Poetry Corner

[Crimson Glow]

I'm sorry, Sag. But all the people snapping their fingers after the reading frieghtened me!

[Anonymouse]

Really? I could have sworn that it's identical to his writing style. I think he's a bit ashamed to portray himself as a romantic, which he certainly is. Oh well, let him maintain that manly shell.

That poem was written while possessed by someone elses spirit so technically it's not really mine.

[nairi]

I swear and scratch
and want to hit and run
and be no one
not even me

[hyebruin]

forum, boredom, what's the difference?
this place if full of pervasive indifference
sometimes rude, sometimes obnoxious
and other times just right down noxious!

silly looong arguments back and forth
hurts my eyes to read, please don't post
some think they're "intellectuals" here
sadly mistaken! dudes, just stick with beer!

there are a few who are nice
and others just cold as ice
still some need much attention
they forget to take their medication!

love me or hate me, i really don't care
be a friend or a foe i just don't care
what is funny is to sit back and stare
these dumba$$ posts like cancer flare!

[sSsflamesSs]

love me or hate me, i really don't care
be a friend or a foe i just don't care

Don't lie. Apparently, you care enough to write a poem about it.

[hyebruin]

Don't lie. Apparently, you care enough to write a poem about it.

aahhhhh the freedom of subjective interpretation...whatever you say hun

[SagGal]

Any of you got your poems published? :-)

[hyebruin]

Nothing is wrong if you are horny.
I am horny and only 20
Entering the peak of of my sexual streak
but to lyricize you have to realize
that we live in a world of alphabetical ties
that we name everything from moods to foods
from insults to illiterate adults
from walkways and to days like Fridays
and we must rise above our animal cries
and see that life's a thinly veiled disguise
and in this game of verbal kung fu
you have to first be an intellectual guru
or else people will insult you
with their bitter spoken voodoo
their tongues will utter twelve thousand names,
in twelve thousands angles and mind frames,
and pierce your mind in twelve thousand ways
and it is a grime crime to waste time
for every time lost you lose your mind and a dime
if you lose too much time you will be a broken mime
and if you can see this and you can travel through the time capsule
but if you cant see this then you live in denial
and denial is the sixth element
after air, after water, after earth wind and fire

Hard to imagine you're only '20'
not so hard to believe you're also horny
what guy with working nuts isn't horny
at such a tender young age of 20?

but you sir, are impressive in a unique way
your views are 'erratic' and too much to bear
we just love to hear the controversy you display
how we dig reading your posts adorned with glare

so next time you post, keep one thing in mind
you never know who agrees, or who hates your kind
just know in this little online house
there will always be cheese for a cute little mouse

[ardenik]

Post your poetry & prose

The Stain

The ink was carelessly spilling from the tip of my pen, invading the fibers of paper surrounding it, causing a minute, insignificant black stain that painfully drilled through my idle mind that it so eloquently represented. Suddenly, a deep, cavernous groan emerged from the depths of my being that so faithfully resembled the vacant jar that I kept guarded and hidden under the aged mattress that I sometimes referred to as my bed. Within a few minutes, my head began to ache mercilessly and my vision began to blur. I desperately dragged my trembling hands over the frigid ground around me searching for whatever object that could possibly provide me with any kind of escape from my agony. Fortunately, I had little trouble finding a plastic bag containing small, disk-like jewels. With no hesitation, I tore open the bag, scattering its contents over the ground. I swiftly gleaned as many of them as I could and stuffed them into my arid mouth. It didn’t take long before the sortilege of the priceless rubies that I had ingested cast its mystical spell on me and from that moment on, I no longer fathomed whether or not if I was truly conscious. I fell into a deep trance that satisfyingly liberated me from my anguish.

Clueless, I awoke from my hypnotic slumber to the sound of the rushing crowd ferociously stampeding through my streets towards wherever it was that they were headed. As I felt reality slapping its way back into my understanding, I hastily reached for my instrument, come to resemble a shaped board of wood strung with rusty steel wires, and began to play an old song written by a great man whose name I forget. I cringed at the briefcase-bearing passersby with glorious scarves slung across their arrogant backs who generously took precious effort and time out of their busy schedules to reward me with dirty and pitiful looks as I stubbornly recited the lyrics to the song: “I stand up next to a mountain and chop it down with the edge of my hand.” (from: ‘Voodoo Child’ by Jimi Hendrix, 1968) As I allowed my bittersweet emotions to take me over as I sang, the loud, monotonous voices of the cold, pathetic vagabonds besetting me seemed to merge into one dreamy, indeterminate hum. Due to my somnolent state, I’m not sure whether or not if I succeeded in completing the first song before I once again succumbed into a soporific daze.

By the time my already numb senses rejoined me, my beloved admirers had forsaken me, having left as reward three negligible pinches of stale, hardened bread that could have been somebody’s gift to a pigeon. I greedily snatched two of them, but was humiliatingly robbed of the third by a rather large rodent. Mortified, I pounced on the filthy creature and remorselessly clove its head from its niche with one sure tug. I proudly celebrated my achievement with a long-awaited meal. I rewarded myself with a piece of raw meat for the first time in a near eternity.

After I had consumed every comestible ounce of the foul carcass, I allowed myself a brief moment of requiescence before I resumed elaboration on the burdensome stain of ink that had led me to my melancholic condition in the first place. Struggling to focus my concentration on the mocking white page staring scornfully at my blank, deadpan grimace, my mind roamed away from me. I remembered myself being enveloped by adoring throngs similar to the horde of bastards who had besieged me earlier. Ironically, this drift of thoughts only sharpened my surge of inspiration and I suddenly began to scribble my thoughts into words onto this page. I felt as if not even my own demise could arrest my indictment.

And now, as I scrutinize my own drained and weary body, I yearn for a good soul to deliver me from this Sheol…

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

- Arden, October 1999.
Thanks to John Catino for making me write this.

[Anonymouse]

We already have the poetry corner for this. Very good poem by the way.