she awakes from her long slumber
her cold companion at last, faded
the time for rebirth is over
long has she walked the paths
in the forest of her mind
but now, new life beckons
and what brightness beyond the window!
slowly she rises, timid
but her head and legs are holding
sweet liberty!
fairest Spring, how long has it been?
she emerges into a bright new land
walking confidently, as a young calf
who finds her balance at long last
if but for a moment
sprightly zephyrs caress her hair
carrying the sweet scent of wakefulness
her only coat the welcoming embrace of the Sun
the birds sing their triumphant lay
welcoming their sister once more
amidst trees of white and pink and greens innumerable
the streams and skies join the melody
and what song!
she can't help but to sing and dance along
in minutes that pass like hours
until it is time to rest once more
if but for a moment
farewell, old friend
for the time for thought is over
and the time for song is now
for Spring has returned
End of Round 248. Time for Poems to be Submitted to the round right before 250, in some circles known as just 249, but at this moment known as, the current round open for submissions!
Today, I’ve spent trying
to write letters of application
for employment. But really
I’ve only been writing poems
from my bed. The imprints
of my body are evident
on the padding. I’ve yet to clean
the stains of drool I’ve left
on the covers of my pillow.
And now it seems
I can’t bring myself
to wake anymore, sleeping
until my body chooses
not to sleep, rousing only
in the late afternoons,
staying up long past
when everyone else is gone,
screaming at the walls,
drowning out the cries in my head
of mistakes I made in my life.
in nights filled with the cavernous shouting of frivolities,
i lay on my bed awaiting the cessation of noise
from the downstairs party that is occurring,
people who say they are my friends flooding the halls in ways that i despise.
we would be friends if i was a different person,
shallower,
more able to turn my brain off and escape
the hamster wheel that runs through my thoughts,
or if i was able to stand talking to them for twenty minutes
without feeling so keenly that they were talking to a version of me that was so nonexistant,
so shallowly conceived that it was as though
they were talking to a reflection of me seen on the surface of a nearly-drained pool,
one that i left long ago,
and when i see the reflection i throw rocks into the water,
which creates large ripples and disturbs the surrounding fauna
in ways both aggravating and mysterious
my mouth is full of winsome lies -
and eyes are full of death besides
but luckily the soul is wise -
it sees beyond my blindness and
forced failure makes a better guise,
so as i come again alive,
it feels like life's a decent plan
the fluid crash of contentment dropping from your sternum
would make the mightiest waves of the seven seas tremble in awe
to have the rolling rhythm of a content life
be for another a distorted paralytic shock
a perversion of that endless motion
to fall at once trapped in a static chamber
to lie stagnant as would a corpse
would be unfathomable as the moon
but they will roll on all the same
and no swells will wash onto your chest
to wash away that void
my mouth is full of winsome lies -
and eyes are full of death besides
but luckily the soul is wise -
it sees beyond my blindness and
forced failure makes a better guise,
so as i come again alive,
it feels like life's a decent plan
All them frozen bodies
floating down the maw
poor bastard climbers
all victims of the thaw
slain by the peaks
the sought to traverse
only to find their hearts
riding in a hearse
what mountain is this
they challenged in vain
t'was a matterhorn of sorts
shall I tell you her name
Her eyes like wishing wells
begging for the silver
her lips little liars
that whisper in your ears
such breathtaking beauty
that much is clear
but if you get too close
she'll send you down the sheer
So let this be a warning
if her face draws you in
you'll find you're not alone
in a graveyard full of men
Private Mod Note
():
Rollback Post to RevisionRollBack
Thanks to Xenphire @ Inkfox for the amazing new sig
“Thus strangely are our souls constructed, and by slight ligaments
are we bound to prosperity and ruin.”
