Final Poem

Pause here who’d pass me by, pause here, my friend,    
That last my words forbade, last find their end.  
Too many hours alone I gave the Muse,    
Too many days I've lost to phrase I'd use.    
My poet’s brain was crossly wired wrong,    
To rather write than sing my lover’s song,    
To claim in words that wanton sex imply,    
Than find a wanton girl who'd with me lie.    
So keep them all, I'll wordless wander home,    
That I may write in her my heaven’s po’m.    
 

deconstructed collaborative renga
(You're going to have to build this one yourself)  
  
Go to this poem  
   
https://deepundergroundpoetry.com/poems/224502-three-jewels/  
   
Take jade tiger's renga in her comment and collate them as follows:  
   
1  
GC  
     JT  
   
2  
GC  
     JT  
   
3  
GC  
     JT  
   
That's what I want to be remembered for!

Good but not good enough
Constantly writing in search of that perfect line
Constantly trying to write a piece better than my last
Everytime I can feel it rise in me
Every day I feel it burning in me
Begging me to write it out
No matter how much I try, its always never good enough
It's not about my lack of motivation
It's not about my lack of words nor creativity
It's the need to grow
The need to be better
It’s the fear of being absolute
It rises in every writer, every poet
It burns inside every singer, in every artist
Begging to be written out
Begging to be said aloud
Begging to be drawn,painted and to be sang out
What I've written today is not my best
What I'll write tomorrow is no my best
Even if it rises inside of me
Even it it burns inside of me
As long as I can hold a pen, a paint brush, a microphone
I still haven't done my best
My best, your best
It dies with me, it dies with you
I'm the best, you're the best

A MEN’S ODE. A TRY


YODA STARE MEN
A YAM TREE NODS

AS TREE MAY NOD
SAY: O DAMN TREE

YODA STARE MEN:
STAY ONE DAMER

RE: STAY ON DAME
O’ MEN, DARE STAY

A MAN TRY’S e-DOE?
MEN TOYS A DARE?

ONE. STRAY. DAME.
YEA, DA MONSTER
 

TODAY'S MEN ARE,
SAD.(TOY MEN ARE)

I bought this journal because my therapist told me to
She told me to “write down my feelings to express them,”
So that’s what I’m going to do

I fill the pages with self loathing and self pity
Sometimes I fill the pages with “I hate you,”
Written again and again

I leave the inkings of my heart on the paper

Page 1: I don’t have much to say.

Page 2: It’s just another regular day.

Page 3: Today was a bad day, I can’t keep these thoughts at bay.

Page 4-40: I hate everyone, I hate myself
Hate, hate, hate suffocating the pages. I’m done.

Page 41-50: I can’t stand another day, why must I suffer so much. This pain is a debt that I must pay.

Page 51-60: I have nothing, I am nothing, nothing matters.

Page 61-65: It’s been months and nothings changed. These thoughts are driving me insane.

Page 66: I can’t take this anymore
Every breath I take is agony
Blood splatter is on the ceiling and the floor
So here I stand on the 100th floor balcony

I’ve made a profound self discovery
With irreversible consequences
Once I push myself over the edge there’s no recovery
I’m now self aware, I’ve come to my senses

My therapist would be so proud
The sirens in the distant are wailing so loud
My toes dangle over the edge
As I stare into the flower beds

I’m sorry if this hurts you or seems sudden
But I’ve had these thoughts ever since I can remember
I wish life had a reset button
So cremate me and turn my flesh into embers

I’m sorry if you think I’m weak
But my life is bleak
Writing down my thoughts has opened my eyes
About how my existence is feeble and meek

I can’t keep up this facade
It’s a fools game of charade
So I’ve decided to acquaint
My face with the pavement

Before I meet my end
On the front of this journal,
I etch
“Flip to page 66, for the reason I’m dead.”