NationStates Jolt Archive

I have been on these forums before, just under a different nation. I know there are plenty of emos on here, or simply people who enjoy depressing poetry. I just wrote this an hour ago, and this is my first piece of poetry in which I actually wanted to write it. Tell me what you think, and post your own poetry!

The Mirror

When you see yourself in the mirror, what do you think?
Do you hate what you see in the mirror?
Do you grow angry at what you see in the mirror?
Do you yell at what you see in the mirror?
Do you smash what you see in the mirror?
Do you bleed because of what you see in the mirror?
Do you not care that you bleed because of what you see in the mirror?
Do you grow happy as the mirror grows dark?
Do you grow happy as the world grows dark?
Do you grow happy as you can no longer see in the mirror?
Are you happy as what you've seen in the mirror finally fades into nothing?
Are you happy as a wonderful peace is obtained?
Are you happy as you believe the mirror is gone?
Are you happy as you find yourself alone with what's in the mirror?

Wipe away the ballyhoo
Leaving it's glistening dew
To mark its presence
It's effervescence
Wash away the calls a plenty
To depart the humble hills
To seek out illusive thrills
Stay here and enjoy the view
Wipe away the ballyhoo

I have been on these forums before, just under a different nation. I know there are plenty of emos on here, or simply people who enjoy depressing poetry. I just wrote this an hour ago, and this is my first piece of poetry in which I actually wanted to write it. Tell me what you think, and post your own poetry!

The Mirror

When you see yourself in the mirror, what do you think?
Do you hate what you see in the mirror?
Do you grow angry at what you see in the mirror?
Do you yell at what you see in the mirror?
Do you smash what you see in the mirror?
Do you bleed because of what you see in the mirror?
Do you not care that you bleed because of what you see in the mirror?
Do you grow happy as the mirror grows dark?
Do you grow happy as the world grows dark?
Do you grow happy as you can no longer see in the mirror?
Are you happy as what you've seen in the mirror finally fades into nothing?
Are you happy as a wonderful peace is obtained?
Are you happy as you believe the mirror is gone?
Are you happy as you find yourself alone with what's in the mirror?

Nice idea. But the rythum of the thing doesn't do it for me. Six lines with the same last word doesn't work. Maybe three lines done so would be interesting, but this number seems a little OTT. Perhaps if you just left the simularities at the beginning of the lines, with the 'do you's and the 'are you happy's. Then rhyme the end, and it would have a good feel to it. Just for me each line has too many words the same for anything but a slightly stop-start feel to it. Work on it though, and it could be very good. :)

Here's a pretty depressing poem I have written. Not sure if it is quite what you are looking for, but take a look:

A Cruel God

Boldly boldly riding onwards,
Shining knights in their crusade,
God is with them, oh the glory!
Tremble they who resist their God.

Boldly boldly marching onwards,
Rugged soldiers in their crusade,
Shouldered weapons, bullet flying,
Flying downwards death from above.

What a caring, all loving God,
Needing, calling for my blood,
Commandments meant for just us men,
But hey; rules are made to be broken…

Apart.
And who is He to command me?
What does He know of love and hate,
Of the honour and glory he so craves.

You sit upon your golden throne,
Thou art the lord to be sure,
Calling for us to “keep our end up”,
Give it a rest, I know your game.

You’re nothing more than a spectre, a spook,
Worth nothing more than the whistle of wind,
Through the bullet hole in my thigh.



I think a have a couple more if you want them.

I’ve captured unicorns in flight
Through twilights purple skies
Danced with Aphrodite as
I gazed into her eyes

I’ve been intrigued by whispering angels
Frozen by the breath of the Divine
Made love atop soft silver clouds
Built castles from the sands of time

In a breath I’ve taken in the
Scent of all that perfumes Eden
Bathed in glistening moonlight
Transformed rainbows into seasons

Mythic journeys through the heavens
Have never taken me as high
As the magic of her presence or the
Sparkle in her eyes

She is my goddess of love and beauty
She is my Lord Divine
Enchanting as the blackest rose
Yet radiant as sunshine

She has the smile of an angel
A butterfly’s gentle touch
‘Tis she who mystifies my dreams
I’ve come to love so much

I find myself returning to the
Streams of liquid light
Condemned to suffer once again
Amidst that ghostly winter night

Forbidden love concealed in shadows
Haunting secrets unrevealed
Despair and sorrow fill my eyes for
She knows not how I feel

Here's a pretty depressing poem I have written. Not sure if it is quite what you are looking for, but take a look:

A Cruel God

Oooh, I like. I've done similar stuff, except I generally write lyrics rather than raw poetry.

ooo i like this thread
i don't think i can write poetry tho, it always seems to come out like im writing pop music

scream girl scream
do you think that'll make you feel better?
everybody's screams sound the same
another face in the crowd
shake, scream it, shake
limp and useless

in a crowded room
you're just one of them
no room to move
no sounds can be heard

except for the collective screams of a hundred thousand others like you. all trapped in the room. bright sunny days shine through the windows, and starry starry nights by dark. every single one of you sees the scenes, the unknown happiness beyond the room. but only those on the edge will ever find a way out. the rest, claustrophobic and clustered in the middle will only spend the rest of their lives oppressed by the storm clouds over their heads. for the ones inside forever, their only purpose is to live to see the sun come up on the world outside the room. and when you get sick of that there's only one place to go...
so dont bother screaming


[crap. im sorry. its emo-y to the point of embarrassment isnt it. should i put in something about kittens?]

On The Outside

On The Outside
Looking inside
Solitude brings
Silent screams
But no one hears
And no one cares
Living in Pain
Suicide seems sane

(Written long ago, better now. :))

I think a have a couple more if you want them.
Yes please. Put some more up!

This is original poetry of mine. I write under a penname at Fanfiction Sanctuary.

