On the pains, travails, and joys of writing poetry
Vortex32167
Stephan van Pinksteren
Joined 16th Jan 2013
Forum Posts: 9
Stephan van Pinksteren
Twisted Dreamer
Forum Posts: 9
My Valley
My eyes red and swollen,
I cry for you my dear sanity.
I’m losing it on all levels of existence,
Losing grip of my own humanity.
In search for truths I will not find,
Existing only to wonder and ponder.
The feeling of being and draw breath,
Alone and misunderstood I wander.
Through a valley of tears and broken dreams,
I walk the long and wavey trench of sorrow.
Wondering if I will ever reach the end,
Beginning a day without tomorrow.
A short period of enlightenment and relieve,
24 hours of pure bliss and euphoria.
An end to an unending cycle of ages,
Forever losing the feelings of dysphoria.
But the journey never seems to end,
Forever lost in the valley untraversed.
Marching until I have reached my limit.
Broken, beaten and unendingly cursed.
I cry for you my dear sanity.
I’m losing it on all levels of existence,
Losing grip of my own humanity.
In search for truths I will not find,
Existing only to wonder and ponder.
The feeling of being and draw breath,
Alone and misunderstood I wander.
Through a valley of tears and broken dreams,
I walk the long and wavey trench of sorrow.
Wondering if I will ever reach the end,
Beginning a day without tomorrow.
A short period of enlightenment and relieve,
24 hours of pure bliss and euphoria.
An end to an unending cycle of ages,
Forever losing the feelings of dysphoria.
But the journey never seems to end,
Forever lost in the valley untraversed.
Marching until I have reached my limit.
Broken, beaten and unendingly cursed.
Written by Vortex32167
(Stephan van Pinksteren)
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Numer90
Numer0-un0
Forum Posts: 82
Numer0-un0
Thought Provoker
4
Joined 12th Dec 2020 Forum Posts: 82
My Jury
An hour of administering impressant..
Follows the next with a depressant..
THE DEAD TELL NO TALES
Completing a consistent twenty four hour cycle..
A food chain?
Life or a food web cycle..
Call it..
By chance I survive by some miracle..
Know this, in what I do, I am being a hell of an actor..
Neither the act..
And fuck the fact..
This is a factor..
Persistent bipolar disorder..
Stranded in a land of thunder..
Oh!..
You well aware Alice we are well outside the realm of wonder..
Something concrete building inside my head like the bricklayers reaching the linter..
One in town..
In chess a pawn?
I am not your whistle blower..
Nor is this a ringer..
Still alive am just so very lucky..
It doesn't sound funny..
Like Oliver I'm so hungry..
Going with the famous request;
My throat is sore..
"Please sir, I want some more" .
Dear Jury,
Or should I say bullies?
Nobody can have a clue..
As to what is my motive..
Reaching a certain point..
Muscles twitching I can feel it in my body joints..
The pills..
Abnormal range..
In what I engage..
Everyone's can notice I act strange..
Whether a complainant or a defendant..
My shell's not a hell..
A shield's how I use my shell..
Are you one among any of my jury..
I don't care your verdict..
Nor my affidavit..
You are not so lucky..
Yours
Mollusc Man
Signed
Follows the next with a depressant..
THE DEAD TELL NO TALES
Completing a consistent twenty four hour cycle..
A food chain?
Life or a food web cycle..
Call it..
By chance I survive by some miracle..
Know this, in what I do, I am being a hell of an actor..
Neither the act..
And fuck the fact..
This is a factor..
Persistent bipolar disorder..
Stranded in a land of thunder..
Oh!..
You well aware Alice we are well outside the realm of wonder..
Something concrete building inside my head like the bricklayers reaching the linter..
One in town..
In chess a pawn?
I am not your whistle blower..
Nor is this a ringer..
Still alive am just so very lucky..
It doesn't sound funny..
Like Oliver I'm so hungry..
Going with the famous request;
My throat is sore..
"Please sir, I want some more" .
Dear Jury,
Or should I say bullies?
Nobody can have a clue..
As to what is my motive..
Reaching a certain point..
Muscles twitching I can feel it in my body joints..
The pills..
Abnormal range..
In what I engage..
Everyone's can notice I act strange..
Whether a complainant or a defendant..
My shell's not a hell..
A shield's how I use my shell..
Are you one among any of my jury..
I don't care your verdict..
Nor my affidavit..
You are not so lucky..
