Agent Orange
New Member
I think thats because narusinsight was banned stevie. there are a couple other versions of the blue velvet band if your interested....
Post Your Poetry
- Thread starter NewGrowth
- Start date
pariah
Active Member
kinda old but i enjoyed writing it
-faded albums 11-19-06
black and white albums
what happened to the colour
grab some paint
pick up a roller
drain the rainbow
stop the rain
let the wind blow
refrain from hate
just let it go
when relaxed
brains collapse
float freely
go dreamy
treat sweetly
package neatly
and make another
colours come back
with every good act
so step back
keep track
and gather fact
beyond fiction
so surreal
our energy
is something no one can steal
-faded albums 11-19-06
black and white albums
what happened to the colour
grab some paint
pick up a roller
drain the rainbow
stop the rain
let the wind blow
refrain from hate
just let it go
when relaxed
brains collapse
float freely
go dreamy
treat sweetly
package neatly
and make another
colours come back
with every good act
so step back
keep track
and gather fact
beyond fiction
so surreal
our energy
is something no one can steal
CreepyStevie69
Well-Known Member
you have a rep button. and so do other people. it seems only the "strangers" dont have one.
budsmoker87
New Member
I call this one "ode to poetry"
got published recently, performed w/J.Ivy from def jam recently at a university, and i've won several shows since I started doing open mic's in march. I've always written but did it as a form of therapy for myself...but now that i'm sharing it, here's one i wrote about poetry
(it's about how poetry is always there for me, through good times and bad...and how "the pen always understands me" since writing is therapeutic for me)
when joyfullness illuminates life like a beam
inspiration ensues and flows free like a stream
when chaos echos response to my questions
the answers are written as poetic lessons
when emotion prevails and i'm tangled and grief
pen and paper restore the greatest relief
when tragedy strikes and i'm lost in despair
when my heart can't repair and nobody's there
when distraight by motives that cloud my view
like fog on a mountain or morning dew
when intangible secrets are trapped from release
and can't be conveyed to others through speech
or when i deem my own words incomplete or uncanny
i find solace in truth that my pen understands me
got published recently, performed w/J.Ivy from def jam recently at a university, and i've won several shows since I started doing open mic's in march. I've always written but did it as a form of therapy for myself...but now that i'm sharing it, here's one i wrote about poetry
(it's about how poetry is always there for me, through good times and bad...and how "the pen always understands me" since writing is therapeutic for me)
when joyfullness illuminates life like a beam
inspiration ensues and flows free like a stream
when chaos echos response to my questions
the answers are written as poetic lessons
when emotion prevails and i'm tangled and grief
pen and paper restore the greatest relief
when tragedy strikes and i'm lost in despair
when my heart can't repair and nobody's there
when distraight by motives that cloud my view
like fog on a mountain or morning dew
when intangible secrets are trapped from release
and can't be conveyed to others through speech
or when i deem my own words incomplete or uncanny
i find solace in truth that my pen understands me
RadioKills
Well-Known Member
pretty sick
budsmoker87
New Member
thanks guy, i've enjoyed reading everybody's poems, keep writin dudes n dudettes !!
As reality transcends space and time
communication is flawed yet thoughts reign divine
minutes morph into hours and hours last days
eternities pass in euphoric haze
as music and dance harmonize intertwined
vivid colors and patterns prance through my mind
yet suddenly entranced with thoughts so profound
that senses elude all distractions around
my mind and spirit float free like the breeze
and leave endless questions branched out like trees
surroundings dictate my mood at the moment
so i alter my setting so I can control it
but i change my setting to gauge the effect
i've grown used to this high so i explore new depths
and though my brain remains tricked and tickled
the realm eventually fades like calm water ripples
(about tripping on mushrooms haha)
As reality transcends space and time
communication is flawed yet thoughts reign divine
minutes morph into hours and hours last days
eternities pass in euphoric haze
as music and dance harmonize intertwined
vivid colors and patterns prance through my mind
yet suddenly entranced with thoughts so profound
that senses elude all distractions around
my mind and spirit float free like the breeze
and leave endless questions branched out like trees
surroundings dictate my mood at the moment
so i alter my setting so I can control it
but i change my setting to gauge the effect
i've grown used to this high so i explore new depths
and though my brain remains tricked and tickled
the realm eventually fades like calm water ripples
(about tripping on mushrooms haha)
MediMary
Well-Known Member
hello new growth. I enjoyed you're poem, here is one for you that I have always enjoyed.
