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  • Forest T. Jones (8/9/2009 3:33:00 PM) Post reply

    The 'he' of poetry -
    When he drowns;
    his clothes suffer.

  • Genesis Cairo (8/5/2009 11:50:00 AM) Post reply | Read 2 replies

    Slave
    Will there ever be a day where iam no longer a slave
    Captivated by the humdrum existence of the everyday
    In a trance with the presistance the insistance of my bleeding heart
    which decides without as much as a why That your the one i should love
    Forget the logic Or the events of our two personalities clashing Only one word can summarize us Chaotic
    tragic in a way how can something give me blissful pleasure
    But can cause bone crushing pain
    So many of my question remain unchanged
    how can i allow this madness to lead me so far away
    i kan hardly remenice myself
    Aristotle once belived we all have a predestined soulmate
    Then please heavenly father tell me where can i find him
    ANd why have you rplaced him with this loveless love with no substance.

    Replies for this message:
    • Kimberly Lindsey (8/23/2009 2:34:00 PM) Post reply

      Indeed. this poem gets right to the point. I enjoyed reading it, and can relate to with my whole being. I am there, right now. Anyway, I like it very much. Kimberly

    • Dakota Kary (8/16/2009 5:48:00 PM) Post reply | Read 1 reply

      I like your poem, but im curious as to where your inspiration to writing this came from?

  • Nenes Camacho (7/29/2009 11:32:00 AM) Post reply

    Poem 1
    i just want to say,
    that i think about you everyday
    but please don't think i am obsessed,
    just because of this thing i confessed.

    i just really like you,
    but you see, i don't know what to do
    cuz, all i wanna actually do is interact,
    but to me, it seems like you don't wanna talk, in fact.

    i would love nothing more
    to be with you for
    just a little bit
    talking about useless sh*t.

    Please, i am not obsessed, or a pervert,
    please don't think i am or i will be hurt
    I don't want anyone to think something so untrue,
    especially you.

    sometimes you make me sad,
    I'm thinking 'did i do something? ', 'is she mad? '
    i just don't understand why you don't reply
    every time i try
    and text you.
    its like what did i do?

    god and now i sound like a pussey for saying all of this
    damn. no bigger pussey exists.
    why do i have to be so open about what i feel?
    what the heck is my deal?



    Poem 2
    Man, you are impossibly pretty,
    but i look ridiculously sh*tty.
    why do i think i have a shot?
    when you're so hot and i'm so not.

    i am so boring, uninteresting, and dull
    while you have a mysterious lull.
    god, you're so pretty, u should tell a rose how to be beautiful.
    so many songs remind me of u
    of what you are, and what you do.

    i always think about holding your hand.
    and maybe laying down with you in the sand.
    i hate people who only like you cuz they think you're 'hot'
    i freaking hate them a lot

    there is so much more to you
    and even though that sounds sounds corny
    its true.
    and what makes me even sicker, is that they get horny.

    to me, personalities are first, then looks come next
    not second persona, and first sex.
    I am also very deep, and mature for how old i am
    c'mon, i write freaking poems for god's sake, damn.

    or maybe its cuz i'm sensitive.
    i don't know.

  • Jay Akarim (7/26/2009 4:54:00 AM) Post reply

    (This is a poem I was going to give my girlfriend but we broke up before i could finish it so i stopped. It's not that great because I did it in like 5-10mins at like 2 in the morning so just keep that in mind. And it usually takes me WAY longer to write a decent one. Thanks for reading though.)

    You're not perfect
    but your one of a kind
    the kind of girl,
    all the guys wanna find
    like a needle in a hay stack.
    or a fruit loop in a bowl of cherrios
    Somehow i found you
    This can't be true

    Im not the best boyfriend there is
    but im trying
    Im not the hottest guy there is
    believe me im dying
    Im not the smartest guy there is
    So please stop crying...

  • Jay Akarim (7/25/2009 4:15:00 AM) Post reply | Read 1 reply

    Walking down Western Avenue
    With grocery bags in my hand
    People in their cars wondering
    Is that little boy feeding hi family?

    I have a list of things I need to get
    Have to make sure there's enough milk
    Have to make sure to get the eggs
    Have to make sure I get them all

    Parents do too much for me
    I'm grateful for it though
    my Mom works 12 hours,
    6 days a week
    Dad has 2 jobs
    5 to 8,2hr break
    When we get home
    He cooks for me, and
    leaves
    To his second job
    All so I can get a good life

    After all they've been through in their lives
    They'd sacrafice it all
    For Me
    I hope I can make them proud
    One Day I will
    One Day....

    Replies for this message:
    • Genesis Cairo (8/5/2009 11:53:00 AM) Post reply

      its very sweet along with its touch of reality.i like this poem alot keepem coming lol! ! ! !