― Mary Shelley, Frankenstein
an hourglass without the curves,
streaming sand mingling with itself
immediately
i remember when i used to feel
when things mattered
subtlety is only in service of
a grecian urn
left shrouded in dust from disuse
Private Mod Note
():
Rollback Post to RevisionRollBack
my mouth is full of winsome lies -
and eyes are full of death besides
but luckily the soul is wise -
it sees beyond my blindness and
forced failure makes a better guise,
so as i come again alive,
it feels like life's a decent plan
She once held open the golden door
for all those who needed rest
She stood for something so much more
a memory buried deep in our chest
Now sentinels watch our every move
and their lies pit brother against brother
For finally when the war was over
we traded one Magneto for another
It's been this scratched and broken record
since as far back as I can see
That every time we won a war
we only lost who we fought to be
That every time we found a cure
we just became the next infected
That while supermen may die for us
its Lex Luthors that get elected
If the goal was really peace and love
we most certainly have failed
For a long train of usurpations
alone is steaming down the rail
That locomotive never slacks
with the end of liberty ahead
With little time to change our tracks
we must or else the damsel is dead
Private Mod Note
():
Rollback Post to RevisionRollBack
Thanks to Xenphire @ Inkfox for the amazing new sig
“Thus strangely are our souls constructed, and by slight ligaments
are we bound to prosperity and ruin.”
― Mary Shelley, Frankenstein
It is that time of year
though it comes all
too early. Thresholds
between the bare bark
and the bushel of leaves;
the grown grass; the cut
of lawn—how we knew
it rained while we slept,
as the pavement turned
from white to wet.
The air felt thicker
than then. Our touch
could know and tell
the change: the river,
never what it was;
No man steps it
the same. I loved you,
but no longer.
The sixty six was late
And I was alone
Inasmuch as
One allows a writer
To embellish
That I was alone with
A tired woman
And a man with a brown bag
That must have been a faithful
Friend the way it steeled him
Against the end
The sixty six was late,
Again
And I was alone;
Inasmuch as a man can be alone
With a bus driver feeling the only
Way a person can feel about
A union job at three in the morning
The sixty six was late,
And I was alone;
Inasmuch as a poet can be
Alone with the hope that
Rain would pick up and puddles
Would gather and the streets
Would be thematically slick with stories
Begging to be told like
Rottweilers railing against the
Fencing of my skull
The sixty six pulled up,
And I was alone
If you'll allow, of course
(AN: I'm overseas. Will try to vote but I may be spotty.)
when I listen to myself
and hear that barest hint of 'no' against the unending sea of certainty
resounding in everybody who tells me what i should do
to conform to the image of myself they see when they look at me,
surface-deep, narcissus's own reflection,
i grow digusted by the companionship of man
and yearn for plato's allegory to be true,
so we knew we were only interacting with just our shadows -
or perhaps also handpuppets,
propped up recklessly in front of the fire.
my mouth is full of winsome lies -
and eyes are full of death besides
but luckily the soul is wise -
it sees beyond my blindness and
forced failure makes a better guise,
so as i come again alive,
it feels like life's a decent plan
To post a comment, please login or register a new account.
like pen pencil computer
sometimes prolific
sometimes a neuter
To Build A Fire
The hands of a clock
are the set of instructions
for the first of winter.
When the time comes,
I will whisper you a song
of how to build a fire
using your heart,
and your hands, humming
to the rhythm
of a spinning mobile.
It will be like revisiting
an old book, or
watching your breath
come out like small clouds
in the cold of night,
when wonder has us
imagining again, playing
under the table,
and dreaming.
she awakes from her long slumber
her cold companion at last, faded
the time for rebirth is over
long has she walked the paths
in the forest of her mind
but now, new life beckons
and what brightness beyond the window!
slowly she rises, timid
but her head and legs are holding
sweet liberty!
fairest Spring, how long has it been?
she emerges into a bright new land
walking confidently, as a young calf
who finds her balance at long last
if but for a moment
sprightly zephyrs caress her hair
carrying the sweet scent of wakefulness
her only coat the welcoming embrace of the Sun
the birds sing their triumphant lay
welcoming their sister once more
amidst trees of white and pink and greens innumerable
the streams and skies join the melody
and what song!
she can't help but to sing and dance along
in minutes that pass like hours
until it is time to rest once more
if but for a moment
farewell, old friend
for the time for thought is over
and the time for song is now
for Spring has returned
tldr Start Submitting for round 249!
like pen pencil computer
sometimes prolific
sometimes a neuter
Today, I’ve spent trying
to write letters of application
for employment. But really
I’ve only been writing poems
from my bed. The imprints
of my body are evident
on the padding. I’ve yet to clean
the stains of drool I’ve left
on the covers of my pillow.
