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Thread: Post Your Poem

  1. #1
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    Red face Post Your Poem

    Having your own thread for like two poems is kinda lame. I would much rather this kind of thread to randomly post a poem in, and I think others would too.
    I'm not your typical writer. I'm happier.. And less deliberate in my writing.
    No pausing to rhyme or consider an analogy, just raw truth. I'm not emotional. Tell no one.
    ps this isn't a "poem" but it'll do.. For now.

    Here's some crap I wrote for my woman the other day.


    I wasn't sure I was capable of allowing someone's memory to enter my thoughts without prompt. And then I met you and with every moment we spent together I felt the dents on your right forearm and the two creases on the right side of your lips and the beauty spot on the left side of your back and the one on your left shoulder and the scars on your left arm and the mascara that catches on your eyelashes and the veins on your hands and the croak in your voice early morning and the groan you make when you're sleepy and the way you brush your fringe aside aggressively and how you look up at me from the right corners of your eyes find their home in my mind.
    And every moment I caught myself smiling to your existence I could feel my heart scribing your name all over itself and my hands craving you and my lips preparing for your kiss and my smile forming and I saw myself falling in love with you.


    And I have.
    :..☮..♥..∞..▼..⇞..:

  2. #2

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    https://www.chat-avenue.com/forums/s...each-their-own -- this exists.

    your prose/long run-on sentence is kind of poetic so you could consider it a poem if you wanted.
    ancient.

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    Quote Originally Posted by Tetsuo's Hatchet View Post
    https://www.chat-avenue.com/forums/s...each-their-own -- this exists.

    your prose/long run-on sentence is kind of poetic so you could consider it a poem if you wanted.
    Dude I totes looked for it. The name is very deceiving. Thanks though
    Nah my poetry classification is rather different. I mean it's still not your typical poem. I'm more a spoken word person
    I like performances
    :..☮..♥..∞..▼..⇞..:

  4. #4

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    what is your classification? i try not to classify much, if at all, when it comes to what is or isn't poetry.

    so as not to turn this into a discussion of definitions have something i wrote the other day while hammered:

    write sober, edit drunk; yet why even distinguish between the two states of mind when they combine? purported sobriety is merely intoxication with the oscillating false paradigm of reality thus if three addicts see each other simultaneously in the eye is it pineal? it's real if you know yourself, such is the law of solipsism but knowing what it isn't is not mutually exclusive to knowing what is, true. i got issues you can't picture, trust i've scar tissue and barbiturates. in the windiest gust my sword-arm stiffens up and i can't piss enough. i'm lit/ i'm love. i'm it, i'm drugs; salvador's matador pushing the crimson lips apart for art imitates life limitates heart in the indifferent quasar of your strained insistent existence. talk. i'll fain to listen. feign fibbing angel inveigle whispers but mere mellifluous honeyed words coaxing your coquettish tongue to twist till it's lost its flavour spun around your cerebrum waiting for occam's razor to undo the occult favour. but you give yourself. you do. every spent soul imbued with self-loathing sense soaked in dew from the previous evening's aqueous breathing. i’m actually leaving: in your hands, take my whole life, blow thrice for luck and throw dice – i’m fucked but i’m allright. just tryna find a raison d’etre, or reason to better… myself or simply reason! unfetter the chains of thought and ease all the pressure obsessed with constancy in transient, seasonal weather. the air’s winter my hair’s thinner //stare mirrors out as crisp breath blasts obscure intent glass but i’ve a cold dram of oban – word to an old man rubbing brandy upon the gums of another son he wouldn’t love but his own hands did marry. writing’s cathartic as cliché as night is to darkness. my life’s in a harness: wife’s trying to harvest a slice of what’s most ripe in my garden but ardently i can’t let crackling carnal energy discharge anywhere else when my eyes start to target thus the primacy of lust must exhibit sovereignty over my armoury’s lot - would i rather be unarmed? probably not. honestly? i’m not honest. i’m not. refuse to acknowledge a sneeze if my sinuses popped. deceive myself with half-truths that i’ve tied into knots to weave a cryptic triptych till the tripartite decides the time is to rot. it’s a fantastic planet sad bastards clamber to damage managing to convince ourselves it stands to our advantage when we whisper sweet nothings and fuck it into submission. we’re fucked if it but listens.
    Last edited by Tetsuo's Hatchet; 12-28-2015 at 09:36 PM.
    ancient.

