Poetry

goes hard as fuck, go for it

A world of strange creatures such as you and me.
Microplastic, fluoride waters, and an air with carbon bree.
What's behind our eyeballs? An undiscovered entity.

End the program, become the room you are in.
Whole world is dancing and we stay in tune through love and sin.
We find ourselves Here, Now. Starring everybody.
Mentally crouching giants, most of which are half asleep.

So take a taste of the IRL Larp.
Save up the collectables and the quest is at the robot part.

Forces of evil against everyone and more.
Opressing ourselves with death, decay, delusion, gore.
Because a gang of looming at me's has a mind control on tap.
Some of us in prison and some don't know the plan.
Ditch the stuff you know is just a different kind of drag slog.
And check on out, of the hazy maze brain fog.

If you hang yourself use an antimatter code bling.
Slap into compiler and load to an external string.
No ones right, and very few can wait.
Give up sad, give up hate, every body is a state.

Time is an illusory trap.
It's really just a keepsake,
In a black hole milkshake.

Mean What

It's a critique on critiques about capitalism.

nice, thx

Here I wrote this the other day.

The senescent gods of former days,
Wrought by pagans through constellar lore,
were begged to give from their treasure store,
“Hear us God born of the meteor,
We bring thee blood and ruby to praise”

Though fire gleamed within their iris,
And their kingly incense trailed the air,
And their skin was of ivory fair,
They stood silent for they did not care,
Being creatures mouthless and eyeless.

Go then and hew them from the dark grove,
In night the sun god hides away,
The water god is shattered as clay,
And pan the nature spirit decays,
Each but lifeless wood fit for the stove.

An evanescent bubble of dream,
Whether alcove and hypogeum,
Or the amaranth combs and totems,
Neither shall give forth groan nor omen,
As each thing dissolves without a scheme.

I cleave to you, the sole transcendental thought,
Who needs not the coverings of gem nor cloth,
Immortal among immortals, never wrought,
In whose hands law is a sword and time a rod,
I kneel to you, uncreated living God.

Meaning?

Believe me, I am a simple, gentle man.
Let us spend this evening in my Studio lounge
Come here , Darling. This need not be anything too serious.
Maybe the drink has gone to my head, love
But your words, and your lipstick breath
Swirl about my head, intoxicating me.
You know me not, yet. Not yet.
I can be so gentle to you, darling.
We can listen to Smooth Jazz on vinyl,
Or we can taste my exquisite collection of wines
Or we can simply sit and enjoy eachother's time
And remember, this need not be anything serious
If that is what you want.

It's absolute shite. see for some real poetry by somebody who has actually lived life.

Too many transgenders are comin' in
Tryin' to make us accept their sin
And recruit our children and babies
Until they all catch AIDS and rabies
So the transgenders will keep taking out stuff
Until the White race stands up and cries, "That's enough!"
That way, when we stand together
We can ensure a safe future for our children forever

Meanings clear from the poem

My ass is full of thickly compact shit,
Swelling my guts with painful density.
Oh someone please unplug my anal slit.
I can't last long in this extremity.

Plunder my fastened, struggling orifice.
Unlock the pent-up rush of my desire.
Open the gates of hell that rage with this
Black juggernaut of virulent rectal fire.

This made me want a nymph gf.

You liked it, then? I am honored.

Imagination is what you call
When you, long since given up
On your mother's dreams,
As she gave up on hers,
Leaving you lit only by the light
Of one-hundred forty-four frames per second,
As the ice melts and
In your bed
Rests one who could never take or deserve your love.

There you still are, old in spirit but never in body,
Ever holding out hope that behind each corner
Is a world of adventure and meaning,
Even if it is a world where the only change
Is the meaning of hope and faith and love.

Sorrow is what you call the moment
You realize imagination
Never has and never will be enough.

>>OP
It's easier if you give me some topic guidance.

Who doesn't?
Your poem is excellent.

Thanks so much.