Weeping Willow
by Kryozerkia (aka, Chikita)
Weeping Willow (http://ffsanctuary.net/viewstory.php?sid=1069)

The sighing branches
Dripping with fresh rain
The rain of despair and melancholy
As branches are broken from her
By ignorant vandals
Who joyously relish in her pain
Gleefully laughing at her anguishing
Celebrating her suffering
Only in the end to feel empty

Each leaf, each twig
No matter lack of size
They are her precious children
To whom she has given life
She breathes life into them
Lovingly nurturing them
Embracing them
Sheltering them from coldness
As wind whips around her

The sanctuary of her grasp
The serenity of her beauty
Shattered…
Blood drips from her hands
Tears of anguish falling
Rain falls around her
Landing on her fallen children
Broken and left for death
Muddy, cold and alone

She stands in the blood
Weeping for her children
Her heart is torn out
No one is near; she is alone
Even her allies
Offering soft words of assurance
Provide no solace in her hurt
She is truly alone
Her children stolen from her

Her tear stained face
Contorted in pain
Her broken heart
Left in ruins at her feet
Her beautiful eyes
Full of shock
Her elegant hands
Coated by her salty tears
Tell of her loss of hope

Her branches furl back
Her protective nature
Embracing her children
Holding them close
For her, her life
They are all she has
They are her life

its welling up,
light to dark,
darting around,
deeper closes.

down they go,
staring softly,
ready for a flood,
or a light rain.

each one fallen,
brings more,
until the well runs dry,
and then its over.

they clear,
opened strong,
straight stare,
brilliant circles.

My mind bleeds,
As eternal youth,
Becomes sudden death,
The gun to my head,
Trigger pulled tight,
I close my eyes,
But then decide not to,
For I am an Emo and I am proud,
So I go out and hire a hooker because I cant do any better,
But I am an Emo and she still beats me to death with her dick.

What Grounds Do I Exist On?

I am an author of many stories and a girl trying to make peace with herself
I wonder if life is just one big question worthy of no answer
I hear the rain on my window
I see the bird protecting it’s kin
I want people to accept me even with my many flaws
I am an author of many stories and a girl trying to make peace with herself

I pretend that I am alone in this world
I feel distanced from my own self
I touch the heart of the ones long past
I worry if it all has meaning
I cry for a dear friend found only in memory
I am an author of many stories and a girl trying to make peace with herself

I understand that I am not alone
I say that truth is merely a fable
I dream that one day the perfect one will come
I try to be at peace with the events of time
I hope that one day I will understand the meaning of death
I am an author of many stories and a girl trying to make peace with herself


Wrote it for school. Don't like it to much but it's kind of depressing I guess.:confused:

I've built a wall around myself.
High, thick, and strong.
I've been working on it for years
It keeps out those who would hurt,
Those who don't understand.

But it doesn't keep out the pain
It doesn't keep out the lonliness
It doesn't keep out the darkness.

Did my wall create the darkness. or was it always there?
I can't tell anymore.
It doesn't matter.
I need my wall.
I hate my wall.

But you can break through my wall if you try,
If you want to.
Please want to.
For although I can't say it, that's what I need.
I need someone to break through.

It's OK,
I can wait.
My wall and I will still be here.

--Wrote that arouind about 1982. I was 14 or 15.

There was a cute little bunny,
So cute and sweet and cute.

Then he got cancer and AIDS and died.
Horribly.


It's free verse.

There was a cute little bunny,
So cute and sweet and cute.

Then he got cancer and AIDS and died.
Horribly.


It's free verse.

it should be published...

There was a cute little bunny,
So cute and sweet and cute.

Then he got cancer and AIDS and died.
Horribly.


It's free verse.

LOL definately the work of a genius
that's worth a book deal, for sure

How's about "Midterm Break" by Seamus Heaney. One of my favourite poems.

sat all morning in the college sick bay
Counting bells knelling classes to a close.
At two o'clock our neighbors drove me home.

In the porch I met my father crying--
He had always taken funerals in his stride--
And Big Jim Evans saying it was a hard blow.

The baby cooed and laughed and rocked the pram
When I came in, and I was embarrassed
By old men standing up to shake my hand

And tell me they were "sorry for my trouble,"
Whispers informed strangers I was the eldest,
Away at school, as my mother held my hand

In hers and coughed out angry tearless sighs.
At ten o'clock the ambulance arrived
With the corpse, stanched and bandaged by the nurses.

Next morning I went up into the room. Snowdrops
And candles soothed the bedside; I saw him
For the first time in six weeks. Paler now,

Wearing a poppy bruise on his left temple,
He lay in the four foot box as in his cot.
No gaudy scars, the bumper knocked him clear.

A four foot box, a foot for every year.

Thout shalt not stop the poets!

The Scars

What do you think when you see the scars?
That I'm some kind of freak?
That I'm just looking for attention?

Do you think that I'm weak?
Searching for a way out of this misery?
And I take the easiest way out?

Do you think that I'm a coward?
That I don't dare face the real world?
That I'm afraid to face myself and my life?

Then I think to myself
Have you faced the real world?
Have you faced yourself and your life?

I have faced the real world
It is not what you'd like
It's not perfect, not like we think

I have faced myself
And I hated what I saw
We're not perfect, not like we think

I have faced my life
I then knew why I hated the rest
For there, I saw the scars that could not be seen

As I looked upon my life and my self, I then felt the pain
Of the scars which could not be seen
And there, I found pain which none have felt

Why don't you try it?
For you will see, it offers solace
From the pain from the scars which can not be seen

So unless you have lived my life, hush.
For the scars on the outside
Are nothing compared to those on the inside.

From Blake's Auguries of Innocence:

Some to misery are born.
Every morn and every night
Some are born to sweet delight.
Some are born to sweet delight,
Some are born to endless night.

Every night I lie awake and ask myself
I don't want to be alone, not again
Who was there when I needed help
Where was my only friend

I think back to my lonliest hours
Escaping inside myself, trying to run away
I cannot escape that I'm a coward
I close my eyes and begin to pray

Slowly the sun begins to raise
and I quit my prayer
Lean up and open my eyes
Into the sun I begin to stare

Another day is another time to live
Another chance to repent
My friend I shall forgive
Only to end of my self contempt

--Fuck sappy self loathing BS--

When you are cut

When you are cut,
You will bleed.
You will bleed until you either heal or run dry.
But when the flesh is soul and the knife is words,
Who can heal the intangible and
How could an ocean run dry?

Writing depressing poetry is like taking a really satisfying shit...right into your cheerios.

Poetry is an expression of emotions in words. Without depressing poetry, there would be no point in uplifting poetry, just as with emotions.

Another poem:

True Love?


I feel as if I have known you all my life,
Standing together through all the strife,
Two bodies huddled together against the cold,
When I’m with you I feel so bold.