  5. #5
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    Quote Originally Posted by Tetsuo's Hatchet View Post
    what is your classification? i try not to classify too much.

    so as not to turn this into a discussion of definitions have something i wrote the other day while hammered:

    write sober, edit drunk; yet why even distinguish between the two states of mind when they combine? purported sobriety is merely intoxication with the oscillating false paradigm of reality thus if three addicts see each other simultaneously in the eye is it pineal? it's real if you know yourself, such is the law of solipsism but knowing what it isn't is not mutually exclusive to knowing what is, true. i got issues you can't picture, trust i've scar tissue and barbiturates. in the windiest gust my sword-arm stiffens up and i can't piss enough. i'm lit/ i'm love. i'm it, i'm drugs; salvador's matador pushing the crimson lips apart for art imitates life limitates heart in the indifferent quasar of your strained insistent existence. talk. i'll fain to listen. feign fibbing angel inveigle whispers but mere mellifluous honeyed words coaxing your coquettish tongue to twist till it's lost its flavour spun around your cerebrum waiting for occam's razor to undo the occult favour. but you give yourself. you do. every spent soul imbued with self-loathing sense soaked in dew from the previous evening's aqueous breathing. i’m actually leaving: in your hands, take my whole life, blow thrice for luck and throw dice – i’m fucked but i’m allright. just tryna find a raison d’etre, or reason to better… myself or simply reason! unfetter the chains of thought and ease all the pressure obsessed with constancy in transient, seasonal weather. the air’s winter my hair’s thinner //stare mirrors out as crisp breath blasts obscure intent glass but i’ve a cold dram of oban – word to an old man rubbing brandy upon the gums of another son he wouldn’t love but his own hands did marry. writing’s cathartic as cliché as night is to darkness. my life’s in a harness: wife’s trying to harvest a slice of what’s most ripe in my garden but ardently i can’t let crackling carnal energy discharge anywhere else when my eyes start to target thus the primacy of lust must exhibit sovereignty over my armoury’s lot - would i rather be unarmed? probably not. honestly? i’m not honest. i’m not. refuse to acknowledge a sneeze if my sinuses popped. deceive myself with half-truths that i’ve tied into knots to weave a cryptic triptych till the tripartite decides the time is to rot. it’s a fantastic planet sad bastards clamber to damage managing to convince ourselves it stands to our advantage when we whisper sweet nothings and fuck it into submission. we’re fucked if it but listens.
    You're so deep it's ridiculous Super awesome.
    "drunk" btw lol. Seems a little too insightful for just alcohol

    I suppose the general classification of a four line stanza with punctuation that doesn't entirely make sense and conscious rhyming and obvious pauses for deliberate thought is what I classify as poetry. Which determines the fact I don't really write poetry
    I really much rather spoken word, it's just so much more pure and the emotion and pace is so much more interesting.
    I've been to a few poetry slams and realised that what I write is basically what the actually deep people write; the ones without an agenda to appeal to everyone reading. I really don't appreciate the **** people write to belong. The **** people write for other people to read. I like the **** people write to get it out. To express themselves to themselves.
    The kind of **** where you've written two words knowingly and the next thing you know you've written a four page blast of emotion and you didn't even realise you had it.
    Last edited by Laurenn; 12-28-2015 at 09:40 PM. Reason: I swear a lot. My bad.
    :..☮..♥..∞..▼..⇞..:

  6. #6

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    oh, yea. poetry is an impossibly broad spectrum. i do some spoken word stuff. i find a lot of slams/jams are ass though maybe it's just the scene where i am. writing from the heart is typically the best way, i agree.

    i'm also a tremendously functional drunk. to a point. beyond 35-50cl of whisky and i start losing faculties. i occasionally take mescaline (jk).
    Last edited by Tetsuo's Hatchet; 12-28-2015 at 09:46 PM.
    ancient.

