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The Poetry Thread!

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I like to write poetry every once in a while, so I though I might as well have a place to put it. Post any poetry you like here.


My love of life,

Shall not exceed,

My passion to find destiny,

So if I must,

I shall prepare,

To breathe my final breath of air,

To know is solely,

All I crave,

For what may lie beyond the grave,

And if I choose,

To take my life,

I pray for existence free of strife,

Will you come,

To join me there,

Where we may frolic with no cares?

Or do you fear,

To leave your home,

To fear that you shall die alone?

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Heres something I came up with some time ago, might make a story out of it


Here I sleep, long have I rest

Wake me up if your distress

Speak my name, brake the spell and I'll release you from your hell

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Two brothers named Wong couldn't quite

Pull off their first aeroplane flight

When their rig crashed and burned

They finally learned

Two Wongs never could make a Wright.


I love limericks.

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@Sublime Nice, and it's cool to see the old Epsilon avitar.


@Spike Try harder, DAMMIT!


To feel the pounding all around,

Great explosions following your every move,

To know that every person will not hesitate,

To kill You,


It is a frightening feeling assured,

But to kill under such stress,

With the simple pull of a trigger,

Is merely instinct.


But to feel anger and hatred within your soul,

And to rip and tear with one's own hands,

To hear the screams of terror and agony,

As flesh is torn from flesh,

Is a horror all it's own.


One soul cannot bear the burden,

Of another's life.


So to wake up from a fit of rage,

And find yourself with bloodied hands,

Knowing that your life is stained,

With evil wine that can't be cleaned,

A sense of being lost rises,

And torments your very core,

For now you are the criminal,

In a crime of passion.

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lol Mass Effect


'My soul




With a fire of darkness


Quenched only in the pain


Of loneliness


I hold my breath waiting


Until spots appear black as the past


And fill my lungs up with lies of hope


I mark myself


Black and jagged


To cover the scars


That make me a monster


A warning


This is not a place of honor


No esteemed dead are buried here'





'Breathless, glinting skin


Muscles working in rhythm


Cloaked desire watches



Looking at me now


His indifferent eyes smile


I am a puddle



Beautiful and good


Punishing with his kindness


Jacob is perfect'

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With bony hands I hold my partner

On soulless feet we cross the floor

The music stops as if to answer

An empty knocking at the door


It seems his skin was sweet as mango

When last I held him to my breast

But now we dance this grim fandango

And will four years before we rest.


It's a poem from Grim Fandango.

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A Life,

Vast in its existance,

Rests upon a hallowed grave,

Growing evil,

Fills where the life once lay,

Marked upon time, lifeless with no end

Where his life ended

My life begins

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I am me who is him who is him who is me

and my I it is me not you.

If someone else was me it could be you

who was me if I wasn’t me.

It’s obvious it’s nice I quickly went

and became singular in first person.

It is sad for anyone who has birth trouble(s)

and walks around and isn’t anyone.


There are some who are some who have forgotten who they were

although they are what they were when they came,

for they came when they became what they were and they were

what they became, if you turn it around.

But if anyone is no one and no one is him,

who is unborn and therefore lost,

can he not demand life again

as he isn’t created.


I am happy I am me for if no one was me

it wasn’t me who was happy,

and if no one was happy to be like I

it is sad and I don’t know what.

But if you are born as a pawn in a game

and our Lord is playing a game

where he asks who you think you should be and want,

it is obvious I’d rather be me.

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My friendo and I used to play poetry, I would think up a sentence and he will follow up, and at the end we would have PAGES of funny poetry :D Being that English isn't our native language, that's good.

I also write poetry on Serbian, you can check it out on aprofondir.wordpress.com

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Instead of drinking water,

They gave me thinking water;

now I’m really smart.


And instead of ice cream,

They gave me nice cream;

now I’ve got a big heart.


Instead of hot sauce,

They gave me snot sauce;

now my tongue is gooey when I talk.


And instead of candy bars

They gave me sandy bars;

now my mouth is full of rocks.