Three years ago we met today,
I’d never felt this way
Before, but you were done we me,
Even as you open my eyes to see.

That night was magical, I know,
But it only seemed to end in woe,
You left me cold, all alone,
Listening to your answering tone.

One year later, I hadn’t forgotten,
My heart felt shrivelled and rotten,
There was nothing I could do,
But wait and hope to see you.

This morning you returned,
But I was angry, my heart you’d spurned.
You begged forgiveness; you wanted a second chance,
And I let you in because…

As we lie together, side by side
I listen to the sound of your breathing-
And I smile; you may want nothing of me
But a place to stay, and sex for free,
But I don’t care because…

I love you.

When you are cut

When you are cut,
You will bleed.
You will bleed until you either heal or run dry.
But when the flesh is soul and the knife is words,
Who can heal the intangible and
How could an ocean run dry?

This one, I like.

This one, I like.Thankyou. :)

There was a cute little bunny,
So cute and sweet and cute.

Then he got cancer and AIDS and died.
Horribly.


It's free verse.
You win the thread. :)

When you are cut

When you are cut,
You will bleed.
You will bleed until you either heal or run dry.
But when the flesh is soul and the knife is words,
Who can heal the intangible and
How could an ocean run dry?

That one perfectly describes how I felt in the past few weeks... do you have more like it?

That one perfectly describes how I felt in the past few weeks... do you have more like it?
When to be Lonesome

After long and serious contemplation,
I have come to the conclusion
That being lonesome
When I'm alone
Is still more fun
Than being lonesome
When I'm not.

That one perfectly describes how I felt in the past few weeks... do you have more like it?
Well now, it seems some of us here are more dark/depressed then we'd like to admit.

This is one of my friends.

Key to a Door

They come in the mornings
They come at night
They come in the dark
They come in the light

They make me feel sick
They won’t leave me alone
They will follow me anywhere
They seem to have grown

I keep my thoughts to myself
But it hurts even more
They whisper my name
They mention a door

All I need is the key
They point to a knife
I ask for the door
They point to my life

They tell me to insert the key
As they point to me
I go blind for an instant
But the solution I see
The solution to my problems
That have been bothering me
Too late, they say
As blood stains the floor
Too late, they say
The key has opened the door

Well now, it seems some of us here are more dark/depressed then we'd like to admit.

I think it's the other way around.

When to be Lonesome

After long and serious contemplation,
I have come to the conclusion
That being lonesome
When I'm alone
Is still more fun
Than being lonesome
When I'm not.

Have you ever felt like you wanted to be lonesome, but simply couldn't any more?

Well now, it seems some of us here are more dark/depressed then we'd like to admit.

I did admit to that... and seriously annoyed some people on here with it. But it's a lot better now ;)

Have you ever felt like you wanted to be lonesome, but simply couldn't any more?Yeah. This poem is based on me being at parties that I didn't feel welcome at, though.

Perhaps you kids should make another thread for Bad Goth Poetry?

Yeah. This poem is based on me being at parties that I didn't feel welcome at, though.

Oh, I know that feeling. Although I have to admit that I sometimes have a way of feeling not welcome even though I am...

Oh, I know that feeling. Although I have to admit that I sometimes have a way of feeling not welcome even though I am...No, its turned out that I wasn't welcome to some of these parties...:p
So much for my paranoia; my feelings were right.

Iceberg

The doom
of many a ship,
sailing or steaming
across icy waters,
has been the iceberg,
because no one,
no one at all,
had the wisdom
to look beneath the surface.

It's not much different with people.

Perhaps you kids should make another thread for Bad Goth Poetry?

I haven't seen any of that on this thread, I mean we're treading close but a good portion of it is actually thoughtful and has meaning aside from the...

"I hate my parents" "My girl dumped me." "Razorblades" etc etc

I haven't seen any of that on this thread, I mean we're treading close but a good portion of it is actually thoughtful and has meaning aside from the...

"I hate my parents" "My girl dumped me." "Razorblades" etc etc
You see, that's the difference between Emos and Goths. Emos complain about their parents, and the fact they got dumped. Goths complain about the big picture, how life just entirely sucks, what's the fucking point of anything, nothing will matter when I'm dead anyways sort of stuff. In other words, Goths are like the ocean, while emos are like a kiddy pool.

No, its turned out that I wasn't welcome to some of these parties...:p
So much for my paranoia; my feelings were right.

Iceberg

The doom
of many a ship,
sailing or steaming
across icy waters,
has been the iceberg,
because no one,
no one at all,
had the wisdom
to look beneath the surface.

It's not much different with people.

I've liked all three of these so far...

Is the short, sharp format deliberate, or organic?

I haven't seen any of that on this thread, I mean we're treading close but a good portion of it is actually thoughtful and has meaning aside from the...

"I hate my parents" "My girl dumped me." "Razorblades" etc etc


I saw a poem about razorblades, at least by implication.

Depressing poetry is poetry which makes you depressed, not poetry that kids write because they're depressed.

You see, that's the difference between Emos and Goths. Emos complain about their parents, and the fact they got dumped. Goths complain about the big picture, how life just entirely sucks, what's the fucking point of anything, nothing will matter when I'm dead anyways sort of stuff. In other words, Goths are like the ocean, while emos are like a kiddy pool.


Or, to be more accurate in our metaphors, goths are flush
toilets and emo kids are urinals.

The distinction between "goths" and "emos" is the same between "preps" and "jocks". Even though the whole categorizing thing is just hilarious. What ever happened to being an individual?

The distinction between "goths" and "emos" is the same between "preps" and "jocks". Even though the whole categorizing thing is just hilarious. What ever happened to being an individual?
Yeaaaaaaaah.... I used to be very individual. Then came Middle School. With Middle School came peer pressure. Then I turned into an Emo for the second part of 7th grade. Then sometime during the summer I turned to Goth. Now in 8th grade I'm still a goth.

Cripes, that's what I was -- an emo. We didn't have that term back then. I was emo before you kids were even born. I friggin' invented emo.

Depressing poetry...anything you need to read for GCSEs.

I have nothing against poetry but when the teachers rave on about the form and how it was supposed to be like that I feel the urge to scream with anguish.

Hey.... Yeah... I could use some poetical inspiration! Can anyone supply me with any?