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    Quote Originally Posted by Tetsuo's Hatchet View Post
    oh, yea. poetry is an impossibly broad spectrum. i do some spoken word stuff. i find a lot of slams/jams are ass though maybe it's just the scene where i am.

    i'm also a tremendously functional drunk. to a point. beyond 35-50cl of whisky and i start losing faculties.
    I thought that said facilities and I was like oh damn son, you're just pissing everywhere

    I go to Bankstown Poetry Slam. It's actually pretty incredible. Lots of emotional and ex drug addict people. I really like it. Most are from/in university and they're really fantastic. I live in a heavily multicultural area (predominately Muslim) and so there's a **** load of racism and homophobia and just general judgement/shunning so that definitely adds fire
    :..☮..♥..∞..▼..⇞..:

  8. #8

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    when the golden seal is broken and i'm out in the open i like to take a piss while walking forwards and turn it into a game of not stepping on the streaks nor urinating on myself. i appreciate this is too much information but, in a word, the facilities are safe.

    but yo, that... sounds somewhat interesting, actually.
    ancient.

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    Quote Originally Posted by Tetsuo's Hatchet View Post
    when the golden seal is broken and i'm out in the open i like to take a piss while walking forwards and turn it into a game of not stepping on the streaks nor urinating on myself. i appreciate this is too much information but, in a word, the facilities are safe.

    but yo, that... sounds somewhat interesting, actually.
    I have a gamer bladder. Don't have to wee more than once every two days.
    It freaks people out xD Buuuut I am pretty sure I could do it without a toilet/shower.
    That sounds like a fun game. Not gonna lie. Very strategic.
    :..☮..♥..∞..▼..⇞..:

  10. #10

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    gamer bladder. new term, but i get it.

    you'd probably need a penis to play, btw.
    ancient.

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    That sounds like a challange. All I'm saying.


    Reading these I am sad that english isn't my first language because then I could put things like these together too without worrying about grammar and spelling errors. Sadly, spellcheck.net doesn't find everything.


  12. #12

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    WARNING: Self-Harm Theme.
    I call it Valleys:

    The surface, once light tan-white,
    Bare and branchless stalks shooting up,
    Is suddenly, violently ripped apart;
    A long, wide, deep gash shows interior white.
    Suddenly its wellspring flows,
    Filling up the void.
    As it shines in the dim light,
    Valleys just formed
    Now flood over.
    The stalk-filled land fails to bar the way.
    The stalks once rising upon the surface
    are now matted down in a dark, cold cloak.
    Intoxicating scent fills the air,
    Warmth--if ever there was-- sucked out by
    A cold atmosphere.
    What sting is left of cutting now failing,
    Still radiates in waves
    beneath red mud-like covering.
    Agony, from depth and place, repeats....
    Repeats to cut out the pain again.
    Pain.... Ceaseless pain....
    All the while the wellspring flows red,
    Out, out of the body,
    Cascades in gravity down.
    Self-inflicted valleys to eventually close,
    Red and purple mountain ranges take their place,
    Raised ridges and plateaus--
    Perpetual, eternal reminders
    Withstand the change of time
    And remind you of your iniquity and failure.
    The whole World to see
    Your Valleys.

    I wrote it back when I was trapped in self-harm.

  13. #13
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    Quote Originally Posted by ZeroNeo View Post
    That sounds like a challange. All I'm saying.


    Reading these I am sad that english isn't my first language because then I could put things like these together too without worrying about grammar and spelling errors. Sadly, spellcheck.net doesn't find everything.
    It doesn't have to be perfect, it just has to be real

    Quote Originally Posted by Spirit Bear View Post
    WARNING: Self-Harm Theme.
    I call it Valleys:

    The surface, once light tan-white,
    Bare and branchless stalks shooting up,
    Is suddenly, violently ripped apart;
    A long, wide, deep gash shows interior white.
    Suddenly its wellspring flows,
    Filling up the void.
    As it shines in the dim light,
    Valleys just formed
    Now flood over.
    The stalk-filled land fails to bar the way.
    The stalks once rising upon the surface
    are now matted down in a dark, cold cloak.
    Intoxicating scent fills the air,
    Warmth--if ever there was-- sucked out by
    A cold atmosphere.
    What sting is left of cutting now failing,
    Still radiates in waves
    beneath red mud-like covering.
    Agony, from depth and place, repeats....
    Repeats to cut out the pain again.
    Pain.... Ceaseless pain....
    All the while the wellspring flows red,
    Out, out of the body,
    Cascades in gravity down.
    Self-inflicted valleys to eventually close,
    Red and purple mountain ranges take their place,
    Raised ridges and plateaus--
    Perpetual, eternal reminders
    Withstand the change of time
    And remind you of your iniquity and failure.
    The whole World to see
    Your Valleys.

