Struggling with poem

[Que-Ever]

Really? or are you just screwin with me?

yeah, I meant it.

 

[JNightshade]

Well, to be honest, I haven't heard "Vincent". But I've heard some of his other stuff.

 

[Angry Lawyer]

Listen to it. Now. Or you'll never be complete.

Starry
starry night
paint your palette blue and grey

look out on a summer's day
with eyes that know the
darkness in my soul.
Shadows on the hills
sketch the trees and the daffodils

catch the breeze and the winter chills

in colors on the snowy linen land.
And now I understand what you tried to say to me

how you suffered for your sanity
how you tried to set them free.
They would not listen
they did not know how

perhaps they'll listen now.

Starry
starry night
flaming flo'rs that brightly blaze

swirling clouds in violet haze reflect in
Vincent's eyes of China blue.
Colors changing hue
morning fields of amber grain

weathered faces lined in pain
are soothed beneath the artist's
loving hand.
And now I understand what you tried to say to me

how you suffered for your sanity
how you tried to set them free.
perhaps they'll listen now.

For they could not love you
but still your love was true

and when no hope was left in sight on that starry
starry night.
You took your life
as lovers often do;
But I could have told you
Vincent
this world was never
meant for one
as beautiful as you.

Starry
starry night
portraits hung in empty halls

frameless heads on nameless walls
with eyes
that watch the world and can't forget.
Like the stranger that you've met

the ragged men in ragged clothes

the silver thorn of bloddy rose
lie crushed and broken
on the virgin snow.
And now I think I know what you tried to say to me

how you suffered for your sanity

how you tried to set them free.
They would not listen
they're not
list'ning still
perhaps they never will.

-Angry Lawyer

 

[Sulkdodds]

Crouched all night above a cluttered table
Lack of sleep.
Fears and hopes and post-it notes all jumbled in a heap.
The tangled threads of abstract thought make us bumbling apes.
The meaning's in the patterns, in the patterns and the shapes.
(A doctor told me once I had a visual mind.)
I can't decide if it's harder to make metaphor or rhyme,
Drawing meaning's pretty hard and takes a lot more time
But fitting words together so it's not poetic crime
Is bastard-hard when every word brings fifty more behind.

Then there's the question of style. Flowery?

The wind of writing whisp'ring in over-powdered over-flowered too-indulgent willow trees?
Or should I just be brutal, blunt, and smash and stretch and squeeze
this language into concrete...
graves.
Sarcophagi.
No.
Arse.
Not half as easy as it looks from over there, outside.
'Specially when you can't tell if your poem's good or shite.
I need a second opinion
From a literary doctor.
Some sort of linguistic paramedic or poet-psychologist...
These nebulous word-clouds I've carressed and I've...er, kissed?
In any case, there's no response. The words must hate me. Whores.
I sweep the papers off my desk to irritate the floor
Instead of me.
And as a note to BF2
Take out that 'frequently'.

D:

 

[evil^milk]

Clev0r, sulk0r.

 

[Alexferris]

What are you scared of?
I'm not scared of the gusting winds or the raging seas.
I'm not scared of heights or depths or bullets or knives.
I'm scared
Of me.


I'm not scared of clowns or green bananas or rock and roll.
I'm not scared of twin boys or twin girls or being underwater where I can't breath.
I'm not scared of body bags or torn limbs or freak accidents.
I'm scared
Of me.


I'm scared of
Not spiders
Not the dark
Not nothing
But me.


I'm scared of being the one who will let me down.
I'm scared of being the one who will let you down.
I'm scared of being me all the time,
I'm scared
Of me.


I'm scared of all that is and all that was.
I'm scared of never being wanted, and scared if someone does.
I'm scared of being afraid.
I'm scared
Of me.


I'm scared of the girl who wants to be with me.
I'm scared that I'll open up my arms to her,
I'm scared that I'm not worth betrayal.
I'm scared
Of me.


I'm scared that I'll let Him down,
I'm scared that He's given up.
I'm scared to be the only one left.
I'm scared to be the only one right.
I'm scared
Of me.


I'm scared I'm good at nothing,
And to life, I'll have an excuse.
I'm scared I'm good at something,
But terrified of not putting it to use.

I'm scared
Of me.


Real Men

Where have all the real men gone,
The trash talking, die hard walking
Ass kicking, names taking,
Battle worn soldiers go?


Interior design and black and white mime,
Plague this species with weak, scared men.
One would come to eventually conclude,
They're all taking shots of estrogen.

Maybe they're all off fighting some off-world war,
A secret collective of warriors, rich and poor.
Fighting and dying under a single great cause,
To save this earth from a race meaner than ours.

But meanwhile on Earth, men took on a different trend.
We prefer buttoned up shirts and combed hair that flows in the wind.
No longer does a woman need that built up physique,
Only a sensitive heart and poetry to critique.

So while our soldiers are off fighting wars,
Conscientious objectors are causing trouble all the more.
Back at home, men write in their journal,
And black haired, black eyed boys cry of their grief internal.

Woe is me, they yelp, their parents begin to tire.
Like a new born dragon that prefers roses to fire.
Some shit in this world, you can't really rig,
Always finding a nicer way to slaughter the pig.

The Romans had it right and had it goin' well.,
But the barbarians were meaner, meaner than hell.
Because Romans got fat and Romans got lazy.
Because Romans' men put down their sword and picked up the daisy.

We're gonna soon find out,
That the most determined are victorious.
Whether its the terrorists or the Chinese,
They'll reign over weak men and be all the more glorious.