Desiderata*
Go placidly amid the noise and the haste,
and remember what peace there may be in silence.
As far as possible, without surrender,
be on good terms with all persons.
Speak your truth quietly and clearly;
and listen to others,
even to the dull and the ignorant;
they too have their story.
Avoid loud and aggressive persons;
they are vexatious to the spirit.
If you compare yourself with others,
you may become vain or bitter,
for always there will be greater and lesser persons than yourself.
Enjoy your achievements as well as your plans.
Keep interested in your own career, however humble;
it is a real possession in the changing fortunes of time.
Exercise caution in your business affairs,
for the world is full of trickery.
But let this not blind you to what virtue there is;
many persons strive for high ideals,
and everywhere life is full of heroism.
Be yourself. Especially do not feign affection.
Neither be cynical about love,
for in the face of all aridity and disenchantment,
it is as perennial as the grass.
Take kindly the counsel of the years,
gracefully surrendering the things of youth.
Nurture strength of spirit to shield you in sudden misfortune.
But do not distress yourself with dark imaginings.
Many fears are born of fatigue and loneliness.
Beyond a wholesome discipline,
be gentle with yourself.
You are a child of the universe
no less than the trees and the stars;
you have a right to be here.
And whether or not it is clear to you,
no doubt the universe is unfolding as it should.
Therefore be at peace with God,
whatever you conceive Him to be.
And whatever your labors and aspirations,
in the noisy confusion of life,
keep peace in your soul.
With all its sham, drudgery, and broken dreams,
it is still a beautiful world.
Be cheerful. Strive to be happy.
Desiderata*
Go placidly amid the noise and the haste,
and remember what peace there may be in silence.
As far as possible, without surrender,
be on good terms with all persons.
Speak your truth quietly and clearly;
and listen to others,
even to the dull and the ignorant;
they too have their story.
Avoid loud and aggressive persons;
they are vexatious to the spirit.
If you compare yourself with others,
you may become vain or bitter,
for always there will be greater and lesser persons than yourself.
Enjoy your achievements as well as your plans.
Keep interested in your own career, however humble;
it is a real possession in the changing fortunes of time.
Exercise caution in your business affairs,
for the world is full of trickery.
But let this not blind you to what virtue there is;
many persons strive for high ideals,
and everywhere life is full of heroism.
Be yourself. Especially do not feign affection.
Neither be cynical about love,
for in the face of all aridity and disenchantment,
it is as perennial as the grass.
Take kindly the counsel of the years,
gracefully surrendering the things of youth.
Nurture strength of spirit to shield you in sudden misfortune.
But do not distress yourself with dark imaginings.
Many fears are born of fatigue and loneliness.
Beyond a wholesome discipline,
be gentle with yourself.
You are a child of the universe
no less than the trees and the stars;
you have a right to be here.
And whether or not it is clear to you,
no doubt the universe is unfolding as it should.
Therefore be at peace with God,
whatever you conceive Him to be.
And whatever your labors and aspirations,
in the noisy confusion of life,
keep peace in your soul.
With all its sham, drudgery, and broken dreams,
it is still a beautiful world.
Be cheerful. Strive to be happy.