I'm not kidding when I say I need this, people! GIVE ME POETICAL INSPIRATION!

write about not having any poetical inspiration...??
been done i know

or write about doing something naughty but you get caught
like sneaking drinks from your parents spirit cupboard
[always fun]

write about death, dying, storm clouds,stuff that breaks, broken hearts, dodgy people, people who treat other people badly
make a metaphor out of something normal
write a parody of emos
lol i tried that myself once - turned out like a david attenborough documentary
thats all i got right now

I've liked all three of these so far...

Is the short, sharp format deliberate, or organic?Quite deliberate. I prefer making my poetry snappy. I love rhymes too, but they restrict me too much to actually express emotions so I haven't really got any rhymes.

Quite deliberate. I prefer making my poetry snappy. I love rhymes too, but they restrict me too much to actually express emotions so I haven't really got any rhymes.

More or less the same here. I don't really like long poems, not because they are more to read (should be an advantage, really), but poetry to me is about saying something in a few, very well chosen words but being much more to the point with 5 lines than with 25

It's not too depressing actually:

Where a drunk cries out for his lost love
and a nihilist finds solace in nothing
there tonight something is born
Between the guiltridden and the doubttorn
the dying fire of a lonely dream
finds a path to smolder in

More or less the same here. I don't really like long poems, not because they are more to read (should be an advantage, really), but poetry to me is about saying something in a few, very well chosen words but being much more to the point with 5 lines than with 25I have a couple longer ones, for when I want to tell more of a story or build up to something:
Your Dream

You dream:
You walk along a cobblestone street
at night,
in a city,
no, an alley even.

You look ahead and see a cobbled bridge,
and on that bridge,
a crumpled heap of tattered rags.

Memory returns: You are responsible for that crumpled heap.
Bit it is more than just rags: a person.
You struck the person,
no, your adversary-
"They deserved it!"
-down.

You stop only to quicken your pace-
"Are they alright?"
"They should have known better than to provoke me!"
-it is obvious that you retaliated, that you deserve no blame.

You reach the rags on the bridge.
You reach down to lift the hood that covers the face.
Doubt stays your hand-
"Am I sure I did no wrong?"
-but it is too late to turn back.
The hood reveals, in pale moonlight,
that the person struck down,
lying nigh lifeless on the wet cobblestones...

...was you.

(and your accusations ring all the clearer)

But some are incredibly short:
Bitter

When something tastes bitter,
Spit it out.
Bitterness is a sure sign of poison.

hey im glad this thread's still going, coz its making me write

prepare to fly away
crouch and jump
spread your wings and soar

but you are no superhero
nothing special here
a fatal chilling crash to the floor

Sorry but I'm tired of writing depressing poetry, did it for like a year straight.

The Proud and Lonely

O how I admire those who stand alone
Those who carry all their own
The person who fights and dies
A simple life clear from lies
Behind their cold and bitter stare
Stands alone a person worthy of prayer
Above all else they hold their pride
To which they shall never cast aside
And when the end has come and they are all alone
Toward Valhalla they shall roam
Where the gods and heros of ancient lore wait
For the person who stood alone

I have become of those who stand alone
Those who carry all their own
I wish to fight and die
So the pain might subside
Behind my cold and bitter stare
Stands a child frightened and scared
Above all else I have held my pride
Trying to subtle the pain inside
And when the end has come and I am all alone
It is Midgard I shall roam
Where no one waits with open arms
For the person who stood alone

There's more but those are my favorite parts.

Quite deliberate. I prefer making my poetry snappy. I love rhymes too, but they restrict me too much to actually express emotions so I haven't really got any rhymes.

I tend to find rhymes easy, without harming my intent... so I compose more rhyming than non-rhyming... I think.

I've never really mastered the short poem, though... I think I once wrote an 8-liner...?

heres some lyrical poetry:

Running this labirynth The walls look the same The turns so familiar My minds caving in Some one help me, please help me //This stuggle im facing Keeps erasing all i know I cant see clearly anymore Every turn shaking Breaking, breaking// It doesnt matter If i run or crawl Nothing changes at all Fatigued from the strain Drained of all that remains //This struggle im facing Keeps erasing all i know I cant see clearly anymore Every turn shaking Breaking, breaking// I cant keep from weeping These tears pouring From years of madness Stuck in a cage of sadness These screams you hear Come from the heart Thats tired of beating //This struggle im facing Keeps erasing all i know I cant see clearly anymore Every turn shaking Breaking, breaking// No use lying in this puddle I have to find a way out Some way to take away the pain All that drives me insane If i stay ill fade to grey Make the next turn Find the way away

Happy Ever After


The stars forgot to sparkle, and the rainbows never came,
Until she sold her treasures, for another punctured vein.
A broken powder compact, for a 'mirror on the wall'.
She can't remember when she was the fairest of them all.

Glass slippers, turned to callused feet. A ballgown, left in tatters.
Her carriage, drawn by sewer rats. Her fairytale lies shattered.
The kiss, to break enchanted sleep, awakened so much more...
Her handsome prince became a toad. Princess became a whore.

Her dreams have fled, like gingerbread. Her life became the fox.
Her castle in the clouds, dissolved, to leave a rain-soaked box,
In the garbage, in an alley, where she shivered, bled and screamed.
A baby in a carboard box. This wasn't what she dreamed.

So, take the needles. Take the child, and leave her on her knees.
And, salve the symptoms, if you can... but, never the disease.
Somehow, something must be missing. Somehow, all the effort fail,
And, we give our children horror-shows, instead of fairytales.

And, before you judge, remember... all she dreamed of was a kiss...
And, some 'happy ever after'. No, she never wanted this.

Happy Ever After


The stars forgot to sparkle, and the rainbows never came,
Until she sold her treasures, for another punctured vein.
A broken powder compact, for a 'mirror on the wall'.
She can't remember when she was the fairest of them all.

Glass slippers, turned to callused feet. A ballgown, left in tatters.
Her carriage, drawn by sewer rats. Her fairytale lies shattered.
The kiss, to break enchanted sleep, awakened so much more...
Her handsome prince became a toad. Princess became a whore.

Her dreams have fled, like gingerbread. Her life became the fox.
Her castle in the clouds, dissolved, to leave a rain-soaked box,
In the garbage, in an alley, where she shivered, bled and screamed.
A baby in a carboard box. This wasn't what she dreamed.

