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Poems ... ??? anyone (pg. 4)
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| whiskers |
color of crimson in my eyes,
my hope is dripping out of me
for all that i cared, all that i loved
had vanished, there is nothing left no more
tomorrow will be a new day and the sun will rise
but i won't see it and the stains
will be all that i have left behind
besides this stupid little poem
y halo thar gothic wannabee poetry written in 1 minute 13 seconds. |
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| DarkAngel |
| quote: | Originally posted by whiskers
color of crimson in my eyes,
my hope is dripping out of me
for all that i cared, all that i loved
had vanished, there is nothing left no more
tomorrow will be a new day and the sun will rise
but i won't see it and the stains
will be all that i have left behind
besides this stupid little poem
y halo thar gothic wannabee poetry written in 1 minute 13 seconds. |
Very much coolness. :) |
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| Orbax |
| quote: | Originally posted by whiskers
color of crimson in my eyes,
my hope is dripping out of me
for all that i cared, all that i loved
had
y halo thar gothic wannabee poetry written in 1 minute 13 seconds. |
if that is you, your title of :ninjar: is revoked. |
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| whiskers |
| quote: | Originally posted by Orbax
if that is you, your title of :ninjar: is revoked. |
nope, making fun of goths :p |
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| CynepMeH |
| quote: | Originally posted by whiskers
color of crimson in my eyes,
my hope is dripping out of me
for all that i cared, all that i loved
had vanished, there is nothing left no more
tomorrow will be a new day and the sun will rise
but i won't see it and the stains
will be all that i have left behind
besides this stupid little poem
y halo thar gothic wannabee poetry written in 1 minute 13 seconds. |
Dude, you're a ing riot! LOL :stongue:
Zhopa... metr na metr...
V magazine stoit prodovol'stvennom
Mneby hui s killometr...
Ya dostavil by yei udovol'stviya
Actually, I used to write load of poems and even have them saved in bunch of places. Too funny to read them now. Shame too many teenagers don't realize that this 'teen drama' passes as hormones get under control and you find an actual job to keep your mind busy.
Here's mine exprompt:
Technology lust and its glitter
The bits of time stream through chips
You may feel angry and bitter
No need to abandon this ship
Your mind overloaded with info
Streamlined or disbursed like the stars
You loose or you find in inferno
And heal your emotional scars
The passion for future and novel
It keeps you, it spins you and stops
You turn all machinery quickly
And all that you're left with are props
You drop chains that bind you forever
You leave this slave ship and you're free
You sever the ties to the server
You're no longer blind - you can see
(ok, no more drugs for me) |
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| LiL_Kandi_AngeL |
| quote: | Originally posted by DarkAngel
Sigh....thx...even if you didn't really read it, thx anyway.
The 'In A Dream' poem is really beautiful.....but I can't write romantic poems anymore....most of what's left of my heart is nothing but a block of ice....Guess that's what happens when one dies on the inside.... |
i did read them silly :)
i would love to read some more too :) if you have any |
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| CynepMeH |
| quote: | Originally posted by whiskers
color of crimson in my eyes,
my hope is dripping out of me
for all that i cared, all that i loved
had vanished, there is nothing left no more
tomorrow will be a new day and the sun will rise
but i won't see it and the stains
will be all that i have left behind
besides this stupid little poem
y halo thar gothic wannabee poetry written in 1 minute 13 seconds. |
Dude, you're a ing riot! LOL :stongue:
Zhopa... metr na metr...
V magazine stoit prodovol'stvennom
Mneby hui s killometr...
Ya dostavil by yei udovol'stviya
Actually, I used to write load of poems and even have them saved in bunch of places. Too funny to read them now. Shame too many teenagers don't realize that this 'teen drama' passes as hormones get under control and you find an actual job to keep your mind busy.
Here's mine exprompt:
Technology lust and its glitter
The bits of time stream through chips
You may feel angry and bitter
No need to abandon this ship
Your mind overloaded with info
Streamlined or disbursed like the stars
You loose or you find in inferno
And heal your emotional scars
The passion for future and novel
It keeps you, it spins you and stops
You turn, flee machinery quickly
And all that you've left are just props
You drop chains that bound you forever
You leave this slave ship and you're free
You sever the ties to the server
You're no longer blind - you can see
(ok, no more drugs for me) |
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| Dj Dovla |
| awesome stuff .... ;) keep it going |
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| DarkAngel |
| quote: | Originally posted by LiL_Kandi_AngeL
i did read them silly :)
i would love to read some more too :) if you have any |
Ummm...well, I don't write poems regularly..I mean, I CAN, but I just don't do it often...but I'd be happy to write a couple for you. You could also check out my mini-story on page one of this thread...it's not poetry, but it's something....
Also, I do have a 60+ page book I finished last May....That's available only by special request. :p |
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| davinox |
The Artist, The Youth, The Philosopher
A young boy stares, green and brown eyes plastered
Against the cold of the glass, dew beading
And fogging the morning view, to capture
The blurring of shapes and colors, fleeting,
Flashing endlessly. It's like a river
Of existence outside, roaring quietly
Into a soft, cool hum, half imagined.
