(3/18/2014 5:35:00 PM)
A congealed epidermis.
My repugnant antagonist.
Two hundred milliliters at
Ten forty five.
Two hundred milliliters at
Just in case the emetic scent
Had evaded my nostrils.
Or the diaphonous film
Was no longer clinging to
My tonsils generating
I have the self sufficiency of
An overflowing bin
Begging to be relieved of
The soiled nappies and the
Mildew food packages that
Fill its cavity.
Every day I put it in the microwave
For an extra minute
Hoping that the boiling temperature
Will incinerate the impurity
That lies dorment but like mould
On my much too long tongue.
It leers at me.
Lecherous and toadying villain.
So I stir it with a spoon
That sweats with condensation
(3/18/2014 5:34:00 PM)
Systematically I scratched at a
Stubborn residue, insignificant but
But I wasn't really scratching
Away at that sticky fleck of molecular matter
I was watching the
Malleable plasticine faces on
The insides of my eyelids.
And listening to the nauseatingly
Muffled intonations from
The insides of my walls
Wishing I could sink my
Fingers into my own
Obstinately unmoving features.
Or tickle the string of my
Vocal chords into submission.
Until my own muffles were coersed
Brought up from a
Stinging acidic pool.
Accumulated from carbonated water
And dissolved sweetener.
I feel the fabric around me
Become tepid and callous
Its no longer healing
It is finite polyester
(3/18/2014 5:34:00 PM)
Newly Old Clothes
My favourite stripes and
Those jeans that I wish I'd
Never bought that mock me
With their tensile seams
Of dingy disinfectant yellow.
They're churning, wrenching, twisting
Pretzals that I grab with both fists
Press them to carnivorous teeth
That quiver underneath
a Buffalo charge.
Split hooves, splitting headache
Four inches abouve teeth where
My third eye should be.
(3/4/2014 9:50:00 PM)
I don't have any ideas for any Freeform poems. I'm thinking I should move to the Rhythm and Meter Workshop. Everyone knows how rhythmic I am. Why not take advantage of that gift from my ancestor, Ovid?Yes, Ovid. Quite honestly, it's just that I MOVE so well. Naturally rhythmic from Ovid (my ancestor) I guess?There's not too many 'Freeform' people around here anyway. Look for the big move soon.
(3/3/2014 10:29:00 PM)
I tried to think of something Freeform, but I'm stumped. Nothing coming. I thought of a BUNCH of metered stuff. Brilliant stuff. God, you should have seen me! I was so rhythmic! But, this is the 'Freeform' forum, so I couldn't post it. Christ! I was rhyming too. I even rhymed 'orange' for Christ's sake! I was really grooving with the meter too. Sorry, but I can't post it. This is Freeform poetry. Too bad. I just couldn't think of anything Freeform. Ces't la vie!
(3/1/2014 12:11:00 PM)
In Free Form poetry ANYTHING goes. That's what I like about it. Poets can let their mind roam free. Write whatever words one likes as long as it's interesting to the reader (or yourself) . Experiment poets. Go crazy! ! Post it here and we'll talk about it. Nothing negative. Free Form means just that. You call the shots.
(3/1/2014 9:37:00 AM)
Hello everyone in the 'Freeform Workshop'! I'm moving down here. I don't think they like me up there in the BIG forum: (
Ovid was a great free form poet btw. Not many people know that, and I'm related to him. That's where all of my talent comes from. Let's talk free form poetry!
(2/13/2014 5:53:00 AM)
Lost in battles of mind.
Lost to desires of life
Lost to love of heart
Lost to sprits of nature
Lost to no more words to find
(11/19/2013 11:27:00 AM)
| Read 3 replies
a universal word
I feel empty.
my home is empty.
my heart is empty.
finding people to fill it
isn't as easy as it portrays
im not looking for love
im looking for passion
pour your emotions into me
and fill my heart.
fill my home.
fill me.Replies for this message:
(12/12/2013 10:25:00 PM)
As one who suffers from this, I understand wholly. Excellent execution. I would say to perhaps lengthen it, but I try not to recommend such often; poetry is as long as poetry needs to be to sing its m ... more
(12/8/2013 9:52:00 AM)
Hi Joseph: I was in the process of posting an answer to your request in the poem (fill me) but the system suffered a glitch. You might try looking at my poem " To Him Who Pleads Fill Me" ... more
(11/29/2013 12:21:00 PM)
Perfectly expressed! Beautiful.
- Levi Hopler (12/12/2013 10:25:00 PM) Post reply
(11/3/2013 11:15:00 AM)
The Unsettled Master of Macabe
Living here in Baltimore, I never took the opportunity to visit the master
The master of my profession of a writer of thrillers and dark poetry
The man himself, because of him, I became a true follower of the darkness from which I cannot deter
Just like him and his writings, seems like he was fanciful and free.
Just like the man, even in death certain things remain a mystery
When he collapsed in 1849, he was found in someone else's clothes
You have to ask why, never regaining consciousness, no one really knew why death was meant to be
A thousand ideas and scenarios, but all these were just theories I suppose.
The master of the macabre and suspense, I so hope he is at rest
But someone or something left behind seems they are not at rest, seems forever they will greave
Everything this man wrote seems it was his very best
But he was laid to rest in a place he would never leave.
Since his death in 1849, someone always celebrates his birthday
Each year someone leaves him a bottle of wine and one red rose
EVERY year since his death, these things show up every year without delay
Who could this be?Paying yearly respects to the master of dark poetry and prose.
Every year, each birthday is exactly the same
What could be the reason for this?I guess something we will never really know
He was only forty when he died, he never shared in any of his fame
So tragic, so much potential, but death took him from us, many of us his work would be missed, why did he have to go?
This mystery is just as unanswered as the question why did he have to die?
Yes, he was the master of the darkness and it's flow
As for his birthday and his death, there will always remain a thousand whys
Today I will visit the grave of the master known as Edgar Allan Poe.