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  • Rookie Ella Pitt (3/18/2014 5:35:00 PM) Post reply
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    A congealed epidermis.
    My repugnant antagonist.
    Two hundred milliliters at
    Ten forty five.
    Two hundred milliliters at
    Three thirty.
    Just in case the emetic scent
    Had evaded my nostrils.
    Or the diaphonous film
    Was no longer clinging to
    My tonsils generating
    Glutinous saliva.
    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

  • Rookie Ella Pitt (3/18/2014 5:34:00 PM) Post reply


    Systematically I scratched at a
    Stubborn residue, insignificant but
    Annoyingly present.
    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

  • Rookie Ella Pitt (3/18/2014 5:34:00 PM) Post reply

    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.

  • Rookie - 577 Points Frank Ovid (3/4/2014 9:50:00 PM) Post reply

    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.

  • Rookie - 577 Points Frank Ovid (3/3/2014 10:29:00 PM) Post reply

    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!

  • Rookie - 577 Points Frank Ovid (3/1/2014 12:11:00 PM) Post reply

    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.

  • Rookie - 577 Points Frank Ovid (3/1/2014 9:37:00 AM) Post reply

    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!

  • Rookie Mamatha Kaza (2/13/2014 5:53:00 AM) Post reply


    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

  • Rookie Joseph Alvarez (11/19/2013 11:27:00 AM) Post reply | Read 4 replies


    a universal word
    infinitely descriptive
    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:
    • Rookie Unknown But Will Be (5/12/2014 3:08:00 PM) Post reply

      I love this, Its so relatable... keep up the good writing!

    • Rookie Levi Hopler (12/12/2013 10:25:00 PM) Post reply

      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

    • Rookie Doris Cornago (12/8/2013 9:52:00 AM) Post reply

      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

    • Rookie Colleen Gaida (11/29/2013 12:21:00 PM) Post reply

      Perfectly expressed! Beautiful.

  • Rookie Lanaia Lee (11/3/2013 11:15:00 AM) Post reply

    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.

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