This train has been rolling across its track
For as long as we can remember.
It twists and turns and it departs and boards.
But the boy is still young, and marveled by
The bleeding scenery outside. It flows
And never clots into something distinct.
He squints and tries to watch for a pattern.
Rows of trees whiz by and a blotch of green
Smears across his hazy view—sprayed splattered
Like a gush of paint along brown and gray
Landscapes. The trees make his small lips bend up.
But how could he assume that they were trees?
It’s what everyone on the train said. But,
Who knows? It could’ve been just paint after all.
The train keeps rolling; time passes swiftly.
Its steel wheels lap in clicks across the track,
Quickly piling into one manifold,
One great, long, rushing, rumbling, roaring sound.
Different men have turned its gears, but always
The same path it takes, though each passenger
Sees their own unique show of scenery.
The boy watches a bit of blue glide by,
And it makes him sad. Not because blue has,
As a color, emotions of sorrow
And sadness that weigh down its lovely hue.
No, the boy grew sad because, through the
Fog, he could not be sure of what it was,
And his heart longed for it to be a bird.
Her eyes hazier than the fogged window,
An old woman asks, Did you see that bird?
With her quiet face, crumpled-up and dry,
She smiles and barely tries to squint. I've seen
So many birds that I know when they come.
They have an essence, a soul, she explained.
The boy squinted harder, but saw only blue.
I’ve been thinking, the boy says, about words.
Go on, says a man sipping a dark drink
Swirling of cream and bellowing with steam.
Well, he says, lightly brushing his small fingers
Against the plastic plush of the chair-back,
Isn't everything what we make of it?
Aren't birds and chairs just abstractions of mind?
Are not words simply thoughts to make order
Out of our chaotic, intricate world?
Is there not a true reality, far
Greater than the one we see. Why, how could
We assume that we know everything! It’s
Ridiculous and rather self-centered
To assume that we know what makes a bird.
Yes, said the man, that is partially true.
But how can you explain the simple laws
That govern the universe in physics
And mathematics? Aren’t these useful truths?
Then names and thoughts have a use, a purpose.
What else could be real? Our universe is all there is.
But obviously this reality
Is of our own making. Our eyes see light,
And our ears hear the rupture of sound waves.
We see the world through time, cause and effect.
But if that’s all reality is, bound
By our logic, by our perception, then
That means the very first effect, the one…
That triggered all of creation? Adam
And Eve and the Seven Days? Why, that’s God
My boy! And Jesus Christ. There’s your answer
Right there. But you’re not religious, are you?
The man scratched an imaginary itch
And the boy, frustrated, resumed speaking.
No, listen to me, for just one moment.
God, Allah, The Big Bang, why take your pick.
All are effects that need some sort of cause,
Which, in turn, need an effect. It’s endless
And paradoxical. Obviously
Our rules for reality only work
In our own reality, and there is,
Of course, quite more to existence than that.
This means the only thing there is, is us.
This train which I get so tired of riding
Is a train to me awake. But asleep
It is a bed of clouds, a forest with
Vines outstretched, grasping down my hands. It is
Anything my mind wishes. But for now,
To someday depart, I must see the train.
How do we even know we’re on a train?
We could be someone’s fantasy, or text
On a person’s page. We could be specks to
Someone and Gods to another. We have
Nothing concrete but the worthless language
And labels we toss around. Who knows
What truly exists beyond that window?
The man slowly shook his coffee. He turned
To the window and watched once again
The foggy scenery gurgling past him.
You, young man, are not yet a physicist
Or a philosopher. You should get out
And experience the world before you
Make such a wild, ridiculous claim!
On the contrary, said the boy, you are making claims
In saying that men hold absolute truths.
I say we know nothing, nothing at all.
The only thing we know for sure is that
We each have made our own reality.
Our minds give us a picture of the world,
And they can change reality at whim.
When you dream, you build a reality
Useless to living but still convincing.
The only thing we know is that our view
Of reality is not complete. Now,
Who is the one who needs to go out and
Experience the world? Closing their jaws,
They stop talking and shift back into thought.
The sky cracks into morning, yellow blue
Shimmering, sparkling through the dewed window.
The boy sits and sighs, soon to realize,
What good can come of words? He rests and sucks
In senses like an anemone, deep
In the depths of existence. Whether strings
Or spirits, the ride is still beautiful.
Who am I to say what is right or wrong?
Who am I to judge another person,
Their life, their experience, and their views?
But then, why can’t I judge? Why judge my own
Judgment? It’s all very confusing and
Playing with words grows tiresome. The boy
Is still young and has much playing to do. |
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| EvilTree |
| quote: | Originally posted by davinox
The Artist, The Youth, The Philosopher
*snip* |
Interesting content. Need to work on word arrangement. They look disarrayed. :) |
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| davinox |
| quote: | Originally posted by EvilTree
Interesting content. Need to work on word arrangement. They look disarrayed. :) |
what do you mean? |
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