NewGrowth
Well-Known Member
Thanks, that is one of my favorite poems!! There is a musical adaptation by lazyboy, you should look it up.
budsmoker87
New Member
this is awesome- just the thing i need to hear sometimes actually
it's funny cuz when i write, it often comes out as dark or cynical, but im just getting all the dark thoughts off my chest....whereas this is therapeutic to the reader as well
g00000d shit
MediMary
Well-Known Member
Do I have a rep button?
NewGrowth
Well-Known Member
I agree, I don't think my stuff is cynical though; sometimes dark. Theraputic yes, poetry is very meditative to me. I only started writing when I was inspired by love and suffering both. Works of wisdom like Desiderata are amazing to me. Thanks for sharing all your stuff guys.
You sure do, I gave you some rep earlier.
MediMary
Well-Known Member
thanks newYou sure do, I gave you some rep earlier.
Cheech Wizard
Well-Known Member
After hundreds of doses of Reality-Revealer
you'll become a believer
this i swear to the god Shiva
at age 16 I became a psychic receiver
I did this with acid, shrooms and kind reefer
if you think im a spacey deciever
we'll butt heads like Keifer
and you can feel the blade of my cleaver
im no deciever or a pacifast either
Im a dream-weaver when im sick with the fever
a booby feeler, a skinny fuck resembling Mike Seaver
I get lots of chicks and treat her like I dont need her
now Im a women healer, plus I go down on beaver
a wheeler-dealer, a wet kiss stealer
doesnt hurt Im hung like a horse neither
you'll become a believer
this i swear to the god Shiva
at age 16 I became a psychic receiver
I did this with acid, shrooms and kind reefer
if you think im a spacey deciever
we'll butt heads like Keifer
and you can feel the blade of my cleaver
im no deciever or a pacifast either
Im a dream-weaver when im sick with the fever
a booby feeler, a skinny fuck resembling Mike Seaver
I get lots of chicks and treat her like I dont need her
now Im a women healer, plus I go down on beaver
a wheeler-dealer, a wet kiss stealer
doesnt hurt Im hung like a horse neither
kebnutkush
Active Member
Here's some stuff that I've written over the years. Just tid-bits I found on my computer after viewing this thread and deciding to share. I keep most of my writings in notebooks as opposed to the computer, so I'll look through my books and figure out some extras to share.
My writings are almost always stream of conscious and flow the speed of my thoughts... fingers or jotting.
There's a multitude of influence, it doesn't take much venture to say that some are definitely drug influenced/ induced while others are from lack of sleep or just observation and random jotting.
Influence comes in all forms.
Hope you like
*The use of "you" isn't always ment as a definite, more often in the indefinite form.*
1)
To grasp lightning and shake with thunder, we know that the veins of life exist within her hands.
2)
We are of memories regaurding moments, moments eclipsed by years, years offering life times drawing near.
Distant futures on the head of a pin, trash is a can tumbling forth unfolding maps telling stories in foot print patch work.
Smile empty window sill the birds will continue to speak with you.
I know the tragic nothings whispered under the door mats breath, "where is the key?".
Trace my heart in frost bitten silence, I freeze, how deep I freeze at the thought of a commercial existence.
Template cookie cutters produce more drones to loan interruption and corrupt a covanlent bond.
Submerse a cadence in a cascading turbulent self, then speak of a lasting effort.
Maybe the constellations have an ordinance to follow, they lead answeres our way that remain deaf to our questions.
Gestating crazy legs tip toe through the tulips attached to aborted mechanical babies, feasting upon the banished shame of thinking unorthodox.
Approximately the worst horrors hover around every doorway waiting to engulf and unravle deadly sins for suffering.
So deduct to conduct a peaceful, feastful, full bellied existence, be it what it may of a choice you once made.
Once at a standstill waiting for perpetual motion.
3)
I've found myself once more, every piece scattered across oblivion. The journey through souls has rendered me stronger, double stitched as to not loose my stuffing.
I've fallen from your second hand color changing involvement, and it's blissful. I'm no longer a thirsty planet, parched from your drought of words.