And now it seems
I can’t bring myself
to wake anymore, sleeping
until my body chooses
not to sleep, rousing only
in the late afternoons,
staying up long past
when everyone else is gone,
screaming at the walls,
drowning out the cries in my head
of mistakes I made in my life.
in nights filled with the cavernous shouting of frivolities,
i lay on my bed awaiting the cessation of noise
from the downstairs party that is occurring,
people who say they are my friends flooding the halls in ways that i despise.
we would be friends if i was a different person,
shallower,
more able to turn my brain off and escape
the hamster wheel that runs through my thoughts,
or if i was able to stand talking to them for twenty minutes
without feeling so keenly that they were talking to a version of me that was so nonexistant,
so shallowly conceived that it was as though
they were talking to a reflection of me seen on the surface of a nearly-drained pool,
one that i left long ago,
and when i see the reflection i throw rocks into the water,
which creates large ripples and disturbs the surrounding fauna
in ways both aggravating and mysterious
and eyes are full of death besides
but luckily the soul is wise -
it sees beyond my blindness and
forced failure makes a better guise,
so as i come again alive,
it feels like life's a decent plan
Happy submitting!
like pen pencil computer
sometimes prolific
sometimes a neuter
the fluid crash of contentment dropping from your sternum
would make the mightiest waves of the seven seas tremble in awe
to have the rolling rhythm of a content life
be for another a distorted paralytic shock
a perversion of that endless motion
to fall at once trapped in a static chamber
to lie stagnant as would a corpse
would be unfathomable as the moon
but they will roll on all the same
and no swells will wash onto your chest
to wash away that void
I know you aren't perfect
Below the surface,
But I was willing to treat you
Like you were.
I know I'm not perfect
I know I'm not worth it
But I need someone too,
You could have been her.
My Mafia Stats - My Helpdesk
G Omnath, Locus of Mana U Arcum Dagsson BUG The Mimeoplasm GW Gaddock Teeg X Karn, Silver Golem
like pen pencil computer
sometimes prolific
sometimes a neuter
At night
we snuck into the Savage Trail
crawling through
the hole in the fence
You stole my headphones
and ran deeper into the woods
Fortunately
the moon was full
and I followed the river
to find you dancing by the shore
The way you swayed your hips
made the frills of your dress
like a brush
summoning the sand from the earth
lulled by the blue moon
When I came close
I stayed
only within the breadth of the trees
for I could see your chest
pulling the weight of your self violently
as if you'd set fire
to your heart within
I was afraid
to touch you then
from where you were suffering
until the rain came
and you wrapped yourself
into the downpour
as if it were a cloak
that made you vanish
hollow vessels filled with yearning -
thin walls crack with pressure, doomed
like vases chucked from rooftops, smashed
to see if they could fly
when tears come streaming down your face
of red forgiveness, or redemption
enhanced images in the blood
reflecting that you live false lives
you idolize the idle lie
and death was so much simpler that
you'd rather laugh and ironize
than fix yourselves and face real life
besides
and eyes are full of death besides
but luckily the soul is wise -
it sees beyond my blindness and
forced failure makes a better guise,
so as i come again alive,
it feels like life's a decent plan
Wanderers vices
They linger long on a strangers tits
Or the ass of a dear friend
Because hell, who am I?
The rest of me stays faithful-
But I am not my eyes
I love you and never want to leave-
But I am not my eyes
I want only to be perfect for you
But I am not my eyes
And I would give up sight and crawl
On hands and knees by the sound
Of your voice;
But I am not my eyes
Join the Poetry Running Contest!