So, take the needles. Take the child, and leave her on her knees.
And, salve the symptoms, if you can... but, never the disease.
Somehow, something must be missing. Somehow, all the effort fail,
And, we give our children horror-shows, instead of fairytales.

And, before you judge, remember... all she dreamed of was a kiss...
And, some 'happy ever after'. No, she never wanted this.
Nice one.

Nice one.

Thanks. Coming from you (since I've already openly applauded your work), that is high praise.

Thanks. Coming from you (since I've already openly applauded your work), that is high praise.I haven't had the mindset for working on a rhyming poem, and I'm impressed when someone manages to bring things across in a slightly restricted form.

I've never really been much of a poet, actually. Those all came about in the last year due to the breakup with my ex.

No, its turned out that I wasn't welcome to some of these parties...:p
So much for my paranoia; my feelings were right.

Iceberg

The doom
of many a ship,
sailing or steaming
across icy waters,
has been the iceberg,
because no one,
no one at all,
had the wisdom
to look beneath the surface.

It's not much different with people.

I have a poem with the same title. One I wrote for a special lady at a time when I was rather depressed and very much in love with her.

“Iceberg”

I still remember the first time
I saw an iceberg. I was sitting
In the front of a kayak full of furs,
Inuit hunters tilling the ice behind.
In the floe-covered water stood a wonder.
Ice, cold and clean, beautiful broken lines
In the still thin air that burned at my hide.
Inuit hunters felt the awe that pelted my mind,
Informed me that the true treasure lay in the deep.
In that moment the kayak overturned on a hidden flow,
Instantly throwing me into the waters that froze,
Interred me in what would become a grave so that cold
Inclinations might die with me as I beheld the depth and breadth
In my eyes. Ice, cold and clean, slept beneath the surface, and
I knew that what lay underneath the still waters was more than
I could hold in my mind, knew that I would remain stilled by death.
I hoped for life, asked for still another opportunity to exist for a while
In the orbit of the cold and clean, beautiful broken lines that held my love.

I haven't had the mindset for working on a rhyming poem, and I'm impressed when someone manages to bring things across in a slightly restricted form.

I've never really been much of a poet, actually. Those all came about in the last year due to the breakup with my ex.

I guess rhyme either works for you, or against you.

I actually find it easier to write in rhyme, most of the t.... a lot.

I am an on-off poet, and have been for the last year or two... the one I posted is less than a week old...

I actually find it easier to write in rhyme, most of the t.... a lot.

I'm the same way. Most of my poetry has some form of rhyme, though it may be internal rhyme, and I often use very complex and even obscure rhyme schemes, tricky bastard that I am.

I am an on-off poet, and have been for the last year or two... the one I posted is less than a week old...

I've been an on-off poet since high school. Currently dealing with a lot of stress, both positive and negative, which is resulting in increased poetry production of late.

I have a poem with the same title. One I wrote for a special lady at a time when I was rather depressed and very much in love with her.

“Iceberg”

I still remember the first time
I saw an iceberg. I was sitting
In the front of a kayak full of furs,
Inuit hunters tilling the ice behind.
In the floe-covered water stood a wonder.
Ice, cold and clean, beautiful broken lines
In the still thin air that burned at my hide.
Inuit hunters felt the awe that pelted my mind,
Informed me that the true treasure lay in the deep.
In that moment the kayak overturned on a hidden flow,
Instantly throwing me into the waters that froze,
Interred me in what would become a grave so that cold
Inclinations might die with me as I beheld the depth and breadth
In my eyes. Ice, cold and clean, slept beneath the surface, and
I knew that what lay underneath the still waters was more than
I could hold in my mind, knew that I would remain stilled by death.
I hoped for life, asked for still another opportunity to exist for a while
In the orbit of the cold and clean, beautiful broken lines that held my love.The shape is intended, I take it. ;)

The shape is intended, I take it. ;)

:D hehe.

Yeah. I tend to take a lot of care with the shape, the sounds, the words, the letters, the rhyme, and sometimes the rhythm. Much of my poetry is highly crafted, though some of it is completely spontaneous and organic.

:D hehe.

Yeah. I tend to take a lot of care with the shape, the sounds, the words, the letters, the rhyme, and sometimes the rhythm. Much of my poetry is highly crafted, though some of it is completely spontaneous and organic.My main tool is wordplay. Here's probably my most important one of those:

Lying in a Meadow

I'm lying in a meadow,
Whose far off bound’ries
are shrouded in thick fog,
Whose blades of grass
are covered in a fine layer of frost.
There is no way out of an endless plain,
And if there was
the fog disguises it.

I suppose it would have been prudent
to avoid lying in a meadow
by being honest.

My main tool is wordplay. Here's probably my most important one of those:

Lying in a Meadow

I'm lying in a meadow,
Whose far off bound’ries
are shrouded in thick fog,
Whose blades of grass
are covered in a fine layer of frost.
There is no way out of an endless plain,
And if there was
the fog disguises it.

I suppose it would have been prudent
to avoid lying in a meadow
by being honest.

I love it. :D

I love it. :D
It's one of the few more serious ones that I'm actually willing to publish under my real name in our University Student's paper.

"Some People"

Some people are always teasing others,
while other always are taunted.
Whether you are fat or thin,
too tall or too short.

so you can be popular or cool,
you treat others like dirt.
maybe if you thought from our persective,
then you wouldn't think it was so cool.


I wrote this in like 2004...

i think my major problem with ultra-depressing poets is my strong doubt that most of them are anywhere near as bad off as they write. Seriously, let's all listen to some Huey Lewis and the News and cheer up.

It's one of the few more serious ones that I'm actually willing to publish under my real name in our University Student's paper.

I understand. Only about half of the poems I've written are worth publishing, and even then I'm not sure about using my real name.

Through the looking glass,
I peer with my eye
I see a happy family
as beautiful as the sky.

I sit there and wonder
Why can't that be me?
I look down at myself
and suddenly I see.

I gasp and pant at the window
Desiring what I want.
They run around happy
Unintentionally they flaunt.

They come over to the window
But already I have left
Vanished in the darkness
Forever to drift.

My poetry is sooooo lame.

Currently dealing with a lot of stress, both positive and negative, which is resulting in increased poetry production of late.