I'm whole again, I'm me again.
Never again to feel the salt you rubbed into my wounds. I've kicked those flowers from my bed because their roots were poison.
I'm beautiful.
4)
I am juxtaposed. So many thoughts, so many actions, so many feelings, so many reactions. Every part of me is of something that doesn't fit, to somehow make up this being known as SELF.I am of tradition, as much as I am of abstract radicalism. I am a circle with no end, yet I am not here, nor there, my edges touch beyond reason. To me left is right, and right is left, up is neither it self nor down. Each direction is what we make of it and deem. My sight is not tinted by glasses, only shaded by hands. I am of earth that is fertile, only made so by raging fires and added water. My words are not true, or false, they are just, infinite. We are all of opinion, a reciprocating reason that cannot be proved right or wrong. I am a seed placed here to grow and indulge myself in the knowledge of history, but to be free from it to create my own abstraction. I am surreal, the clock on the wall, the ring on your finger, the feeling in your chest, the tower that casts a shadow into the halls where we used to frolic. I am a kiss hard on the lips, I am what remains.
5)
May we set the hands back instead of destroy the future? Someone threw a wrench into what seemed like a well oiled infinite machine. But nothing is infinite, not even the mind.
6)
How complex can something be before it rakes it's own downfall?
Before there is a collapse?
Before there is shame?
How often must one change their oily skies to prevent the afforementioned conclusion?
I guess I'll have to converse with the birds on this one... The jury is at lunch.
7)
So when does the curtain draw? When will the stage light up, and the performance begin?
I've often waited for these times, to give up the ghost and sink my teeth in... swim around a little... test the water.
But lately I sit back and watch it all unfold in teloscopic nature, each turn showing a larger and greater division.
All I ask is the time, to sit and view, to peer and formulate... congeal and mesh.
I've danced and spun to find my gravity only without a bearing point, just bearing existence.
I wait back for the right tide to sweep a coast and that's when I ride.
But when does one escape, when does one roam free and fall victim only to themselves?
You're but a curious question mark, as to when the world will end.
I see it in your eyes everyday.
I see it in all of your belongings,
I see it as your chest rises and falls only to satisfye the curious question mark you are.
Only a question, never an answere.
9)
Cast away calligraphy from a poets pen. These ink marks are misplaced, misspelled sentences logged down in the memorandum otherwise known as servival of the fittest. This is not how the story was written. Scape goat burnt finger tips, reaching for what is to hot, just to hot, we can dream can't we? Say the words, that which is drawn to me, becoming of me. Gastly decible distorted disaster, it's that ringing in our ears, an epitomy of your greatest hopes and your greatest fears. Textiles and time pieces, representations of deed, recipricating thrice the taking. Composed of stolen bread waiting in shadows of gallows, a parachute please? A parachute please, before we hit the ground? Let's say we end this moment in a sence of self wallowing, self consuming gestation (offer rebirth?). These thoughts which tear us from our jaws, bleeding gums, broken thumbs, trying to turn this doors knob. Pass on, vomit memories of when you could remember my face, my voice, my mind so much like yours. Come on Say those words that once sparked gasoline in our hearts. Life... Noxious fumes which fuel this machine... Our frames rust and fall, waiting is the mind, trapped inside broken walls. Disintigrate, tragically purge your blood, your flesh, your clones from the plate you produced. When chalk is wiped from the black board, a ghost image remains, in retrospect, we are all chalk waiting to be wiped from life's black board, arn't we all but preconceived ghosts?
I love you Grandpa.
10)
Atoms skamper away when they're weak, to fall and lay a path of chaos, chain reactions change the curvature of sight.
11)
To be a tree, I could stretch my arms in fashions of forever. Affix myself inside the ground becoming attune with the soil, harmony in first class accomplisment. Turn a plot into a home, where I could rest my roots, tap into the resource known as life. Change colors to match my feelings in the seasons, my rainbow cycles in static position. Offer shade for my family in the scorche of a blister day. I sit and listen as I watch you come and go down the generations, I look out between the light to notice the calibre of exisitence, and when my time comes... please make use of my bones.
