Poetry: Read / Write / Share

[awayout93]

                  "Careful"


I have the constellations on my back but,
Its my wish for you not to wish on me for,
To be placed is to fall steadily with direction,
The extinction of hopeless gravitational pull,
That outnumbers the numbers of mathematics from safety,
Safely displaying the forks and spoons of defiance,
While walking under lights inside an outright defiance.
I ask you wholeheartedly to run the favor of your fingers,
Across the face of the window blinds so you may see and,
Feel the silent sound of my spine when I explain,
The permanence of these two words while accepting
The friendly yet strange appeal of a negative chill.
Outside we massaged our hands into the hearts,
Of each of our backs concentrating on the company at hand,
The very bodies of yourself and mine but as it rained,
We didn..t care as our senses poured calmly,
Over showers that never dry making us guilty,
Of a flood that's healthy for many reasons.
So as this unfolds your most favorite place is slowly becoming mine,
And I would say we share common ground but,
Our lower instruments of transportation have,
Left the ground some time ago and this sacred place,
Would quickly turn to mediocrity without your hand.
I know we will never settle down but as we both,
Rise up in this remainder of future we will always be aware,
Appreciating that both care enough to be careful.

[Arcane]

That's really good. I like it!

[LoveHopeHero]

Here's one I wrote a couple of days and I consider it my best. It's very Williams-inspired.

Fugitives In Inverse Proportions

Fugitive endings and cliff-hangers,
Clinging on by the metacarpal of a single finger,
Not a revolution in sight but
Only of those given to us from an early age,
The teachings and blessings of a forgotten age
Given to us to hold and offer with our fingertips,
Beaten up, repaired and kissed,
Sealed, not with fugitive endings
But fugitive whispers, not asking
For the past to die but rather
For what was promised to be made acceptable
And deem them ours so that we ourselves
Can care and cater for this forgotten age,
Where wisdom is absent from age,
Inversely proportional;
Absent-minded beings being centre of attention
And centre of a war-torn society,
Imploring for our gratitude
So that we may erase their solitude
And echo their plights not through the spine of time
But the spine of those not willing,
Those not open enough to the possibility
That we should engage our reader,
Involve them more and absorb them into our story…
But don’t leave it there, we need a reason,
An excuse to carry on and on and on and on,
An excuse to send a fugitive member packing
And send them to knock on the door of life,
Offering boxes of laxative chocolates for just under the dollar,
Being snubbed and shooed away
Like a motherless child lost at the shopping arcade,
Tears thundering down their cheeks
Like lemmings at their time of the year
Plunging hundreds of metres to a watery grave.
Nothing quite like the birdsong
Or a morally-wrong conversation to end the day,
Before hitting the headstone on your watery grave,
Exiting this forlorn dimension
Rhyming soul with body and mind,
Mind regurgitating thoughts from yesteryear
And throwing up Rule of iron fist, rule of thumb,
rule of scarcity, rule of three:
Americanised and politicised,
sensationalised, destabilised,
dehumanised, materialised,
over-sized, under-advised,
over-advertised, under-revised,
Chastised and fantasised,
Surprised to be in such an unhealthy position
Where matter of fact becomes “matter is fact”,
Fact aimed to rhyme to no ordinary substance,
No ordinary matter of fact
Which occupies the vicious loop
From matter of fact to matter of fact
To matter is fact, back, rapped, to matter of fact;
Fiction doesn’t occupy me
As it’s circumstance to evidence
That the present isn’t slipping away
But rather it’s the past that’s catching up
Waving from the window
Looking lost, looking lonely, looking through
Misted-up windscreens and sirens from police
In the centre of the night, moon-blue,
Such an extraordinary sight to behold
And give, gift-wrapped, circumstance
To evidence that the present doesn’t rhyme
With neither: body, soul nor mind
But that’s the least of what’s on my mind,
My mind’s mode is set to rhyme…
My fractured spine holds a fragment
Of an unknown time which is supposedly mine,
Fugitive pieces fill the awkward spaces
I’m feeling wine in the back of my mind,
Hopelessly staggering, stumbling,
The mind-numbing possibilities
Of a splintered dimension and time
Catalysed by wind and breeze,
Where time and work isn’t centred around ease,
But rather it’s orbiting around a trinity:
Body, soul and mind,
Marching in line and bounding in time
With physical bodies in tow just behind,
Not slung across a dead-end street
But able and willing as fugitive figures
Hooded and hoodwinked into believing
That a certain future is out of their reach
When it’s really the present they should be snatching,
Scraping with the metacarpals of their fingers;
There comes a time when time and rhyme
Should stand aside and let us climb
And prime the sights to our flaming eyes
But where do we climb?
The highest walls we have to climb
Are those we’ve built inside our minds,
So it’s foolish to suggest we haven’t prepared
When we’ve built the wall we’re yet to scale
And scale the heights we will,
Take the plus sides, swallow the pill,
The bitter one that makes everyone wince
With sheer delight although admit it, no-one will;
Sights primed, scoped suicide,
Not failing to deliver by the time of the deadline.
No excuse, no reason to believe
That we’re doing as much as we can to escape
And escape with pride and dignity,
Running fugitive worries to ground and earth
And running rings round where we’re centred at birth;
Ruralist past times and living with landmines,
Not quite keeping up with the same, again,
Not quite talking at the same pace, again,
But we’re no fugitives, we’ve nothing to hide,
Let families be focus…
Let the swamp blossom locusts
And bring us all sliding to another grinding halt.

