(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 4 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:
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)
| Read 1 reply
How do I withdraw my poem from your silly little popularity contest?
(9/17/2013 5:46:00 AM)
| Read 1 reply
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.