12)
I've been twisted, my shape contorts but I maintain who I am. I'm lost in an ink blot pattern of two, each a puddle where composure slips aside and fallen are of the words we speak until the fly traps close. Our CPU's pressed to seek further input, our minds eyes are the jumper in which the data flows, even during dream. Beautiful fruit conjure up hope for tomorrow, the depth unknown past the thickness of our skulls. To trust and consume, a little bit here and there, the pressures of emotion lead torches down the dark paths. If there is light we can see, our eyes are not polished. Symbols emerge projecting from our souls, upon the wall is where we read, let it be noted we sign our names in finger prints. We glow, to start a campagne or silloutte of light in the dark texture background. Fingers embrace, thumb war captions, tangled legs among soft sheet landscapes. The thought pattern during the foggy eyed journey to the land of residence rendered me floored. I just want you to know.... it ment something to me.
13)
I cough blood upon your face, it's a portrait I paint daily. I cough blood in essence of regaurd, but disregaurd that because it doesn't matter anyway, you're still ripe, and I'm still distant like the moon in your eyes.
14)
Lightning.... strike.... heart stops. My bones leeched lesser the marrow. I collapse without structure, composure still stable, out by ten fold and counting. Please prop me up against life for a second... ahhh a breath of carbon, maybe re-animation is a possability... my grave plot not marked yet... sign on the dotted line that just so happens to be your epitaph. My teeth broken through my lips, you decided it's fortunate for you to cleanse me with your tongue. Dance dance dance with your wooden legs, motion leaves in an absence of relation.
15)
I am but fluid in a lung of confusion. Potentially regurgitated humidity for others to contract and adhere to.
My writings are almost always stream of conscious and flow the speed of my thoughts... fingers or jotting.
There's a multitude of influence, it doesn't take much venture to say that some are definitely drug influenced/ induced while others are from lack of sleep or just observation and random jotting.
Influence comes in all forms.
Hope you like
*The use of "you" isn't always ment as a definite, more often in the indefinite form.*
1)
To grasp lightning and shake with thunder, we know that the veins of life exist within her hands.
2)
We are of memories regaurding moments, moments eclipsed by years, years offering life times drawing near.
Distant futures on the head of a pin, trash is a can tumbling forth unfolding maps telling stories in foot print patch work.
Smile empty window sill the birds will continue to speak with you.
I know the tragic nothings whispered under the door mats breath, "where is the key?".
Trace my heart in frost bitten silence, I freeze, how deep I freeze at the thought of a commercial existence.
Template cookie cutters produce more drones to loan interruption and corrupt a covanlent bond.
Submerse a cadence in a cascading turbulent self, then speak of a lasting effort.
Maybe the constellations have an ordinance to follow, they lead answeres our way that remain deaf to our questions.
Gestating crazy legs tip toe through the tulips attached to aborted mechanical babies, feasting upon the banished shame of thinking unorthodox.
Approximately the worst horrors hover around every doorway waiting to engulf and unravle deadly sins for suffering.
So deduct to conduct a peaceful, feastful, full bellied existence, be it what it may of a choice you once made.
Once at a standstill waiting for perpetual motion.
3)
I've found myself once more, every piece scattered across oblivion. The journey through souls has rendered me stronger, double stitched as to not loose my stuffing.
I've fallen from your second hand color changing involvement, and it's blissful. I'm no longer a thirsty planet, parched from your drought of words.
I'm whole again, I'm me again.
Never again to feel the salt you rubbed into my wounds. I've kicked those flowers from my bed because their roots were poison.
I'm beautiful.