I know what you mean... I've been reasonably contented recently... and it's almost killed my creativity. :)

When I was a 'little more stressed', a year or so ago, I was writing a new poem every night...

I understand. Only about half of the poems I've written are worth publishing, and even then I'm not sure about using my real name.

I probably have a couple of hundred pieces that might be worth publishing... but... well, I'm my own worst critic.... how do you cull your OWN material, fairly?

You always judge some of your own work too harshly... and there will be some pieces you 'like', that might not be your 'best'...

I understand. Only about half of the poems I've written are worth publishing, and even then I'm not sure about using my real name.I'm not sure about ANY of the poems. Some I keep back simply because I know my ex will go ballistic if she thinks they're about her (because of her, maybe, but usually not about her).

While public opinion might keep me from publishing my poems, I refuse to let it keep me from writing them.

I probably have a couple of hundred pieces that might be worth publishing... but... well, I'm my own worst critic.... how do you cull your OWN material, fairly?

You always judge some of your own work too harshly... and there will be some pieces you 'like', that might not be your 'best'...

Fair points. I also have incredibly high standards when it comes to my own poetry. Not necessarily a bad thing, but there it is.

Actually the method I use to determine the worth of publishing is based on the complexity and originality of the work. There are a number of poems that I really like that I would never publish because they're just not very good.

My poetry is sooooo lame.Nah. And even if it was, you should let the thought that you can do better lead you to write more, not less.

Through the looking glass,
I peer with my eye
I see a happy family
as beautiful as the sky.

I sit there and wonder
Why can't that be me?
I look down at myself
and suddenly I see.

I gasp and pant at the window
Desiring what I want.
They run around happy
Unintentionally they flaunt.

They come over to the window
But already I have left
Vanished in the darkness
Forever to drift.

My poetry is sooooo lame.

I have to admit surprise upon hearing you call this one lame. Granted, it's not the best poem out there, but it is definitely not lame either. I certainly enjoyed it, and it's better than a lot of what gets produced these days.

I'm not sure about ANY of the poems. Some I keep back simply because I know my ex will go ballistic if she thinks they're about her (because of her, maybe, but usually not about her).

Ah. Fortunately the woman I'm dating is very good about avoiding the tendency to read one's self into a dark poem.

While public opinion might keep me from publishing my poems, I refuse to let it keep me from writing them.

Right. They're stress relief for me, and I don't plan to give that up regardless of what happens with publishing.

Fair points. I also have incredibly high standards when it comes to my own poetry. Not necessarily a bad thing, but there it is.

Actually the method I use to determine the worth of publishing is based on the complexity and originality of the work. There are a number of poems that I really like that I would never publish because they're just not very good.

Well I've never been published - you think that one is worth publishing?

I have to admit surprise upon hearing you call this one lame. Granted, it's not the best poem out there, but it is definitely not lame either. I certainly enjoyed it, and it's better than a lot of what gets produced these days.

It's actually VERY reminiscent (it seems so, to me, at least) of a Larkin poem..."Reasons for Attendance"

The trumpet's voice, loud and authoritative,
Draws me a moment to the lighted glass
To watch the dancers – all under twenty-five –
Shifting intently, face to flushed face,
Solemnly on the beat of happiness.

– Or so I fancy, sensing the smoke and sweat,
The wonderful feel of girls. Why be out here?
But then, why be in there? Sex, yes, but what
Is sex? Surely, to think the lion's share
Of happiness is found by couples – sheer

Inaccuracy, as far as I'm concerned.
What calls me is that lifted, rough-tongued bell
(Art, if you like) whose individual sound
Insists I too am individual.
It speaks; I hear; others may hear as well,

But not for me, nor I for them; and so
With happiness. Therefore I stay outside,
Believing this; and they maul to and fro,
Believing that; and both are satisfied,
If no one has misjudged himself. Or lied.

Well I've never been published - you think that one is worth publishing?That's not for us to decide ;)
"Worth publishing" doesn't really have much to do with how popular it is, but how much it would mean to you getting it published and how well you can handle people telling you "Your poetry sucks!" (which will probably happen to anyone depending on the audience).

Well, then, here's one of mine...



Will I ever?

Will I ever be the person I am?
Am I the person I hope to be?
When I look in the mirror
Is what I see really me?

It can’t be – if it was
How could the rest of the world
Not see it? Not see me?
And what do they see instead?

“Blessed with nice personality”
- Cursed, morelike
Can I ever change what they see?
Can I force them to see me?

Well, then, here's one of mine...Nice :)

tick tock; the clock, dead man; walkin' the walk, ominous silence; iminent doom, final steps; execution room.
...
tick tock; the clock, priest's here; last talk, awkward emotion; unsurmountable fear, "please don't kill me"; death is near.
...
tick tock; the clock, eerie switches; guard twitches, clock strikes 12; lights dim, body writhes; hell's outter rim.
...
tick tock; the clock, eyes wide; mental shock, muscles tense; iron grip, needle flares; one last rip.
...
tick tock... "6B... UNLOCK!", escort's here; "lets rock!", chains too tight; muscles flexed, cold stare; "you're next."

Well, then, here's one of mine...

Ugh. "Nice Personality"... one of the unholy trinity.

(Nice Personality, Good hair, You Smell Nice...)

(Some heretic factions will accept "Nice Shoes", as the third of the trinity).

Ugh. "Nice Personality"... one of the unholy trinity.

(Nice Personality, Good hair, You Smell Nice...)

(Some heretic factions will accept "Nice Shoes", as the third of the trinity).

Well... I don't even have good hair, so I guess I'll have to settle for the shoes instead. :(

tick tock; the clock, dead man; walkin' the walk, ominous silence; iminent doom, final steps; execution room.
...
tick tock; the clock, priest's here; last talk, awkward emotion; unsurmountable fear, "please don't kill me"; death is near.
...
tick tock; the clock, eerie switches; guard twitches, clock strikes 12; lights dim, body writhes; hell's outter rim.
...
tick tock; the clock, eyes wide; mental shock, muscles tense; iron grip, needle flares; one last rip.
...
tick tock... "6B... UNLOCK!", escort's here; "lets rock!", chains too tight; muscles flexed, cold stare; "you're next."


Wow... THAT one ought to be published. It's less depressing, more scary.

Well I've never been published - you think that one is worth publishing?

In my personal opinion (take with large grain of salt), it depends on where you want to publish it and in what context.