[vivalacthulhu]

Hi. Long time reader, first time poster:

"children of the machine."

My city sleeps in the red glow of exit signs.
They mark the alleyways and the breathless hallways
of our apartment buildings. The city sleeps with the
hum of electricity, the static dryers and lipless power
lines connect one barely lit room to the next. People
lose themselves in the cable wires - we transmit the pieces
to the pieces and reassemble the pieces to make blurry
or clear or dead pixels. The warmth of the screen only reaching
so far - too short.

& it's cold outside. My city sleeps under the watchless sky,
the stars too scared to watch, the moon a hopeless bystander.
Glass bottles and trash light the sidewalks. Dead squirrels
find solace in car treads. The olive branches are afraid to stretch,
the trees afraid to shed, the tired eyes of midnight cats afraid to look.
My city sleeps under a blanket of ash with horrible eye sight and
selective hearing and cold, medicinal faces.

I've never seen a nebula, or watched Cassius tilt
to Aries. I've never seen Lucifer steal the show for the
two hours at day break. The morning star triumphantly shows
up to a city sleeping under LED.

& the men and women don't care. A lot of I's strung with
want's
and lots of me's. Yellow hummers sitting idly in parking lots
with natural resources being used for unnatural means. The tail pipes
fit to burst with hypocrisy and talent wasted. My city has become death.

And snow is a hassle and grass is measured, cut, ordered.
And more houses are erected and more sweet religions find homes in big,
barely timeless bricks. And every graffiti sign is a kiss on the mouth
to the man, to the reversal of the species. Watch as humanity finds better,
more sophisticated ways to de-connect and run away and live in smaller futures
with smaller friends.
And watch as trees are cut down for looks. My city finds beauty in empty spaces.

My city stands in the middle of agriculture, the rolling
hills replaced with thoughtless produce. My city rolls
on hills of stalks, rolls on hills of dirt. My city buries
its arms under the watchful eye of the machine.

Yes, my city is a child of the machine.
And I am worse because of it.

[awayout93]

Hey Guys! Here is a new poem I wrote, any feedback good or bad would be appreciated.

“Closure In a Open Door”

How on earth did your body fall?
While searching offices for officers,
I could find no record to prove and
Although my imagination contains undeniable images,
Regarding the quick turn around of incubators and graves,
There is still no picture of feet stepping in as family.
With a nervous laugh that is slight I must say that “its taken me awhile to get to you”
But I guess that has given you enough time to get to the inside of me,
And its destroying but its not, it’s a rash that makes a man irrational,
Its nothing that will make him leave this world but rather fight it.
We both know of the numbers that ironed themselves into oils of her fingers,
Of the recycled heat that would burn just to burn,
As there was something you could always count on but somewhere we lost count.
Ironic as it sounds we need to open doors to find closure for ourselves,
And I have no problem in saying that my life savings are cancellations,
That somehow found their way back to the community of the airwaves,
because first that’s the truth and secondly that’s all I want you to hear.
Im pretty sure of one agreement of mutual sharing:
That the delivery doesn`t mean anything if the follow through is non-existant,
For what good is a verse without a chorus? There is simply no connection.
From my understanding innocence was trapped in the middle,
In a place where there was no swing,
But I pushed her all I could, I pushed her so hard that I pushed myself to push,
And I continued with crosses on foreheads and knees that were on the floor.
This is not a mental game, its rather a physical reality containing invisible features,
And I would say you’re a lucky man but I honestly don`t know for
Everything was questionable and still is if we want it to be,
And everything you`ve touched has seemed to form into a mystery,
But love was the common goal or atleast that start of the goal that was common,
Atleast that’s what I would like to believe because it honestly helps me sleep better.
As we stretch across two countries forming the shape of a square,
I can say without hesitation that I don`t worries as much as I used to,
But we are not as healthy as we need to be.
I would ask you if your proud of us but I never had the opportunity to learn,
The personality of your pride but I know for sure that you would reach out your hand.