4)
I am juxtaposed. So many thoughts, so many actions, so many feelings, so many reactions. Every part of me is of something that doesn't fit, to somehow make up this being known as SELF.I am of tradition, as much as I am of abstract radicalism. I am a circle with no end, yet I am not here, nor there, my edges touch beyond reason. To me left is right, and right is left, up is neither it self nor down. Each direction is what we make of it and deem. My sight is not tinted by glasses, only shaded by hands. I am of earth that is fertile, only made so by raging fires and added water. My words are not true, or false, they are just, infinite. We are all of opinion, a reciprocating reason that cannot be proved right or wrong. I am a seed placed here to grow and indulge myself in the knowledge of history, but to be free from it to create my own abstraction. I am surreal, the clock on the wall, the ring on your finger, the feeling in your chest, the tower that casts a shadow into the halls where we used to frolic. I am a kiss hard on the lips, I am what remains.
5)
May we set the hands back instead of destroy the future? Someone threw a wrench into what seemed like a well oiled infinite machine. But nothing is infinite, not even the mind.
6)
How complex can something be before it rakes it's own downfall?
Before there is a collapse?
Before there is shame?
How often must one change their oily skies to prevent the afforementioned conclusion?
I guess I'll have to converse with the birds on this one... The jury is at lunch.
7)
So when does the curtain draw? When will the stage light up, and the performance begin?
I've often waited for these times, to give up the ghost and sink my teeth in... swim around a little... test the water.
But lately I sit back and watch it all unfold in teloscopic nature, each turn showing a larger and greater division.
All I ask is the time, to sit and view, to peer and formulate... congeal and mesh.
I've danced and spun to find my gravity only without a bearing point, just bearing existence.
I wait back for the right tide to sweep a coast and that's when I ride.
But when does one escape, when does one roam free and fall victim only to themselves?
You're but a curious question mark, as to when the world will end.
I see it in your eyes everyday.
I see it in all of your belongings,
I see it as your chest rises and falls only to satisfye the curious question mark you are.
Only a question, never an answere.
9)
Cast away calligraphy from a poets pen. These ink marks are misplaced, misspelled sentences logged down in the memorandum otherwise known as servival of the fittest. This is not how the story was written. Scape goat burnt finger tips, reaching for what is to hot, just to hot, we can dream can't we? Say the words, that which is drawn to me, becoming of me. Gastly decible distorted disaster, it's that ringing in our ears, an epitomy of your greatest hopes and your greatest fears. Textiles and time pieces, representations of deed, recipricating thrice the taking. Composed of stolen bread waiting in shadows of gallows, a parachute please? A parachute please, before we hit the ground? Let's say we end this moment in a sence of self wallowing, self consuming gestation (offer rebirth?). These thoughts which tear us from our jaws, bleeding gums, broken thumbs, trying to turn this doors knob. Pass on, vomit memories of when you could remember my face, my voice, my mind so much like yours. Come on Say those words that once sparked gasoline in our hearts. Life... Noxious fumes which fuel this machine... Our frames rust and fall, waiting is the mind, trapped inside broken walls. Disintigrate, tragically purge your blood, your flesh, your clones from the plate you produced. When chalk is wiped from the black board, a ghost image remains, in retrospect, we are all chalk waiting to be wiped from life's black board, arn't we all but preconceived ghosts?
I love you Grandpa.
10)
Atoms skamper away when they're weak, to fall and lay a path of chaos, chain reactions change the curvature of sight.
11)
To be a tree, I could stretch my arms in fashions of forever. Affix myself inside the ground becoming attune with the soil, harmony in first class accomplisment. Turn a plot into a home, where I could rest my roots, tap into the resource known as life. Change colors to match my feelings in the seasons, my rainbow cycles in static position. Offer shade for my family in the scorche of a blister day. I sit and listen as I watch you come and go down the generations, I look out between the light to notice the calibre of exisitence, and when my time comes... please make use of my bones.