Those Penguins

They spend each year waddling from
This ice peak to that ice peak
And every now and then one of them
Gets eaten by a shark
Or was it a orca?
I can't quite remember.
It doesn't matter to me, you see.
After all,
I am not a penguin.

Lovely.

Sincerely, thank you so much.

Jannies come and jannies stay
Their clean bright spark: defeated.
For they doth work for zero pay
This thread has been pruned or deleted

You need to be at least eighteen to use Yea Forums.

I kek'd a hearty kek

Nowadays, most of my excitement
Is from watching car ads.
Mine doesn't start quite right
Even since I let the ex drive.

I think the ex is off in Europe now
Maybe Spain,
Maybe France,
Making love to some whore.

Some minister's wife or other,
A bored trophy, not quite grown dusty,
Looking for some excitement,
Some exotic thrill.

Knew I should not of let
The cunt peg me,
It gave her a taste that grew
Until she needed more.

I guess I should be thanking her,
For teaching me a potentially difficult lesson:
Turns out man-ass just ain't that great.
And certainly not worth the hair that gets everywhere.

I got the last laugh, though:
As this little car with a joke of a name
Climbs some foreign mountain,
I just pumped a load into her little sister.

Asemlen just troll-posts in all poetry threads with incomprehensible word salad to bait psueds to tell him its amazing. He gets a chuckle out of it, and I have to say it is funny enough as well.

Ghost go boo
Ghost scare you
Boo!

Haunted house
Quiet as mouse
Boo!

Rustling sheet
See-through feet
Boo!

Ling'ring soul
Oh so old
Boo!

Ghost go boo
Ghost scare you
Boo!

Ayo, holla at you niggas,
we need some dope shit
Spoke the ballers.

But the niggas was talking to stone,
And even the reflected light of their torches
Showed only how they were deceived.

So them niggas got together
And decided they gots to take for themselves.
So they done gone into the nearby hood.

And as the crept through the hood,
They swore at them niggas they had trusted
That were revealed to be only rock and stone.

As, back home, as they surveyed their bling,
And them new fat ass bitches,
They knew within, even the dumbest nigga among them, that through their actions they were blessed by the unmoved mover, the most high God.
God, I recognize you only as one recognizes
The implacable force of a supernova.
You have and will forgive me for my transgressions,
And I will go on making them out of ignorance.
Pure kino.

nigga
my bigga
put your dick on the trigga
and hit the cligga
so the wigga
go nigga
go nigga
go

kek'd

Search fourth in the merging lane
Opportunity wasted cannot be gained
again

Sorry bro, but that fucking sucks.
>We can listen to smooth Jazz on vinyl.
If you want to be a pretentious retard atleast write something isnt bottom of the barrel. If that's what living life is then I'll stick to my Goethe.

>doesn't understand the inherent shallowness
Whether the author intended it or not, it's the best part of the poem.
youtube.com/watch?v=ezdAiDh31D8

>Writes a bad poem
>You didn't understand it was supposed to be bad. Like it or not it's the best part of the poem.
Nigga are you retarded?
If you want something that does that competintly listen to youtu.be/iKsgKCAzYRY
Writing bad poetry does not give life experience nor does it mean you have it

It's not my poem. Mine are the chain starting with if you wish to critique them. I wrote them as I posted them.

Returning to the other user's poem: He's trying to be this suave aloof fellow, yet he is mesmerized by her "lipstick breath." He's strung out and desperate and he's falling into silly juvenile fantasies even as he is trying to woo her with "Smooth Jazz," insisting all the time that this need not be serious.
I imagine most of the replies are because it seems like this surface little romantic fantasy, and perhaps that is what the author wrote and intended, but the way it falls into place makes it this simultaneously endearing and pathetic portrait.

Maybe I just hate new age poetry.

What kind of poetry do you like?

William Blake, Skaldic Poetry, Lord Bryon, & Goethe.