All them frozen bodies
floating down the maw
poor bastard climbers
all victims of the thaw
slain by the peaks
the sought to traverse
only to find their hearts
riding in a hearse
what mountain is this
they challenged in vain
t'was a matterhorn of sorts
shall I tell you her name
Her eyes like wishing wells
begging for the silver
her lips little liars
that whisper in your ears
such breathtaking beauty
that much is clear
but if you get too close
she'll send you down the sheer
So let this be a warning
if her face draws you in
you'll find you're not alone
in a graveyard full of men
Thanks to Xenphire @ Inkfox for the amazing new sig
“Thus strangely are our souls constructed, and by slight ligaments
are we bound to prosperity and ruin.”
― Mary Shelley, Frankenstein
like pen pencil computer
sometimes prolific
sometimes a neuter
an hourglass without the curves,
streaming sand mingling with itself
immediately
i remember when i used to feel
when things mattered
subtlety is only in service of
a grecian urn
left shrouded in dust from disuse
and eyes are full of death besides
but luckily the soul is wise -
it sees beyond my blindness and
forced failure makes a better guise,
so as i come again alive,
it feels like life's a decent plan
A pound of flesh,
A hand set in stone
Fibers stripped away-
The sun marvels at
Naked, glorious
bones
Join the Poetry Running Contest!
like pen pencil computer
sometimes prolific
sometimes a neuter
It's easy to say, be who you are
When your a pop sensation
Or a movie star
It's easy to be yourself
When you know who you are
When you feel comfortable in your own skin
When you become blind to fear of rejection and imperfections
I'll just wait until then
My Mafia Stats - My Helpdesk
G Omnath, Locus of Mana U Arcum Dagsson BUG The Mimeoplasm GW Gaddock Teeg X Karn, Silver Golem
She once held open the golden door
for all those who needed rest
She stood for something so much more
a memory buried deep in our chest
Now sentinels watch our every move
and their lies pit brother against brother
For finally when the war was over
we traded one Magneto for another
It's been this scratched and broken record
since as far back as I can see
That every time we won a war
we only lost who we fought to be
That every time we found a cure
we just became the next infected
That while supermen may die for us
its Lex Luthors that get elected
If the goal was really peace and love
we most certainly have failed
For a long train of usurpations
alone is steaming down the rail
That locomotive never slacks
with the end of liberty ahead
With little time to change our tracks
we must or else the damsel is dead
Thanks to Xenphire @ Inkfox for the amazing new sig
“Thus strangely are our souls constructed, and by slight ligaments
are we bound to prosperity and ruin.”
― Mary Shelley, Frankenstein
like pen pencil computer
sometimes prolific
sometimes a neuter
It is that time of year
though it comes all
too early. Thresholds
between the bare bark
and the bushel of leaves;
the grown grass; the cut
of lawn—how we knew
it rained while we slept,
as the pavement turned
from white to wet.
The air felt thicker
than then. Our touch
could know and tell
the change: the river,
never what it was;
No man steps it
the same. I loved you,
but no longer.
like pen pencil computer
sometimes prolific
sometimes a neuter
And I was alone
Inasmuch as
One allows a writer
To embellish
That I was alone with
A tired woman
And a man with a brown bag
That must have been a faithful
Friend the way it steeled him
Against the end
The sixty six was late,
Again
And I was alone;
Inasmuch as a man can be alone
With a bus driver feeling the only
Way a person can feel about
A union job at three in the morning
The sixty six was late,
And I was alone;
Inasmuch as a poet can be
Alone with the hope that
Rain would pick up and puddles
Would gather and the streets
Would be thematically slick with stories
Begging to be told like
Rottweilers railing against the
Fencing of my skull
The sixty six pulled up,
And I was alone
If you'll allow, of course
The gentrification of the term
Join the Poetry Running Contest!
when I listen to myself
and hear that barest hint of 'no' against the unending sea of certainty
resounding in everybody who tells me what i should do
to conform to the image of myself they see when they look at me,
surface-deep, narcissus's own reflection,
i grow digusted by the companionship of man
and yearn for plato's allegory to be true,
so we knew we were only interacting with just our shadows -
or perhaps also handpuppets,
propped up recklessly in front of the fire.
and eyes are full of death besides
but luckily the soul is wise -
it sees beyond my blindness and
forced failure makes a better guise,
so as i come again alive,
it feels like life's a decent plan