If you want to publish it in your school newspaper or literary magazine, definitely "yes". If you want to publish it to sell in bookstores, do so as part of a larger body of work with a theme that reinforces the poem, or not at all. I don't think it's strong enough to stand as a brilliant poem on its own.

Again this is just my personal opinion.

It's actually VERY reminiscent (it seems so, to me, at least) of a Larkin poem..."Reasons for Attendance"

The trumpet's voice, loud and authoritative,
Draws me a moment to the lighted glass
To watch the dancers – all under twenty-five –
Shifting intently, face to flushed face,
Solemnly on the beat of happiness.

– Or so I fancy, sensing the smoke and sweat,
The wonderful feel of girls. Why be out here?
But then, why be in there? Sex, yes, but what
Is sex? Surely, to think the lion's share
Of happiness is found by couples – sheer

Inaccuracy, as far as I'm concerned.
What calls me is that lifted, rough-tongued bell
(Art, if you like) whose individual sound
Insists I too am individual.
It speaks; I hear; others may hear as well,

But not for me, nor I for them; and so
With happiness. Therefore I stay outside,
Believing this; and they maul to and fro,
Believing that; and both are satisfied,
If no one has misjudged himself. Or lied.

Ah, Larkin. He's pretty good. And I can see the connections you're making.

It's actually VERY reminiscent (it seems so, to me, at least) of a Larkin poem..."Reasons for Attendance"

Actually, I never saw that one before - but it is reasonably similar.

In the very depths of the earth
The one place I hate
I crawl there striving
to overcome fate.

How she likes this
I'll never know
But facing what I fear,
I hope to grow.

I stare at the rocks,
As the water goes "tink, tink"
I try to be cool
But I can't move or think

I stare with great fear
at that rocky ceiling
while she moves foward
seemingly unfeeling.

Where is my mind
when I need it most?
Why does it not work
when I cannot coast?

I want to run away
but I do not dare.
I cannot show fear,
not while I care.

She is so beautiful
and completely fearless.
My chances with her
are utterly hopeless.

I continue to struggle
Continue to try.
I am so befuddled,
as I don't know why.


EDIT: Yep, that was the thread killer.

EDIT: Yep, that was the thread killer.
You wicked
http://img400.imageshack.us/img400/8145/threadslayer6eu.jpg
you!

Don't worry about it. This thread will be dug up again in due time. :)

Actually, I never saw that one before - but it is reasonably similar.

In the very depths of the earth
The one place I hate
I crawl there striving
to overcome fate.

How she likes this
I'll never know
But facing what I fear,
I hope to grow.

I stare at the rocks,
As the water goes "tink, tink"
I try to be cool
But I can't move or think

I stare with great fear
at that rocky ceiling
while she moves foward
seemingly unfeeling.

Where is my mind
when I need it most?
Why does it not work
when I cannot coast?

I want to run away
but I do not dare.
I cannot show fear,
not while I care.

She is so beautiful
and completely fearless.
My chances with her
are utterly hopeless.

I continue to struggle
Continue to try.
I am so befuddled,
as I don't know why.


EDIT: Yep, that was the thread killer.

Actually, the thread killer was me being distracted by a very special lady.

The poem is good. I like particularly that it in structure mimics the form of thought that the content tries to convey on its own (and fairly successfully).

You wicked
http://img400.imageshack.us/img400/8145/threadslayer6eu.jpg
you!

Don't worry about it. This thread will be dug up again in due time. :)

I'm afraid that I'm going to have to swipe that picture.

I'm afraid that I'm going to have to swipe that picture.As long as you don't claim it was your own. I've still got the original on paper should I ever desire to sue you :D

As long as you don't claim it was your own. I've still got the original on paper should I ever desire to sue you :D

I swipe lots of pictures... but everyone knows that I can't draw.

I swipe lots of pictures... but everyone knows that I can't draw.
It's learning by doing, just like poetry. Some people learn faster than others, but its mainly practise that makes the difference.

Job, Chapter 7:

1: "Has not man a hard service upon earth, and are not his days like the days of a hireling?
2: Like a slave who longs for the shadow, and like a hireling who looks for his wages,
3: so I am allotted months of emptiness, and nights of misery are apportioned to me.
4: When I lie down I say, `When shall I arise?' But the night is long, and I am full of tossing till the dawn.
5: My flesh is clothed with worms and dirt; my skin hardens, then breaks out afresh.
6: My days are swifter than a weaver's shuttle, and come to their end without hope.
7: "Remember that my life is a breath; my eye will never again see good.
8: The eye of him who sees me will behold me no more; while thy eyes are upon me, I shall be gone.
9: As the cloud fades and vanishes, so he who goes down to Sheol does not come up;
10: he returns no more to his house, nor does his place know him any more.
11: "Therefore I will not restrain my mouth; I will speak in the anguish of my spirit; I will complain in the bitterness of my soul.
12: Am I the sea, or a sea monster, that thou settest a guard over me?
13: When I say, `My bed will comfort me, my couch will ease my complaint,'
14: then thou dost scare me with dreams and terrify me with visions,
15: so that I would choose strangling and death rather than my bones.
16: I loathe my life; I would not live for ever. Let me alone, for my days are a breath.

It's learning by doing, just like poetry. Some people learn faster than others, but its mainly practise that makes the difference.

I don't have steady hands is the problem... any lines I make are inevitably crooked.

Actually, the thread killer was me being distracted by a very special lady.

The poem is good. I like particularly that it in structure mimics the form of thought that the content tries to convey on its own (and fairly successfully).

Well that particular poem is actually a reitteration of a real event. You see, she loves caves, and I'm somewhat claustrophobic. As in, a mass of people don't really bother me, but being any significant distance underground really does. It was a very difficult day, and I did not make a good impression.

My turn to steal some glory :D

Terra Hema 3/22/06

Gag me / buried (me). When I // scream;
It resonates in the earth.

My blood will Shake.

Well that particular poem is actually a reitteration of a real event. You see, she loves caves, and I'm somewhat claustrophobic. As in, a mass of people don't really bother me, but being any significant distance underground really does. It was a very difficult day, and I did not make a good impression.

