Poetry

[Master_Yoda77]

Dur dur dur

 

[CiG]

Sex is synonymous with cracking a can.
The fumes of booze possess my brain.
When I have the lust I drink all I can.
Before I submit and receive her pain.
Bladder is full so I run to the can.
Piss is everywhere too drunk to aim.

 

[viewerfromnihil]

That went straight to the heart.

 

[CiG]

I always knock the pussy dead.

 

[Master_Yoda77]

Rhyming "can" with "can"

Good call there bro.

 

[RedStorm]

Night Seafarer



The Seafarer that fares the night sky

Knows his waters, best of all

The men bade the warnings of the ancient sky

Some do not guess its great warnings, for you to not lie

His ancient boat pierces the never ending sky

He guides your eyes, so do not fly, with his blight

Only with his best eyes



Horror of Elken



The thought lingers in the air

The images of a horror unseen

It stays with you, as you sleep, walk and eat

The Elken Horror haunts your dreams

It emboldens your scars, you start sinking too far

In order to stay its wrath, you must keep it at bay

And its story, it will say

To haunt your dreams and keep you at bay








Interpretation: This poem is meant to symbolize a sort of relativity in life. The Horror of Elken, as it is called is not there malevolently, its afraid of you just as you are of it. So when you are thinking of a way to keep something out of your dreams, it is doing the same with you.

 

[CiG]

Rhyming "can" with "can"

Good call there bro.

I used "can" thrice because I'm a real gangster.

 

[viewerfromnihil]

Thrice used can did he,
be it how it was it was sound.
Found himself in pee
he did then later himself on the ground.

Gangster is the man
who drinks tallboy cans.

 

[CiG]

That was awesome.

 

[Omni]

That poem explains why he didn't post the playlist for the Extreme Mixtape Game yet.

 

[viewerfromnihil]

Wrote a little angsty-teen diddle last night. The ex-gf is bugging me. We broke up like four years ago. She's still in love with me despite being with other men, while I'm not and have been single (basically) the whole time. She'll call me every few months and I'll answer and talk with her. Then she'll start to put a bunch of crap on me and I ignore her for a couple of months. Then the process repeats. I think it's about time to cut off contact with her because she's getting more desperate with her cries for attention from me and mentioning depression and thoughts of suicide. Anyways, the diddle (no pentameter or anything, I'll save that for the English buffs):

Life lived is all but naught
'til then when one is not.
Together we build, we make
an ark in time for life's sake.
Through generations it rises, it falls
diverging and crossing in lived scrawls.
Drawn together, pulled apart
ebbs and flows blood of the heart.
From the high tide, when one's heart is in knots,
whence remarks not one that all is for naught.

Now time to make a Tears for Fears cover band.

 

[viewerfromnihil]

Funny how I dig up this thread throw something at this board and it turns I was the last to do so and it was also about ex issues. A new muse now though. A spit out some winter sorrows earlier today on a park bench in the sun by the pond here.


The pact was set
But you couldn’t accept it
Yes you knew the truth
But lived dishonestly
Upon thread worn bare
By nagging anxiety
And a life of wondering
Will there be another

One can’t take it
The forlorn shudder
Which marks the angst
Of not finding another
Of finding purpose in a world
Stripped of its sacred canopy

In a world constructed
Through mutual cooperation
Where one feels yet
Left alone and hanging
By a bare-worn thread
Of nagging anxiety
It whispers in your head
You won’t find another

And ready to snap
You don’t where you’ll be left
Upon which seat of fate
It will drop you
In the carousel of life
And its lonely cradle
Inscribed with the words
You won’t find another

But you know they were scrawled
By the hands of the other
The one who wore the thread
Down to a whither
And you want to tell him
You know I’ve paid my penance
And he’ll reply with a hymn
You know that I am you
You wore that thread
Down to a whither
It was you who said
You won’t find another

 

[Carpe Mortem]

Used to write a lot of poetry. Used to read a lot of Anne Rice too. So naturally, I could once make simple sentences in French.



Vivre dans l'ombre, vivre dans la nuit, Je
suis un stupide imbecile
En effet, Je suis reste dans obscurite totale
une froideur cadaverique, une fleurir de morte et
pourriture. Mais, tres beau, une tres belle
femme.Ecouter!
Mourir; Je suis de Enfer.
Je suis morte, mon bon sang
Jeunesse est seule; mais
Jeunesse est plus puissante que vielle.
ferme mes yeux; Je gagne vie.
mignon vie, mon amour!
Mais, Je suis perdue. Je suis perdue,
et Je suis morte.
Sang est plus chaud que moi, la torrent
de flame est plus chaud!
Je suis Decembre, un mois,
Ensuite Je mouris. Ecoutez, Je mouris!
Je suis morte!
Je suis perdue, Ecoutez a moi, perdue
Tu saignes; Je suis ne! Je suis morte!
Le fou, non, non, Je suis perdue!
Tu es damnes; Je suis perdue.

 

[Carpe Mortem]

Funny how I dig up this thread throw something at this board and it turns I was the last to do so and it was also about ex issues. A new muse now though. A spit out some winter sorrows earlier today on a park bench in the sun by the pond here.


The pact was set
But you couldn’t accept it
Yes you knew the truth
But lived dishonestly
Upon thread worn bare
By nagging anxiety
And a life of wondering
Will there be another

One can’t take it
The forlorn shudder
Which marks the angst
Of not finding another
Of finding purpose in a world
Stripped of its sacred canopy

In a world constructed
Through mutual cooperation
Where one feels yet
Left alone and hanging
By a bare-worn thread
Of nagging anxiety
It whispers in your head
You won’t find another

And ready to snap
You don’t where you’ll be left
Upon which seat of fate
It will drop you
In the carousel of life
And its lonely cradle
Inscribed with the words
You won’t find another

But you know they were scrawled
By the hands of the other
The one who wore the thread
Down to a whither
And you want to tell him
You know I’ve paid my penance
And he’ll reply with a hymn
You know that I am you
You wore that thread
Down to a whither
It was you who said
You won’t find another

I never mastered prose, I've always thought it was very graceful though. I have an almost obsessive compulsion for rhyming.

 

[Einherjar86]

Unrhymed verse is still poetry, not prose. There are line breaks, no punctuation, and some reliance on the sound/shape of words to determine phrasing. BO's piece looks like free verse, meaning it's metrically inconsistent.

Prose is non-metric, punctuated, syntactically structured writing (i.e. what I'm doing right now).

Sorry, it's the literature instructor in me creeping out.