Yours
Mollusc Man
Signed
Written by Numer90
(Numer0-un0)
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ReggiePoet
Reggie
Forum Posts: 357
Reggie
Fire of Insight
28
Joined 13th May 2018Forum Posts: 357
New Year's Wish (I Hope that the Bard Might Approve)
Some might call it absurd:
I’m in bondage to words—
I get off on the words that I write!
Just a masochist nerd
grinding parchment with verbs
Jacking off in iambic delight!
…But sometimes anapest
when I fancy a jest
In my mind’s eye, a hot dominatrix
And she’s always undressed
but for bustiered breasts
And a whip, just to cover the basics!
Any verse that is free
doesn’t do it for me—
For I crave the strict rhythm and rhyme
Either rude repartee
or a ball-busting knee—
A tight poesy screws with my mind!
My more ludicrous bent
that requires I vent
Fascination with pencil and penis
For a fetish that’s meant
to transcend my consent
To castration of balls, but not genius!
A trochee written for
a girlfriend who is bored
With a boyfriend who’s under-endowed
And her wish that his drawers
held a cock big as Thor’s
I admit is just ground over-ploughed.
It is not much ado,
nor a taming of shrew
But I hope that The Bard might approve
Everyone likes a screw
so the words that I spew
Are designed to arouse and amuse!
Too much whisky and beer
knocks me flat on my rear
And by midnight I’ll be fast asleep
So I'll wish you good cheer
to ring in the New Year…
I’ll be fucking, not counting, those sheep!
May you each get more than you deserve in the coming New Year!
I’m in bondage to words—
I get off on the words that I write!
Just a masochist nerd
grinding parchment with verbs
Jacking off in iambic delight!
…But sometimes anapest
when I fancy a jest
In my mind’s eye, a hot dominatrix
And she’s always undressed
but for bustiered breasts
And a whip, just to cover the basics!
Any verse that is free
doesn’t do it for me—
For I crave the strict rhythm and rhyme
Either rude repartee
or a ball-busting knee—
A tight poesy screws with my mind!
My more ludicrous bent
that requires I vent
Fascination with pencil and penis
For a fetish that’s meant
to transcend my consent
To castration of balls, but not genius!
A trochee written for
a girlfriend who is bored
With a boyfriend who’s under-endowed
And her wish that his drawers
held a cock big as Thor’s
I admit is just ground over-ploughed.
It is not much ado,
nor a taming of shrew
But I hope that The Bard might approve
Everyone likes a screw
so the words that I spew
Are designed to arouse and amuse!
Too much whisky and beer
knocks me flat on my rear
And by midnight I’ll be fast asleep
So I'll wish you good cheer
to ring in the New Year…
I’ll be fucking, not counting, those sheep!
May you each get more than you deserve in the coming New Year!
Written by ReggiePoet
(Reggie)
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Abracadabra
Forum Posts: 2528
Tyrant of Words
21
Joined 13th Nov 2009Forum Posts: 2528
Poor Marlene
These are the birds
that do not fly
my compulsion to write
huddled on this bough
wings clipped
and frozen in time
baring the mask
I dare not defy
For I shall not play your
social game
competing with
I’ll read yours
if you’ll read mine
or juggle my heart
through some maze of minds
when my soul knows
it’s safer
to snuggle inside
like poor Marlene
watching the snow
create a silence
of its own
that do not fly
my compulsion to write
huddled on this bough
wings clipped
and frozen in time
baring the mask
I dare not defy
For I shall not play your
social game
competing with
I’ll read yours
if you’ll read mine
or juggle my heart
through some maze of minds
when my soul knows
it’s safer
to snuggle inside
like poor Marlene
watching the snow
create a silence
of its own
Written by Abracadabra
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Numer90
Numer0-un0
Forum Posts: 82
Numer0-un0
Thought Provoker
4
Joined 12th Dec 2020 Forum Posts: 82
Morning glory
Morning glory..
Mourning my glory..
Falling from the Burj storey..
What would happen to this bag of bones in a human body?
I compose this for the symphony..
To console my vainglory..
Lost in my train of thoughts struggling to turn pages..
Like the sages gone for ages..
By Morning glory..
Am Mourning my glory..
So by Morning glory..
Am mourning in glory..
Mourning my glory..
Falling from the Burj storey..
What would happen to this bag of bones in a human body?
I compose this for the symphony..
To console my vainglory..
Lost in my train of thoughts struggling to turn pages..
Like the sages gone for ages..
By Morning glory..
Am Mourning my glory..
So by Morning glory..
Am mourning in glory..