I understand. Ironically, bad moments like those make for good poetry. And hopefully she likes to do something other than spelunking so you have a chance to make a good impression. In fact, hopefully she enjoys poetry. That could be your ticket to impressing her, believe me. Personal experience speaking here. :)

I understand. Ironically, bad moments like those make for good poetry. And hopefully she likes to do something other than spelunking so you have a chance to make a good impression. In fact, hopefully she enjoys poetry. That could be your ticket to impressing her, believe me. Personal experience speaking here. :)

Hmm... not really the type that I can tell. I've never seen her express any interest in it.

Hmm... not really the type that I can tell. I've never seen her express any interest in it.

Well it wouldn't hurt to ask, would it? She may surprise you.

And whether she likes poetry or not, most women appreciate heartfelt and thoughtful gifts whatever their form.

Well it wouldn't hurt to ask, would it? She may surprise you.

And whether she likes poetry or not, most women appreciate heartfelt and thoughtful gifts whatever their form.Hehe. Just make sure not to use poetry to describe your feelings to her after you've broken up...:D

Hehe. Just make sure not to use poetry to describe your feelings to her after you've broken up...:D

HotRodia, I want you to notice there was no "if" anywhere in that statement. Such a pessimist, this one.

HotRodia, I want you to notice there was no "if" anywhere in that statement. Such a pessimist, this one.That's been my personal experiences ;)

HotRodia, I want you to notice there was no "if" anywhere in that statement. Such a pessimist, this one.

Hehehe. Good luck to you with this lady, Gallo. I'm a realist, and realistically I have no way of knowing whether it'll work out or not. But personal experience says you should give it a try and see what happens. If nothing else, it may be a valuable learning experience.

Hehehe. Good luck to you with this lady, Gallo. I'm a realist, and realistically I have no way of knowing whether it'll work out or not. But personal experience says you should give it a try and see what happens. If nothing else, it may be a valuable learning experience.

Indeed. Someone needs to whip out some poetry now. I've already come in and put my thing down.

Indeed. Someone needs to whip out some poetry now. I've already come in and put my thing down.Bah. They're all lurking, no doubt. Here's a more optimistic one:

Sheer

That sheer cliff
that I came across,
I let grow.
Climbing it without a rope,
Without a hold,
Without a companion to belay,
Is folly in anyone's book.

But no one can stay at the bottom forever.

Indeed. Someone needs to whip out some poetry now. I've already come in and put my thing down.

Very well. Here's one I wrote after being burnt out on NS in general and on social spam threads in particular and seeing the forum change. It's only so-so in terms of quality, but it is highly relevant in this context.

“Lost Magic”

The magic is gone, but I remain.
I’ll never be quite the same again.
My haunts are gone except for one,
And even that is no longer fun.

Old friends pass on, but I remain.
New friends come but it’s not the same.
My heart for it died so long ago,
But somehow my light on does glow.

New ages come, but I remain
Pondering fallen comrades slain.
I stronger grow in my power,
Yet still I long for that past hour.

Time passes on, but I remain.
Empires fall and yet I gain.
I miss the wonder of those nights,
Doubt the world will come to rights.

The magic is gone, but I remain.
A relic am I, in my own domain.
The memories with me will die,
And for that I will not cry.

Happy Ever After


This is really good. I'm impressed.

Very well. Here's one I wrote after being burnt out on NS in general and on social spam threads in particular and seeing the forum change. It's only so-so in terms of quality, but it is highly relevant in this context.

“Lost Magic”

The magic is gone, but I remain.
I’ll never be quite the same again.
My haunts are gone except for one,
And even that is no longer fun.

Old friends pass on, but I remain.
New friends come but it’s not the same.
My heart for it died so long ago,
But somehow my light on does glow.

New ages come, but I remain
Pondering fallen comrades slain.
I stronger grow in my power,
Yet still I long for that past hour.

Time passes on, but I remain.
Empires fall and yet I gain.
I miss the wonder of those nights,
Doubt the world will come to rights.

The magic is gone, but I remain.
A relic am I, in my own domain.
The memories with me will die,
And for that I will not cry.

Very good - I had one like that that I wrote a couple of years ago... very similar. Not as good, but the thoughts were roughly equivalent.

Porcelain Mask 3/14/06

My Iberian Facade;
How can you be made of Pearl
when your Mother is of Clay?

You can't escape your family;
Every bit of shame
makes the stigma sting stronger.

Didn't love teach you there were open arms for you?
:D

My work is piled on my desk
going a mile high
I work at a furious pace
but just wish I could die.

The work never ends
and I continue to struggle
Here comes a guy
with another bundle.

I don't know where it comes from
I don't know where it goes.
I just know the more I work
the more the river of work flows.

What is the solution?
I don't know.
If you find out,
please stem the river's flow.

i should just stand up, walk away
but not today, not today
feeling the crush of the things to do
i wont go until you tell me to
but then i resent that you care for me
i want you to let me be
too many facts to recall and learn
for freedom, that is all i yearn
i shouldnt be on general, ay?
i should go learn my formulae



DAMN MATHS EXAMS

This is really good. I'm impressed.

My thanks. :-)

Very good - I had one like that that I wrote a couple of years ago... very similar. Not as good, but the thoughts were roughly equivalent.

Thanks. And you know what they say...

It's the thought that counts. ;)

Off the first page
the thread does fall
It is almost gone,
but then along comes Paul

A ressurection is performed,
A returning to life.
Some threads just never die,
like a nagging wife.

It comes up again and again.
It just won't go away.
You pray for its destruction,
but it is here to stay.

You call for a threadslayer,
but one does not come.
The thread continues to grow.
Its persistence is dumb.

"Please go away"
you pray for it
But again that "new post"
light is now lit.

"How can it happen?"
"How can it be?"
It continues to grow
into eternity.

(bump)

Off the first page
the thread does fall
It is almost gone,
but then along comes Paul

A ressurection is performed,
A returning to life.
Some threads just never die,
like a nagging wife.

It comes up again and again.
It just won't go away.
You pray for its destruction,
but it is here to stay.

You call for a threadslayer,
but one does not come.
The thread continues to grow.
Its persistence is dumb.

"Please go away"
you pray for it
But again that "new post"
light is now lit.

"How can it happen?"
"How can it be?"
It continues to grow
into eternity.

(bump)

Definitely the most awesome bump I've ever seen. :D

Definitely the most awesome bump I've ever seen. :D

It seemed appropriate for a poetry thread...