Well, as it is I can no longer post poems here, any poems of mine posted on the internet cannot be published, hopefully, later on, I can get a patent and include all of the poems posted here in a book, but, as of now, anyone wishing to read any new poetry must PM me, and I'll PM them. Sorry everyone.
Originally posted by alcoholicpoet
Well, as it is I can no longer post poems here, any poems of mine posted on the internet cannot be published, hopefully, later on, I can get a patent and include all of the poems posted here in a book, but, as of now, anyone wishing to read any new poetry must PM me, and I'll PM them. Sorry everyone.
Oh, no! How terrible! I'm so sad! Ahhhh! "How can I live, if living is without your poems? How can I live anymooooooorrrrrrrrreeeeeeeeee?, etc".
Publish your poems? How about publish my ass? Sounds good? Yay! Got a photocopier?
There's a reason poems are called 'poems' and not 'Random Collections Of Words That Lack Imagination And Have An Incredibly Immature Grammatical Structure'.
Originally posted by Ya Krunk'd Floo
Oh, no! How terrible! I'm so sad! Ahhhh! "How can I live, if living is without your poems? How can I live anymooooooorrrrrrrrreeeeeeeeee?, etc".Publish your poems? How about publish my ass? Sounds good? Yay! Got a photocopier?
There's a reason poems are called 'poems' and not 'Random Collections Of Words That Lack Imagination And Have An Incredibly Immature Grammatical Structure'.
I really don't care about your opinion.
But, if you feel like giving constructive criticism and having a mature conversation instead of denouncing everything I say, then I'd gladly talk to you.
Sorry, Tipsy Tool. I don't think I could hold a mature conversation with someone who writes/types stuff like this and then acts like he's about to be published...
Originally posted by intoxicatedpoet
What is life?
And what is death?
What does it mean?
And why is it here?What are we doing?
And why is it so?
Do we have meaning?
Or are we just dust?
In this universe,
Of creation,
And life,
and, inevitably, death.Why?
I ask.
Why is it so?
And why is that?
Why am I writing?
And why are you reading?
Why am I living?
And should it be so?Why is this here?
And why is that there?Where are we now?
And where should we be?What is true?
And what is false?Should I do it?
Or should I abstain?Should I feel happy?
Or should I feel shame?Am I?
Are you?Should we?
Should we not?I don't know.
Give me answers.
Tell me.
Tell me.
Tell me please.
Tell it to me.
Share it with me.
Share you secrets.
And make them not unknown.
Tell the world.
And make the secrets known.
What's this spot on me nose?
When, dear god, will it goes?
Oh! Woe is me! I didn't chose!
Stop being so greasy! Get orf my nose!
Why does it sit there and puke puss?
Staring at it more and I'll miss me bus!
I'll be late an' dey'll call me a wuss!
Jus' because my nose is full of puss!
Why me, you little bugger?
I only ate 3 Maccy D's, not another!
Jimmy The Greek, got orf wid me mother!
Now, my mate is also me father/brother!
Nose?
Spot! Acne; Why?
Clearsil?
Use it?
Make it dry?
Oh! Why!?!
Squeeze the fuccker!
He cost me a mother!
I wish it would go,
I can't afford to blow!
The puss would squirt,
And I'd be alone. No mother.
Fin.
Originally posted by Ya Krunk'd Floo
Sorry, Tipsy Tool. I don't think I could hold a mature conversation with someone who writes/types stuff like this and then acts like he's about to be published...What's this spot on me nose?
When, dear god, will it goes?
Oh! Woe is me! I didn't chose!
Stop being so greasy! Get orf my nose!Why does it sit there and puke puss?
Staring at it more and I'll miss me bus!
I'll be late an' dey'll call me a wuss!
Jus' because my nose is full of puss!Why me, you little bugger?
I only ate 3 Maccy D's, not another!
Jimmy The Greek, got orf wid me mother!
Now, my mate is also me father/brother!Nose?
Spot! Acne; Why?
Clearsil?
Use it?
Make it dry?
Oh! Why!?!
Squeeze the fuccker!
He cost me a mother!
I wish it would go,
I can't afford to blow!
The puss would squirt,
And I'd be alone. No mother.Fin.
Ok, you're right that poem does indeed suck, and so do many in this thread, so I guess I'll have to age as a writer and poet before I even think about getting published.
Originally posted by NunYahBidness
at least you show originality in that it is not like so many others....but who's to say how one progressess in this art one calls poetry.keep to this style, it is very good
I agree, when I try my hand at the formatted style that most use I end up writing rather dry poems with boring themes, I'll use my paragraph-style for the rest of my work.