O cheese-grater
Grate ye the cheese of my soul
Shiny metal wonder, full of holes
Of differing sizes. Hark! perchance
I should need differing sizes of cheese
O grater, how you seek to please
When hunger striketh me as a lance
And grill I the toast, see it turn golden
And sprinkle your cheese o'er it so lightly
Then melteth those wispy flakes so flighty
And full of cheese, toast, I face the world boldened

I got you stuck off the realness, we be the infamous
You heard of us, official Queensbridge murderers
The Mobb comes equipped for warfare, beware
Of my crime family who got 'nough shots to share
For all of those, who wanna profile and pose
Rock you in your face, stab your brain with your nose bone
You all alone in these streets, cousin
Every man for they self in this land we be gunning
And keep them shook crews running, like they supposed to
They come around but they never come close to
I can see it inside your face, you're in the wrong place
Cowards like you just get they whole body laced up
With bullet holes and such
Speak the wrong words man and you will get touched
You can put your whole army against my team and
I guarantee you it'll be your very last time breathing
Your simple words just don't move me, you're minor, we're major
You're all up in the game and don't deserve to be a player
Don't make me have to call your name out
Your crew is featherweight, my gunshots'll make you levitate
I'm only nineteen but my mind is old
And when the things get for real my warm heart turns cold
Another nigga deceased, another story gets told
It ain't nothing really, ayo dun, spark the Phillie
So I can get my mind off these yellowbacked niggas

Skaldic seems interesting, although I am completely unfamiliar with it. I have a passing familiarity with Goethe. Bryon and Blake are excellent.

I wonder, why do you say you "hate new age poetry?" Is the lack of structure, of form and rhyme? But "The Tyger" is one of the best examples of this, with the grand irony of symmetry not rhyming. Or perhaps you think poetry should be reserved for loftier topics: but Byron's "So We'll Go No More a Roving" is basically him saying "bitch you one boring ho."

What are your thoughts, user?

Like a rampaging swarm of tiny creatures,
The water comes flying through the sky,
Great sheets in the distance drawing closer,
Only lightly heard at first until seen as well as felt.
Lost and alone a few feet outside my door,
I still miss your hand in mine.

Tonight we'll go no more a roving was one of the first poems I memorized funny you mention it. I don't see poetry as being reserved for lofty topics. Skaldic work is almost primarily showboating and insults. The form and ability to flow is probably what I value most in Poetry, so yes I think The Tiger does have a funny irony to it, but it's a very purposeful irony.
Perhaps I don't have the faculties to understand it. Perhaps My base intuition is correct. I really don't know.
Of the other user's work we spoke of it was genuine because there were the moments of embarrassment that stopped the author. Do you think that's the only way to show being genuine. For example I wrote something about a year ago and perhaps in the moment I felt it being genuine, but after reflection I would disagree with that.
She could wash over me
With whispy winds that whisper
Whisky words often slurred
Spoken in a soften wimper

HOLY FILTERED.

A haiku
On the barren ship
Red is potentially sus
medbay scanner time
I want proof you submitted this btw

Attached: Matty B.png (1284x1284, 1.97M)

now is there a way to post this somewhere that'll make it ring up on the plagiarism detector

>Free verse isn't poetry
>Proceeds to write in free verse
What did he mean by this?

Thanks for the compliment user
Filtered
>Dude if poetry can be identical to prose trust me

I slide my cock deep
Into your dripping pussy
Then cum in your eyes

Attached: rose and flower.jpg (600x367, 26.6K)

>Filtered
Doubling down on retardation. You wrote in free verse nigger. Go back playing with your crayons.

I am dying
I have been shot
My chest burns
He stares with contempt
Melancholy overtakes me
I stare back
My eyes glazing over
He points it at my head
These are my last moments
Fear overtakes me
My final thoughts
They bleed out
Oh god my asshole hurts li-gggggffffffbbbbppppppffffssssssssszzzzzzzzzzzzzrrrrrrrrr

I guess Alexander Pope wrote in free verse then. Sorry I'm the only white person in this thread desu.

byoutifoul