12)
I've been twisted, my shape contorts but I maintain who I am. I'm lost in an ink blot pattern of two, each a puddle where composure slips aside and fallen are of the words we speak until the fly traps close. Our CPU's pressed to seek further input, our minds eyes are the jumper in which the data flows, even during dream. Beautiful fruit conjure up hope for tomorrow, the depth unknown past the thickness of our skulls. To trust and consume, a little bit here and there, the pressures of emotion lead torches down the dark paths. If there is light we can see, our eyes are not polished. Symbols emerge projecting from our souls, upon the wall is where we read, let it be noted we sign our names in finger prints. We glow, to start a campagne or silloutte of light in the dark texture background. Fingers embrace, thumb war captions, tangled legs among soft sheet landscapes. The thought pattern during the foggy eyed journey to the land of residence rendered me floored. I just want you to know.... it ment something to me.
13)
I cough blood upon your face, it's a portrait I paint daily. I cough blood in essence of regaurd, but disregaurd that because it doesn't matter anyway, you're still ripe, and I'm still distant like the moon in your eyes.
14)
Lightning.... strike.... heart stops. My bones leeched lesser the marrow. I collapse without structure, composure still stable, out by ten fold and counting. Please prop me up against life for a second... ahhh a breath of carbon, maybe re-animation is a possability... my grave plot not marked yet... sign on the dotted line that just so happens to be your epitaph. My teeth broken through my lips, you decided it's fortunate for you to cleanse me with your tongue. Dance dance dance with your wooden legs, motion leaves in an absence of relation.
15)
I am but fluid in a lung of confusion. Potentially regurgitated humidity for others to contract and adhere to.
ruderalis88
Well-Known Member
Paint your nails red
Paint your lips red
Paint the world red
Paint it red
Dye your hair red
cry your eyes red
bleed your veins dead
go to bed.
These are my most favourite bits of poetry i've written in the last few years. I hope you enjoy.
Speak Softly
War on the was on terror has begun
so wipe your tears away and take a breath.
Unblur your eyes and try to choose your gun
paint, bullet, art; remove your right to death.
Urban warfare, revolution's first child, spreads her wings and proclaims that "Man Did This"
This love, this art will one day be exiled;
provisional, but freedom always is.
Night falls, the walls of the city are ours
reclaim our ground, the street belongs to us.
Away from them we hide by daylight hours
coloured streets, painted stains we leave and thus
our lives fragmented, stories, you can see;
beauty is not enough, but art could be.
For Fianna
Once, in reply to a doubt, I asked someone who i love very much "How could you say such a thing? You know i love you more than possums and intelligent monkeys and silver engines and left handed anguses ETC. Also, amber buttons on green checkered silk. Which is poetic, no matter which way you look at it." And i meant every word.
The Moon And I
Subtly, it was a Sunday, i lit
and smoked awhile.
Upon the grassy verge i lay
and glared at the moon - she dared
to wear a mocking smile.
My heart bared, uninfected,
i touched the near night sky.
So far away from everything,
and my emotions undirected
the moon and i, we cried.
Sipped shyly, the night's cool air,
waved to the moon's own man.
Playing as he was a teardrop prayer
on a silver lute. Silver notes, floating
down to land, on silver threads
who left their silver there.
Call to her myth though he's silent
save his lonely notes of pain.
Her mouth was empty and so i lent
her my words to sing over and over
and over again.
The moon sang and i listened
and the silver music held my head.
Our heartbeats slowly quickened
and i fell asleep on the grass, my bed.
You walked away
if in my moment i held no fear;
as i stood alone, in the moment,
growing old,
the heavy clouds i saw but said no words for you to hear,
it's for the waves that lapped my lonely feet
were cold.
Paint your lips red
Paint the world red
Paint it red
Dye your hair red
cry your eyes red
bleed your veins dead
go to bed.
These are my most favourite bits of poetry i've written in the last few years. I hope you enjoy.
Speak Softly
War on the was on terror has begun
so wipe your tears away and take a breath.