And instead of tribal stories,

They read me Bible stories;

now I want to be a preacher


And instead of Kool-Aid

They gave me school aid,

but I still don’t like my teacher.

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All right, have at thee! Here's four of mine.



Chrome Heart

Chrome Heart!

Order yours today

Burnished gilt

Warranty included

Ready to wear

No polish necessary

Durable, and so



Your friends won't know

It's not real.



I stay up late

With dripping rain for company

In a shrinking square box

While others sleep

Dreaming of things

That aren't there

And I read

And I read

The Book of Night

With Moon.



If I tangoed

Up to you

Would you waltz

In my company

Would we trip

The light fantastic

Or would you stand

Against the wall

Afraid to join

In the symphony -


Doesn't matter


I can't




I can’t touch you without wondering if you’ll scream

This time.

I’m too timid, now, to reach for you at night.

Knowing what can happen

The wrong word

An accidental sound

The simplest positioning

Of bodies

And you’re off

And running

Running away from me

Crawling back inside yourself


Until you remember where you are

– Not there –

You remember who you’re with

– Not them –

You’re safe again

Sane again




Until the next time.

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Not a fan of poetry, or any form of literature that isn't narrative fiction. But of course the only way I could express this to my English teacher was through poem


A Self-Referential Poem

An English class's poems are not the best

In any way I could imagine it.

I would instead first take a pointless test

than read some trash from T. S. Eliot.

They make no sense and have no structured form

No rules or guides that show their clever mind

And don't beleive there is a standard norm.

What is the challenge of work not confined

To certain words in certain spots in rhyme?

This sonnet written in iambic pent

Has surely taken much more work and time

Than stupid, lousy free verse would have spent.

I never liked it and I never will

For it gets no respect when there's no skill



I'll try it.

Maybe there's something to it.

There are plenty of people famous for it.

I mean, just look at how I'm structuring this section!

The steady increase of syllables per line represents a sudden flow

of information in the form of an epiphany. And I ended a line mid-sentence!


this is strange

I'm not sure I like it

or know how it works


should I

keep using it?


I think I'll stop using free verse,

for obvious reasons, of course;

(and to make it stick

I wrote in limerick)

I don't think there is a thing worse.

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I felt I should post in this thread,

Although there is naught to be said.

Push the button, did I,

That said "post reply";

But at this point my wit has gone dead.

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I felt I should post in this thread,

Although there is naught to be said.

Push the button, did I,

That said "post reply";

But at this point my wit has gone dead.

That was excellent!

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A southern girl looking for fun,

Made a black man her number 1,

But when she went black,

She never went back,

And that's when her dad bought a gun.

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This is what happens when I produce the kind of poetry that rhymes. Wrote this during one of my better "episodes" circa the early 90's. It's unpleasantly autobiogaphical. (Actually, so are the other poems I've posted here.)


The Man Who Wasn't There


On my way to Middling-fair,

I met a man who wasn't there

I did not see him as we sat,

And ate, and had the oddest chat:


"I am not really here," said he,

"My many masks are all you'll see,

Though you may know me all your days,

On my true form you'll never gaze.


My masks are not the sort one wears,

With plastic eyes and clownish hair,

Mine are the kind that hide the soul,

And let the wearer play his role.


One day jolly, two days sad,

Three confused and four days mad,

Adventurer or merry clown,

I've even one with a thorny crown.


Masks aplenty, masks galore,

Every day brings one mask more

Masks to hide your hopes and fears,

Pain or pleasure, joy or tears.


Masks of wisdom, masks of fate,

Some for love, while others hate,

Masks for work and masks for play,

Masks in which to spend all day.


To hide beneath a mask was fun,

As lover, brother, friend, and son,

I piled on mask, and mask again,

Until they fit better than skin-


But then, one day, I came to see

My masks are all that's left of me,

For while a mask can gain renown,

The man inside is breaking down.


Though I thought I was safely hid,

With each new mask, part of me fled,

And now I live in grim despair...


For I'm a man who isn't there."

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If you catch a Chinchilla in Chile,

And cut off its beard willy-nilly,

You can honestly say

That you have just made

A Chilean Chinchilla's chin chilly.

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