(11/19/2013 11:27:00 AM)
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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:
Unknown But Will Be
(5/12/2014 3:08:00 PM)
I love this, Its so relatable... keep up the good writing!
(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.
- Unknown But Will Be (5/12/2014 3:08:00 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.
(10/3/2013 4:18:00 PM)
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How do I withdraw my poem from your silly little popularity contest?
(9/17/2013 5:46:00 AM)
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A surprise in familiarity
from this soothing command
in the realm of eccentricities
beauty chases liberty
provoke not paranoia
of expensive insanity
escape fear undoubtedly
abandoning relief of normality.
(9/16/2013 11:39:00 AM)
Dawn at Sunset
Feed in comfort of extremity
tame the aches of a rebel
harbor a child of pretension
impossibility of acceptance indulge
distorting tendencies tempt the weak
return home colors within
excite laughter in purity
storm in command chill the bare
grace may blur in blackish hue
each tearful strand commits in truth
an ear to the silence of symphonies
faithful clock awaits hope to marry
a surprise in familiarity.
(8/30/2013 2:46:00 AM)
i call this poem " ghosts" i hope you like it.
in the daunting light of the moon,
a spirit stands in my room.
his story lies within the past,
just outer reach of my grasp.
another soul stands in my room,
her face is covered by the gloom.
i hear her cry while i sleep,
her tears slip in to all my dreams
there's one more ghost i mustn't forget,
and she is me in all my regret..
(8/9/2013 3:51:00 PM)
My Freeform is expensive
Its lengthy and extensive
It is a formless matter
A manner that's offensive.
Of drug Parafanelia
Or Hamlet and Ophelia
Or Michael or Mahalia
L.A. or Transylvania.
My freeform is quite pricy
Its heated or its Icy
It comes in mild or spicy
It mixes well with Hi-C.
Its ironic as can be
But my freeform aint for free.
(8/6/2013 3:47:00 AM)
Poem Hunter Poetry Contest has officially started. You can enter with your favorite poem now or write a new one and submit it before August 31st,2013.
Prize is $1,000 for the winner and $250 for the 2nd and 3rd place..
You can write in any poetic style and on any subject.
Entering the contest is free.
(8/5/2013 4:22:00 AM)
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Darren’s Room (2010)
A window to a wall
a dull council grey that exists nowhere in nature
a few square feet of glass
dividing what is inside from the wider world
retina thin and translucent
letting in the march gloom
half-illuminating his mind
a forty watt light not enough to set a fire
but yet too much for ignorance
too much for quiet blissful darkness
the embers are smouldering
burning black holes
in his face
in his brain
in his soul
he feels that soul move
a half-hearted heart beat
a foetus kick in the belly of the self
that is why he broke
that is why he beat
that is why he scream
that is why he drank the poison
that is why he snorted the dust
that is why
he can not articulate
he can not voice the pain in whispers or words
he can not imagine the images in colours
the smoke from the ash is too thick
chokes his eyes
makes blind the metaphors he would
sing from his sore cut throat
and deafens the song he would paint on the wall
in brilliant screams
a window in a wall to a wall
he can only see through it
to what is really there
he can not see past it
on his own
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Okot Innocent Angeeyo
(7/20/2013 5:54:00 AM)
The feeling has no name
And yet saying, thank you,
Express a bit of it.
I am, and will forever be grateful
Yet all I can say is,
Noble was the deed, and relieved was me,
It’s just a deed in my struggle, just a hand,
But without it, other hands would mean
Madam! Yes I call you.
Whatever made you do it,
I may not know, but can guess.
And is what I would teach myself every other day,
That I shall have a chance of living.
Yes I will try everyday.
You have directed me to future’s home,
Yes, I will go
And here I say,
When am there, you will be grateful,
Am talking too much, I know.
But saying thank you would and will never repay your deed.
All I can say, humanly is
Thank you again,
God will guide your steps.
I know it’s late, but now is the best time.
OKOT INNOCENT ANGEEYO