistake I live each and every day.
Im human...you shouldn't trust me...But you're human too...your flaws will believe me.
Im a human there is nothing great about me. There are 6 billion others just like me.
Im human......thats the worst thing about me.
Its all my fault.......... it always will be.
I created the god that created me.
Im only human but I expect more of me.
weak and fragile...hurt so easily.
Im only human and its not easy
Im only human.....please forgive me.
"Im Only Human"
By, Joshua Davenport
Im only human...prone to sickness and disease. At the mercy of whatever infests me.
Im full of mistakes lies and deciet.
My flaws and imperfections will forever haunt me.
Im the cause of all my misery
Im the reason you can hurt me.
Im the mistake I live each and every day.
Im human...you shouldn't trust me...But you're human too...your flaws will believe me.
Im a human there is nothing great about me. There are 6 billion others just like me.
Im human......thats the worst thing about me.
Its all my fault.......... it always will be.
I created the god that created me.
Im only human but I expect more of me.
weak and fragile...hurt so easily.
Im only human and its not easy
Im only human.....please forgive me.
My New Year's resolution:
... ignore the fact that it's a "new" year. The day itself: looked, strangely enough, a lot like the one after. Or the one I recall from last year.
Anyway, I thought: meaning is the problem, so removing any, from what is "just another rotation of planet earth", is thus a valid option.
It's actually going to be last year all over again, with a slightly different cast and storyline. Like a movie that gets resurrected and the new director adds a few scenes and cuts one or two from the "old" version.
But I already got my ticket, so here goes. Maybe I'll get what the plot's supposed to be this time.
... ignore the fact that it's a "new" year. The day itself: looked, strangely enough, a lot like the one after. Or the one I recall from last year.
Anyway, I thought: meaning is the problem, so removing any, from what is "just another rotation of planet earth", is thus a valid option.
It's actually going to be last year all over again, with a slightly different cast and storyline. Like a movie that gets resurrected and the new director adds a few scenes and cuts one or two from the "old" version.
But I already got my ticket, so here goes. Maybe I'll get what the plot's supposed to be this time.
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Hey all 
So..ive been a member of these forums since something like 2003. I've decided to start posting again and looks as though it's gotten even more interesting! Anyway, I enjoy writing a lot, so I thought I'd post one of my poems I wrote 1-2 years ago. Once I get off work I'm going to read through some of these poems you guys have posted.
This Dark Dungeon
Never again could I go back to this dark dungeon, where people, in ignorance, lock themselves in and throw away the key. Happy with their dwelling, they mistake darkness for light. They live in a dream, forever distinguishing black from white.
Most happy with discrimination, separating what is "right" from what's "wrong," while some others set to searching, sensing these boundaries wearing their soul. Soon they find out they no longer have to search, things are as they are and do not have to be touched. There need not be a separate reality, devised in their heads; this false sense of light that we always are fed.
Don't get me wrong, I've only seen few of these people; who have reached into their soul and followed it to freedom. They have found the key and gotten themselves out, instead of mistaking appearances for reality and living in clouds.
The clouds are many in this very diverse world, with parading beliefs and religions and ideas for sale. Systems of virtue and sin are created, with some people being virtuous and others nearly hated. They continue mistaking these games for what is absolute, likewise mistaking ignorance for truth.
So when truth comes knocking at their door they call it insanity, lost in endless webs of their god and profanity. Talk is easy in this world but much less is action, when we become locked in this dungeon of self-satisfaction.
The world is vast and open for those who are chosen, who have seen past this dungeon and whose souls are made golden.
Inside a soul is a whole other world; when getting to know one we become a god ourselves. We find the true light and can direct winds of change; seeing things for what they are, never again locked in a cage.
My heart rests with those who shut off their minds and open their eyes, who stopped dividing concepts like right and wrong with firm lines. Who have stopped pointing out what they think is sane and what's crazy, who have stopped thinking their wealth will never cease to amaze me. Seeing things for what they are they know lifestyles can change, that this world we live in imprisons us with chains.
For this world is nothing more than the produce of imagination, full of games and institutions only for feeding its creation. People in this dungeon crawl further into its darkness, when it causes them to create fear and false security as an oasis.
Because they know not their own ignorance but only their own games, little do they know what role reality plays. Little do they know the darkenss that lies all around them, how could they as they live in this dungeon, having mistaken it for heaven.
So..ive been a member of these forums since something like 2003. I've decided to start posting again and looks as though it's gotten even more interesting! Anyway, I enjoy writing a lot, so I thought I'd post one of my poems I wrote 1-2 years ago. Once I get off work I'm going to read through some of these poems you guys have posted.This Dark Dungeon
Never again could I go back to this dark dungeon, where people, in ignorance, lock themselves in and throw away the key. Happy with their dwelling, they mistake darkness for light. They live in a dream, forever distinguishing black from white.
Most happy with discrimination, separating what is "right" from what's "wrong," while some others set to searching, sensing these boundaries wearing their soul. Soon they find out they no longer have to search, things are as they are and do not have to be touched. There need not be a separate reality, devised in their heads; this false sense of light that we always are fed.
Don't get me wrong, I've only seen few of these people; who have reached into their soul and followed it to freedom. They have found the key and gotten themselves out, instead of mistaking appearances for reality and living in clouds.
The clouds are many in this very diverse world, with parading beliefs and religions and ideas for sale. Systems of virtue and sin are created, with some people being virtuous and others nearly hated. They continue mistaking these games for what is absolute, likewise mistaking ignorance for truth.
So when truth comes knocking at their door they call it insanity, lost in endless webs of their god and profanity. Talk is easy in this world but much less is action, when we become locked in this dungeon of self-satisfaction.
The world is vast and open for those who are chosen, who have seen past this dungeon and whose souls are made golden.
Inside a soul is a whole other world; when getting to know one we become a god ourselves. We find the true light and can direct winds of change; seeing things for what they are, never again locked in a cage.
My heart rests with those who shut off their minds and open their eyes, who stopped dividing concepts like right and wrong with firm lines. Who have stopped pointing out what they think is sane and what's crazy, who have stopped thinking their wealth will never cease to amaze me. Seeing things for what they are they know lifestyles can change, that this world we live in imprisons us with chains.
For this world is nothing more than the produce of imagination, full of games and institutions only for feeding its creation. People in this dungeon crawl further into its darkness, when it causes them to create fear and false security as an oasis.
Because they know not their own ignorance but only their own games, little do they know what role reality plays. Little do they know the darkenss that lies all around them, how could they as they live in this dungeon, having mistaken it for heaven.