Unblur your eyes and try to choose your gun
paint, bullet, art; remove your right to death.
Urban warfare, revolution's first child, spreads her wings and proclaims that "Man Did This"
This love, this art will one day be exiled;
provisional, but freedom always is.
Night falls, the walls of the city are ours
reclaim our ground, the street belongs to us.
Away from them we hide by daylight hours
coloured streets, painted stains we leave and thus
our lives fragmented, stories, you can see;
beauty is not enough, but art could be.
For Fianna
Once, in reply to a doubt, I asked someone who i love very much "How could you say such a thing? You know i love you more than possums and intelligent monkeys and silver engines and left handed anguses ETC. Also, amber buttons on green checkered silk. Which is poetic, no matter which way you look at it." And i meant every word.
The Moon And I
Subtly, it was a Sunday, i lit
and smoked awhile.
Upon the grassy verge i lay
and glared at the moon - she dared
to wear a mocking smile.
My heart bared, uninfected,
i touched the near night sky.
So far away from everything,
and my emotions undirected
the moon and i, we cried.
Sipped shyly, the night's cool air,
waved to the moon's own man.
Playing as he was a teardrop prayer
on a silver lute. Silver notes, floating
down to land, on silver threads
who left their silver there.
Call to her myth though he's silent
save his lonely notes of pain.
Her mouth was empty and so i lent
her my words to sing over and over
and over again.
The moon sang and i listened
and the silver music held my head.
Our heartbeats slowly quickened
and i fell asleep on the grass, my bed.
You walked away
if in my moment i held no fear;
as i stood alone, in the moment,
growing old,
the heavy clouds i saw but said no words for you to hear,
it's for the waves that lapped my lonely feet
were cold.
kebnutkush
Active Member
Here are some more.
16)
Like a sundial always depicting the proper time, the time of beauty and appreciation. Dials blush in their modesty, yet defy age with their arms stretched for all. Such a gem, such a rare form, no mold, no dialect prosperous enough to form cognitive language, no words suffice. The word beauty and related terms are just a suffix for the "beauty" that no words can explain. That suffix following a string of descriptors may only be explained in one word... love... it's all around us as we breath it each day, but that mere word (beauty) encompasses more then our hollow minds may comprehend, inter-dimensional, physical and internal prosperity, the ration of perfection devine in all it's flaw.
16)
Like a sundial always depicting the proper time, the time of beauty and appreciation. Dials blush in their modesty, yet defy age with their arms stretched for all. Such a gem, such a rare form, no mold, no dialect prosperous enough to form cognitive language, no words suffice. The word beauty and related terms are just a suffix for the "beauty" that no words can explain. That suffix following a string of descriptors may only be explained in one word... love... it's all around us as we breath it each day, but that mere word (beauty) encompasses more then our hollow minds may comprehend, inter-dimensional, physical and internal prosperity, the ration of perfection devine in all it's flaw.
potifull
Member
pulled into the black sin
gone and left with just one end
wishing on nuthin
to hope for something
lost in my head
comainy just like stale bread
i can see what i have left
i am just blind for all i have left
if you could come with me what would you say
if you could come and see would you want to stay
so here i sit away from all of this
crying out loud trying figure out all of this
yet all i can see is the black sin
all i can hear is where this will end
and all my lips can do is grin.
may be abit of topic but i like it...lol
gone and left with just one end
wishing on nuthin
to hope for something
lost in my head
comainy just like stale bread
i can see what i have left
i am just blind for all i have left
if you could come with me what would you say
if you could come and see would you want to stay
so here i sit away from all of this
crying out loud trying figure out all of this
yet all i can see is the black sin
all i can hear is where this will end
and all my lips can do is grin.
may be abit of topic but i like it...lol
CreepyStevie69
Well-Known Member
i like that man. whats it about exactly.
potifull
Member
thanx for the rep. ( i need it....lol)
CreepyStevie69
Well-Known Member
haha no problem. answer my question 