(8/10/2009 2:32:00 PM)
to all fellow poets, when and if you have time to spare any comments and contrcutive opinions are welcome on my new poem 'My Reconstruction' thank you for your time
Forest T. Jones
(8/9/2009 3:33:00 PM)
The 'he' of poetry -
When he drowns;
his clothes suffer.
(8/5/2009 11:50:00 AM)
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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:
(8/23/2009 2:34:00 PM)
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
(8/16/2009 5:48:00 PM)
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I like your poem, but im curious as to where your inspiration to writing this came from?
- Kimberly Lindsey (8/23/2009 2:34:00 PM) Post reply
(7/29/2009 11:32:00 AM)
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,
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?
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
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.
(7/26/2009 4:54:00 AM)
(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...
(7/25/2009 4:15:00 AM)
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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
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
I hope I can make them proud
One Day I will
(7/10/2009 9:00:00 AM)
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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,
Lorraine Margueritte Gasrel Black
(7/6/2009 11:30:00 AM)
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....
(6/30/2009 8:04:00 PM)
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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 otherReplies for this message:
(7/2/2009 10:18:00 PM)
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
(6/30/2009 8:50:00 PM)
this is rubbish..
- Stephen Magill (7/2/2009 10:18:00 PM) Post reply
(6/18/2009 9:23:00 PM)
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
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
driving his flock
but blow the same breath outwards
how the old machines
throw up the dust
the new order
(bollocks to all this we know the smell)
another lunatic fringe
honing its listening skills
on an orange
never are those authentic.
gnarled sad relics with their corrugated lips
pursed like buds
like ancestral aunts
the impact of all that woolly thinking
especially on socks
in which holes have been drilled,
in my head
to stout wooden pegs:
expressions of unexplained follicles
orbiting the scull
by any yardstick
being pecked to death
as previously stated a bulldog
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
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
cruel and curved
we can make our assessments
driven by twitching fingers,
colour covers the canvas
these years later