 

 

 
 

[LoveHopeHero]

I wrote this poem a couple of weeks ago. I wrote it after I went to Gloucester park with my girlfriend and spent a couple of hours there, after realising for the first time how much she meant to me.

One

There she sits with blessed brown eyes,
using the Sun’s rays as her nine tails…
she is innocence personified,
transcripted and brought to life;
she runs rings over the ruled sheets
of blank canvas and spray-paints her demands
on the concrete surrounding my flowerbeds.
She plants her roots in what is now
my mass graveyard beyond the orchard,
sowing the seeds of a lifetime of growth
to what she never thought she’d be.

These seeds are placed and they leach,
all over, and I can’t get rid of them.
They prise into my cratered heart
and now they stem with thorns
that wrench me from left to right,
to left to right again.
It can’t make up its mind, just like mine can’t,
and I’m stuck now.

If I asked for a hand
to pull me free from the quicksand,
would you offer me your aid
and unbolt your ears, ready for my fanfare?

I sit down next to her,
a sobering seed of wisdom,
shaking the very foundations of the walls
that cage us in to this forsaken cold.
I can see my breath dancing and rising off my tongue,
soldiers flirting with the freshness
of an otherwise bitter Saturday afternoon.

I can hear artillery fire on the breath of generals,
and the screams of women and children
and the men who bathe in blood
and are disembowelled by rusty bayonets,
thinking that they’re doing it to save the rest.
I can still hear artillery fire on the breath of generals.

Who are these bastards,
tied up in Satan’s shawl?

Angels and demons? No.
Brothers and sisters? No.
World politicians tucking in
to Sunday breakfast.

What is the definition of ignorance,
if ignorance is already self-defined?
Who the fuck cares when ignorance isn’t listening anyway?

We are categorised meteorites,
Picking the stars out of the skies
Like pearls and diamonds,
Jacks of the slave trade,
But the master of nothing more than looking fine.

No less than fine in my eyes is she
and now I can never get her off my mind;
her face is always there, pretty as a petal
from a kiss from a rose.
I love her.
I can’t tear myself away from her.
I can’t abandon this forgotten dream
and stop scripting and sculpting these words
on to paper that could be used elsewhere.

Her eyes glisten and sparkle in the sunlight,
different to the moonlight and the street lights
but she still looks no less than fine.
Blessed brown eyes mix on her palette
with equally blessed locks and a smile
that can melt a men from fifty yards; and it does.

We look at each other and synthesise.
We sympathise and magnetise.
If the eyes are the windows to the soul
then she is baring all.

My thoughts don’t lock, the door’s left wide open
and sprites that play on the havoc on the see-saw in my head
and leave mud-clad paw prints on my front porch,
they enter and in a whirlwind my bizarre thoughts halt.

Our lips lock and I evaporate.

-------------------------------

As for all the other poems on this page of the thread, I've had a look at them and I can say that they're absolutely awesome, I can't find any negatives with any of them but maybe that's because it's had that much of an effect on me.

Peace!

[awayout93]

Hey!

"Pontential"

Roots are sprouting out of my fingers tips,
Fertile ground which has the potential for everything,
And whether it’s being obsessed or being paranoid,
I’ve come to be like poison ivy
As personal thoughts rapidly scratch the surface,
Taking its toll without what seems like positive donation, affecting the skin.
The durability of bones, and anything else in proximity
So the record is never broken,
Rather it only stutters when attempting to breathe
If applying this to life as if it was human,
I would be listening to the speech of a close friend,
Allowing one sentence to be uttered
And then covering the mouth of the next,
Continuing to do the same thing until no one knows anything different.
The scary thing is that I think there comes a point  when that friend firmly with aggressive sternness grabs your wrist
And says "I am done",
Like the record when it shockingly grabs your ears
And says "I will not play anymore",
I have fallen in love with justice and deservingly so.
Memory is not mistaken when I say there are many times and situations,
When I have sat across from someone engaged in coverversation,
And somehow sensed that we were making history
But when it’s happening who really knows
If it’s only for ourselves.
I will earn a living but will never be paid,
Which I am thankful for and thank God for this fact
I have witnessed hard working men turn into lawn chairs
Who become professionals at producing nothing.
If this has left you where you started
At least there..s the completion of evaluation,
Involving maps, determination of stance,
And the courage of taking steps.