    I wrote it back when I was trapped in self-harm.
    ok so that means you're happier now.. So show me the happy stuff
    :..☮..♥..∞..▼..⇞..:

  14. #14

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    Quote Originally Posted by Laurenn View Post
    It doesn't have to be perfect, it just has to be real
    It's real.

    As for ''happier stuff...'' *Cough*

  15. #15
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    Quote Originally Posted by Spirit Bear View Post
    It's real.

    As for ''happier stuff...'' *Cough*
    I meant to Zero Like everyone thinks they have to have perfect English but mistakes in grammar and odd punctuation makes things personal. I really like it actually.

    I'm sure you have something to be happy about!
    For example, the sun is blue. Clouds form patterns. Coke tastes amazing.
    :..☮..♥..∞..▼..⇞..:

  16. #16

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    Quote Originally Posted by Laurenn View Post
    Coke tastes amazing.
    [IMG]https://oi40.*******.com/15p0qif.jpg[/IMG]
    ancient.

  17. #17
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    Quote Originally Posted by Tetsuo's Hatchet View Post
    [IMG]https://oi40.*******.com/15p0qif.jpg[/IMG]
    Cola. Coca-Cola. Asshole. xD
    mydrugproblemisnteventhatbadanyway

    Quote Originally Posted by owls View Post
    post emo poems plz. thx
    Thirty two years ago I was depressed
    I would sit and cry on the edge of my bed as a young teen and watch the cars drive by
    I felt the pulse in my wrist pump
    I felt the veins in my neck expand
    I was numbing myself to my emptiness
    I've got a lot to say
    My story is wild:

    In west Philadelphia born and raised
    On the playground was where I spent most of my days
    Chillin' out maxin' relaxin' all cool
    And all shootin some b-ball outside of the school
    When a couple of guys who were up to no good
    Started making trouble in my neighborhood
    I got in one little fight and my mom got scared
    She said 'You're movin' with your auntie and uncle in Bel Air'

    I begged and pleaded with her day after day
    But she packed my suit case and sent me on my way
    She gave me a kiss and then she gave me my ticket.
    I put my Walkman on and said, 'I might as well kick it'.

    First class, yo this is bad
    Drinking orange juice out of a champagne glass.
    Is this what the people of Bel-Air living like?
    Hmmmmm this might be alright.

    But wait I hear they're prissy, bourgeois, all that
    Is this the type of place that they just send this cool cat?
    I don't think so
    I'll see when I get there
    I hope they're prepared for the prince of Bel-Air

    Well, the plane landed and when I came out
    There was a dude who looked like a cop standing there with my name out
    I ain't trying to get arrested yet
    I just got here
    I sprang with the quickness like lightning, disappeared

    I whistled for a cab and when it came near
    The license plate said fresh and it had dice in the mirror
    If anything I could say that this cab was rare
    But I thought 'Nah, forget it' - 'Yo, home to Bel Air'

    I pulled up to the house about 7 or 8
    And I yelled to the cabbie 'Yo home smell ya later'
    I looked at my kingdom
    I was finally there
    To sit on my throne as the Prince of Bel Air
    :..☮..♥..∞..▼..⇞..:

  18. #18

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    my substance abuse is also manageable.
    ancient.

  19. #19
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    Quote Originally Posted by Laurenn View Post
    I meant to Zero Like everyone thinks they have to have perfect English but mistakes in grammar and odd punctuation makes things personal. I really like it actually.

    I'm sure you have something to be happy about!
    For example, the sun is blue. Clouds form patterns. Coke tastes amazing.
    I guess it's not so much spelling as it is a lack of vocabulary. Synonyms and antonyms can be so important when writing to get your point across, etc.
    Its been a while since I've sat down and just tried to write so maybe I should get around to it again.

    Should reboot the C-A Fanfict thread.


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    The noises turn into monsters and I pack my thoughts in a brown paper sack...
    Everything has edges that are too sharp and I write my song with invisible ink.
    There's the light at the end of the tunnel... But there's really no tunnel at all, it's the sky...
    And the light... The light is the moon...

    ~mh
    ~JorieJukebox

 

 
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