Originally posted by alcoholicpoet
Well, as it is I can no longer post poems here, any poems of mine posted on the internet cannot be published, hopefully, later on, I can get a patent and include all of the poems posted here in a book, but, as of now, anyone wishing to read any new poetry must PM me, and I'll PM them. Sorry everyone.
Re: Prose poems by myself
Originally posted by intoxicatedpoet
UntitledAs the Wind blew over the dew covered morning blades of grass, I saw nothing but an endless void, stretching out beyond the world I knew, and all that I had ever cared about seemed so little and few compared to the real world, the true life, that no one, not even I, could understand. The purposes and causes that I had fought so vigorously, even my reason and want to live, left me in a second, but that second seemed like an eternity, and all the seconds that followed seemed as such, until I felt as though I had been in the infernal plain forever. When the screeching sound began flowing over all, and my hands had been bound, I thought this was all there was and all there ever would be, until I finally realized that this was not life, and that this would not live, and that the time to live was over, and that coming nigh was not the time to be, but the time to not be, and that this moment would be the last in a long succession of finalities and endings, and that this ending was the true and most meaningful end, for this was the end that had been awaited by all , and that now we would stop and never be again.
I liked this one “Untitled”.
Format:
Interesting as it’s not written in the traditional style. But it works well.
Diction:
A firm grasp in grammar and the paragraphs are written very well. With the exception of “When the screeching sound began…would stop and never be again.” it is one long sentence. Maybe you can revise it to give the reader a moment to pause and take in all that imagery.
Imagery:
Exceptional. “As the Wind blew over the dew covered morning blades of grass…” I like how you capitalized “Wind” giving it emphasis. As the viewer, I saw that which you conveyed and I was mesmerized.
I chuckled at how described the plain as being infernal. I can almost feel what you felt or the narrator felt at being there.
Quality:
Excellent. Non-traditional. Prose like. A reflection of thought.
Excellent work. I give it an 8 out of 10, the long sentence at the end needs reworking.
Originally posted by NunYahBidness
I liked this one “Untitled”.Format:
Interesting as it’s not written in the traditional style. But it works well.Diction:
A firm grasp in grammar and the paragraphs are written very well. With the exception of “When the screeching sound began…would stop and never be again.” it is one long sentence. Maybe you can revise it to give the reader a moment to pause and take in all that imagery.Imagery:
Exceptional. “As the Wind blew over the dew covered morning blades of grass…” I like how you capitalized “Wind” giving it emphasis. As the viewer, I saw that which you conveyed and I was mesmerized.I chuckled at how described the plain as being infernal. I can almost feel what you felt or the narrator felt at being there.
Quality:
Excellent. Non-traditional. Prose like. A reflection of thought.Excellent work. I give it an 8 out of 10, the long sentence at the end needs reworking.
Virgin beauty sears through hot white skys, it perches on the highest treetop, and remains there, untouched and unscathed by the trials of time. It is absent, and unknown, to the mortal souls beneath it's perch. It sings its unheard song, on it's perch, on it's perch, atop the unknown treetop of the heavens.
What is a dog?
What is a cat?
What is the blade of grass we trample in our infrequent walks?
Are these things meant to be known by the human membrane?
Or are they an unsolvable paradox to the mind?
I know not these things as much as you
I spare my mind the effort of thought
By not caring or understanding the whimsical branches that cradled us into life
But instead
I merely acknowledge their existence
Originally posted by intoxicatedpoettruly beautiful this piece. and i cannot in good conscience rate/review this as i do others on another site to which i am a member.
Virgin beauty sears through hot white skys, it perches on the highest treetop, and remains there, untouched and unscathed by the trials of time. It is absent, and unknown, to the mortal souls beneath it's perch. It sings its unheard song, on it's perch, on it's perch, atop the unknown treetop of the heavens.
the flow of the words. the imagery evokes memories long dormant for a time when love and honour were a thing many held. i am enthralled by it's simplicity and it's complexity. truly amazing. one of your best.
Just to let people know I'm not dead:
Dark rains topple from dark skies, and fall upon the dark earth, which fills a dark void, crowded by dark people. Listen, can you hear the darkness turn to grey? Can you hear the grey bellow unto the skies, and fall from them, and return? Can you hear the end of the world, dying off from the poison it carries?
Sensing the flesh of my bretherin being ripped from bone, I leave the world of choas and disorder over my shoulder. And instead I search for baneless world, where white skies meet white clouds, and the senses lay at rest, not bothered by the tearing of flesh from bone.
Sorry if my new poems are too short and simplistic.