  • Pushkar Bisht (7/10/2009 9:00:00 AM) Post reply | Read 1 reply

    Life is just for a moment,
    Not for hours, weeks, days, years or centuries,
    so why do we regret
    why not enjoy the moment fullest,

    Replies for this message:
  • Lorraine Margueritte Gasrel Black (7/6/2009 11:30:00 AM) Post reply

    Time is getting shortes as we approach the July 30 deadline for a publishing opportunity and a chance to give a helping hand.Please read my poem AFRICA'S SOUL for the details following my poem.I posted the information to make it easier to find....

  • Augustus Egg (6/30/2009 8:04:00 PM) Post reply | Read 2 replies

    New opening for freestyle poem renamed:

    The goldfish in his little house

    The factory is shutting down
    and everyone’s belly is hanging out like bunting
    but it’s so deadly cold that
    the word cold must be emphasised.
    Similarly, socks, in which holes have been drilled
    is in my head as annoying as
    stout wooden pegs or plugs or unexplained follicles
    orbiting the sculls of twin girls
    like smelting moons,
    one monocled to distinguish from the other

    Replies for this message:
    • Stephen Magill (7/2/2009 10:18:00 PM) Post reply

      was looking for a tutorial or something but this mostly looks like ads and whining. saw the beginning(or parts there of) of your poem and i just went with the feeling. its your idea so i give this to ... more

    • Augustus Egg (6/30/2009 8:50:00 PM) Post reply

      this is rubbish..

  • Augustus Egg (6/18/2009 9:23:00 PM) Post reply

    the blue factory: freestyle poem project,6th draft

    opening and closing

    the blue factory is shutting down.
    And everyone’s belly is hanging out like bunting.

    for weeks we shuffle, spellbound
    quilted
    like coverlets
    but it’s so cold in here
    that the word cold must be emphasised:

    (even the goldfish is staying put in his little house.)

    my biggest fear
    is flowing straight out of me

    outwardly
    a shepherd
    driving his flock

    but blow the same breath outwards

    and see
    how the old machines
    throw up the dust

    Part 2
    the new order
    (bollocks to all this we know the smell)
    heralds
    another lunatic fringe
    honing its listening skills
    on an orange

    Part three
    never are those authentic.
    Never.
    these
    gnarled sad relics with their corrugated lips
    pursed like buds
    bull ridden
    like ancestral aunts

    Part 4
    the impact of all that woolly thinking
    especially on socks
    in which holes have been drilled,
    is
    in my head
    connected
    to stout wooden pegs:
    plugs
    expressions of unexplained follicles
    orbiting the scull

    Part 5
    by any yardstick
    being pecked to death
    by
    ancient aunts
    is all
    and not
    as previously stated a bulldog

    scarcely
    a small delicate

    with about half of its bulk protruding from its mouth
    teeth like dry stone walling
    longing for whistles

    and those strong comforting hands
    for pushing back
    and
    yet
    there crouching
    on the floor
    soft and resistless

    as former plastic pleasures,
    smelting of iron
    twin girls, like moons, and a monocle
    to distinguish one from another

    sweet ravens
    cruel and curved

    Part 6
    good.
    it’s dark
    we can make our assessments

    driven by twitching fingers,
    colour covers the canvas
    tacky
    still
    these years later

  • Augustus Egg (6/14/2009 8:13:00 PM) Post reply

    the blue factory: freestyle poem project,5th draft of an estimated....

    opening

    the blue factory is shutting down. all the doors are stuck up and everyone’s belly is hanging out like bunting.
    the story is so universal it’s frequently used as the central plot in tv dramas

    Part 1
    for weeks we shuffle around spellbound
    quilted
    like blankets on a scorching hot day

    but it’s so cold in here
    that the word cold must be emphasised
    even the goldfish is staying put in his little house.

    Part 2
    After we hear of
    the new order for buttons-
    bollocks to all this
    we know the smell-

    another lunatic fringe
    comes
    honing its listening skills

    Part three
    never are those authentic
    Never.
    these
    gnarled sad relics with corrugated lips
    bull ridden
    like ancestral aunts
    current wave, prematurely wrinkled

    Part 4
    the impact of its wool,
    especially on socks
    in which holes have been drilled,
    is
    in my head
    connected
    to stout wooden pegs:
    plugs
    expressions of unexplained follicles
    orbiting the scull

    Part5
    by any yardstick
    being pecked to death
    by
    ancient aunts
    is all
    and not
    as previously stated a bulldog

    scarcely
    a small delicate

    with about half of its bulk protruding from its mouth
    teeth
    like dry stone walling
    longing for whistles

    and those strong comforting hands
    for pushing back

    yet there
    crouching
    on the floor
    appear soft and resistless

    as other plastic pleasures,
    smelting of iron
    twin girls, like moons, and a monocle
    to distinguish one from another

    sweet ravens cruel and curved

    Part 6
    good.
    it’s dark
    now we can make our assessments

    driven by twitching fingers,
    colour
    covers the canvas
    still tacky
    these years later

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