Written by Numer90
(Numer0-un0)
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robert43041
Viking
Forum Posts: 918
Viking
Tyrant of Words
43
Joined 30th July 2020 Forum Posts: 918
I like the Mourning glory aspect. Regards, Robert.
javalini
Forum Posts: 201
Fire of Insight
15
Joined 4th Apr 2019Forum Posts: 201
THE BLANK PAGE
there was not a word in me
not a syllable
nothing
i'd been scraping what i could
from the very bottom
picking at scabs
running my fingers
over scar tissue
remembering
anticipating
still...
maybe i'd used it up
maybe it never existed
who the fuck did i think i was anyway?
Dylan Thomas?
shit.
i walked to the sink
and stared at my face
in the mirror
i looked tired
"what the hell,"
i thought.
"Geezus!"
not a syllable
nothing
i'd been scraping what i could
from the very bottom
picking at scabs
running my fingers
over scar tissue
remembering
anticipating
still...
maybe i'd used it up
maybe it never existed
who the fuck did i think i was anyway?
Dylan Thomas?
shit.
i walked to the sink
and stared at my face
in the mirror
i looked tired
"what the hell,"
i thought.
"Geezus!"
Written by javalini
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Abracadabra
Forum Posts: 2528
Tyrant of Words
21
Joined 13th Nov 2009Forum Posts: 2528
The Last Laugh
I knew from the start
this poem
was nothing but trouble
It left my washing in the rain
burned my breakfast
chose a dirty shirt by mistake
and made me late for work
again
The second verse
was never a favorite of mine
proving peskier than the first
and my boss was not amused
by the ongoing demands it made
twice he caught me
canoodling out loud
abusing valuable company time
much to his dismay
Infatuated over lunch
and during a testy train ride home
a horde of phantom phrases
spawned blizzards of word confetti
causing temporary blindness
while I missed my stop
with almost fatal results
when carelessly crossing the road
In poet dreamland
one session's always enough
to write and edit the final draft
of even the mightiest ode
but this little brat
kept me up all night
until at last we agreed
to sleep
on this title it finally chose
Written by Abracadabra
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StaticEyes
Joined 5th Aug 2021
Forum Posts: 3
Lost Thinker
Forum Posts: 3
Short sweet and to the point. Excellent metaphores. Bravo poet.
StaticEyes
Joined 5th Aug 2021
Forum Posts: 3
Lost Thinker
Forum Posts: 3
Blind Mentalities
His peevish eyes were gliding lines,
bereft the meaning due
So closed of mind, he misdefines,
opinions thick as glue
and somewhere 'mid a biased glean,
between his jaded quips,
the meanings there are left unseen
like blackened manuscripts.
His tattered diction speaks of shade
upon neglected words
where meanings penned are misconveyed
as points are massacred
and 'mid his mind, beneath the bone,
a barren land is born,
an ebon place he walks alone
as understanding mourns.
His boredom curbed by hateful jest
as envy guides his hand,
just arrogance he manifests
when comprehension's damned.
An effort plyed in ignorance
as sullied ink is laid.
So blind to layered eloquence,
intelligence betrayed.
His hateful words, but written brands
that cauterize the joy.
They shake the pens 'mid poet's hands
in effort to destroy.
Their artistry embibing eyes
with meaning oft foregone,
a blindness born in full disguise
lest understanding dawn.
As such, his squinting eyes abide
the target 'neath their view.
A heartless soul unsatisfied
with ev'ry curlicue.
He rants above the soulful poem,
his notions quite absurd,
just echoes 'mid the catacomb
as voices go unheard.....
bereft the meaning due
So closed of mind, he misdefines,
opinions thick as glue
and somewhere 'mid a biased glean,
between his jaded quips,
the meanings there are left unseen
like blackened manuscripts.
His tattered diction speaks of shade
upon neglected words
where meanings penned are misconveyed
as points are massacred
and 'mid his mind, beneath the bone,
a barren land is born,
an ebon place he walks alone
as understanding mourns.
His boredom curbed by hateful jest
as envy guides his hand,
just arrogance he manifests
when comprehension's damned.
An effort plyed in ignorance
as sullied ink is laid.
So blind to layered eloquence,
intelligence betrayed.
His hateful words, but written brands
that cauterize the joy.
They shake the pens 'mid poet's hands
in effort to destroy.
Their artistry embibing eyes
with meaning oft foregone,
a blindness born in full disguise
lest understanding dawn.
As such, his squinting eyes abide
the target 'neath their view.
A heartless soul unsatisfied
with ev'ry curlicue.
He rants above the soulful poem,
his notions quite absurd,
just echoes 'mid the catacomb
as voices go unheard.....
Written by StaticEyes
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Swinging & Dinging
I've acquired the same epiphany as Donald "Duck" Matthews
Our core must suffer more in order to wear an artist's shoes
Infused with heartache and pain to become great writers
Finding comedy within tragedy as well as sides that're brighter
Gotta be a fighter and inspirerer through bouts of life
Through the rounds of turmoil and strife that're rife
Back stabbed with a knife can cause icesicles to form
Engulfing a heart that no longer wants to conform
Storms can change us if we don't consciously reflect
Every action has a reaction; it's the cause and effect
Sanity ejects when psychological jets begin to descend
Gotta keep swinging 'til the final bell is dinging at the end
Our core must suffer more in order to wear an artist's shoes
Infused with heartache and pain to become great writers
Finding comedy within tragedy as well as sides that're brighter
Gotta be a fighter and inspirerer through bouts of life
Through the rounds of turmoil and strife that're rife
Back stabbed with a knife can cause icesicles to form
Engulfing a heart that no longer wants to conform
Storms can change us if we don't consciously reflect
Every action has a reaction; it's the cause and effect
Sanity ejects when psychological jets begin to descend
Gotta keep swinging 'til the final bell is dinging at the end
Written by da_poetic-edifier
(Damon)
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robert43041
Viking
Forum Posts: 918
Viking
Tyrant of Words
43
Joined 30th July 2020 Forum Posts: 918
I like this. Well done. Regards, Robert.
PsycoticMastermind
Forum Posts: 209
Thought Provoker
2
Joined 20th Mar 2015Forum Posts: 209
[ On Poetry ] Poetry is a dish best served
over the course of an evening
for guests to savor
---be digested in liesure
suited fashion
where the line at the
all-you-can-treat
buffet becomes blurred
as diners are the chefs
in their own way
finishing your plates
without being asked
They are the ones tasked
after all; you do not cut, chew
and swallow their food for them
nor do you conjure up associations
or the sensations washed down
with libations of joyfulled elations
and ephinephrined epiphanies
So it comes as no surprise
these same people over easily
leggo the Eggo wafflings
popping out of your toaster oven
often in a hurry for the front door
When having gotten their scarfs on
I certainly wouldn't want my
readers to linger in the foyer
quickly forgetting such measley
mealings as hastily prepared
as such are
Written by PsycoticMastermind
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JohnnyBlaze
Forum Posts: 5572
Tyrant of Words
23
Joined 20th Mar 2015Forum Posts: 5572
[ On Poetry ] When Poetry was an art
Instead of having cups of coffee
and conversations these days
perhaps due to being so busy
minding our own busy-ness
we tend to holler across grainy
monitored fields of Internet, Hey!
This is my life at the moment!
Technology has introduced us
to more people across the planet-
ary landscape than we can physic-
ally connect with one-on-one
And while such is a wonderful arena
for poets aiming to bounce their craft
off public walls in rubber ball fashion
when finetuning writing techniques
it's in the best interest of your readers
that you don't confuse them with
friends, associates, followers --- whatever
you prefer to call those other people
picking away at the low hanging fruits
of your app'led-orchard Facebook page
because as already established
Life is being lived by those
out in the real world
and not online 24/7
/365
Does anyone actually giving a damn
about you ( and your poetry )
have the time to be mired in a boggy
blog of ambiguous mumblings
informing people about what
may be going on in your life?
Or to suffer through long-winded
rants metaphorically directed
at particular individuals
( supposedly existant )
you're trying to shame
( because you somehow feel more
engaging with a war helmet on
when spouting off )
but won't name?
Seriously
couldn't you just post a selfie?
At least then
we could voluntarily zoom
in at our own discretion
to more thoroughly examine
and determine for ourselves
what THAT trivial pursuit might be
stuck in your craw
( spinach ..? popcorn ..? )
that you're trying to spit out
Please.
Consider being more considerate
---don't expect everyone
to drop what they are doing
walk all the way across the room
street, parking lot, block, or office
and besiege you with requests
for clarification because of
an inability to be forthright and honest
cravings for attention
or you simpl[e mindedl]y
had another brainfart
I guess what I'm trying to say is
There was a time when
Poetry was an art
Now? I'm not so sure
Written by JohnnyBlaze
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Magnetron
Forum Posts: 433
Fire of Insight
6
Joined 20th July 2014Forum Posts: 433
Anatomy Of A Dragon VI : The Dark Age of Literature
Enough!
Dispense with these
feudal attempts; your poetry
is not up to snuff
Get it through your head
---I am a dragon!
Not in the business
of blowing smoke up your ass;
here to light a fire
under it instead
Written by Magnetron
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