Heard Understood and Acknowledged,
Cried out the soldiers of the nation.
HUA!!
The meanest men of all of creation!​

 

[JellyWorld]

I have no idea what's the difference between prose and non-rhyming poetry. Shoot me.

 

[Alexferris]

Let me tell you this story of a girl I once knew.
I hope you don't mind if I tell this girl, too.
Because she's the only one I ever really cared about.
The one I know deep in my heart, is the only real true, and ever devout.

The story starts out on a bus on a road,
Between a boy and girl, whom neither know.
Well the boy liked the girl, and he hoped she liked him as well,
She came out of nowhere, like an angel fell.

By subtle hint and cautious smile.
The boy played carefully on the bus this mile.
“Usually,” he said, “I'm not so full of fright.”
The girl smiled, and with a pen and paper, gave him the night of nights.

The boy danced all the way home, his heart rushing fast.
But in the back of his mind, he knew his glee wouldn't last.
So the boy waited impatiently as the hours crept by,
The following week, he thought he would give it a try.

Calling to the girl from afar, like a whisper in the wind,
She caught his message and whispered back to him.
The morrow, the two agreed, the boy would leave his castle,
To the girl's abode, he set out, anxious during the travel.

The boy got there and greeted the girl.
Her face reminding him of the beauty of pearls.
She said, “Today, we make banana bread.”
So she prepared the foods, the boy waited, content.

Curiously he watched the dam,
Focused intently on her face as she sprayed the pan.
He relaxed yet still mortified at the silence in the air,
Misunderstanding grew thick, heavy, and unfair.

She told the boy about her life, her work, and her goals.
The boy was stunned with awe at the sheer weight of the toll.
She battled daily with demons of her own,
Yet talked to this little boy, quiet and alone.

The boy said goodbye and she showed him the door,
They waved and smiled but then he knew he loved her more.
The grieved boy cried out in pain as he walked back to his home.
Alone, still, alone to the marrow which makes up my bone.

While swimming in his ocean of uncertainty,
He pondered for a moment, I'm not the best for she.
But I can be the best I've got, and give her my love,
For I'm not quitting now, to hell and back again is what I'm made of.

Don't worry about your past, the boy tried to say.
I love you for who you are now, not who you were yesterday.
I love you for the way you smile and talk,
Love you for the way you keep up your life's walk.

She was the most amazing girl the boy had ever seen,
So he peered endlessly, ever vigilant and ever keen.
He tried to interpret the mind of this angel,
But failed miserably, like wax against the fire of a candle.

So many questions were left unanswered,
So many doubts plagued him like a cancer.
If there is one regret in this boy's life,
It's that the boy never asked of this girl's inner strife.

As the days passed by,
The boy's hopes start to die.
His paranoia tells him pity,
Damn that feels kinda shitty.

The boy grew fast and the boy learned quick,
His innocence or first time love, hurry up pick.
Rejection's in the air, I can feel that mighty wind,
He can only hope this isn't the beginning of a trend.

So he's gonna ****in' find out, if it takes him all his pride.
His dignity, his soul, his first real chance takin' a big fat slide.
I'm fed up with playing, this misunderstanding is lame,
Is she for real or only a sly bitch in an unfair game.

He promises to be loyal, to be funny and loving.
But a dozen some years of self esteem are now pushing and shoving.
Will I abuse her, use her and spit her right out?
Damned if I know, now is not the time to worry about.

I don't think I can stay her friend, jealously overwhelms me.
Her type all hang out by that rebellious tree,
And here I am, a good catholic straight edge,
If I don't kill myself first, they'll surely drive a wedge.

So it's settled, it'll either be heaven or awkward,
Not much of a loss, but the chances of the former are going southward.
Each hour he thinks about it, he generates new solutions,
Creative yet awful ways of his own heart wrenching executions.

Am I a friend, or something more? The boy would like to know.
But he'll never ask and she'll never show,
Unless he takes the first step and that leap of faith,
Trust is a bitch, time to change the pace.

The boy asked her what he is, one tick of trust taking a pinch.
“What am I to you?” you deceptive wench.
“A friend, a foe, a pitied soul?”
He waits for a response to this risky poll.

But he never did, he never asked.
She just kept smiling, she just kept walking past.
At least he's tolerable, but even then,
When will someone love him.

And so far it's safe to say,
Nothing changed, no price was payed.
Comfortable now, left alone to his dreams,
of life, love, and death he now weaves.

No! He cried in the night,
Awakening from that awful fright.
He almost slipped and fell,
But he shall, dammit, continue this story he shall!

And that is the story as it is up to now,
Currently being developed and eventually shall,
Report to you a conclusion of this doomed flight,
And if not, then you all know which couple stays warm deep in the night.​

 

[Phantim]

If you need a poem for school or anything, here you can have one that I wrote:

Here I sit in my chair, while factories belch in the air, gossamer gobs of caustic gore, Till I fall choking to the floor.

Springtime scents are in the past, replaced today with cough and gasp! Any smell you're bound to find, comes from the burning Wildwood Coal Mine.

Trees are trimmed and cut and hacked, by order of some bureaucrat, The people have a simple dream, to see their trees with all their green.

Historic house, built in the past, succumbs to highway overpass, oaken floor and window pane is now known as an interchange. th'end

 

[Sulkdodds]

That made me think DARK FUTURE!

It's a dark and stormy 10pm in stark, forlornly imminent dark future free of immigrants and independent thought. The crackling cackle, cack for cattle, feeds the masses glassed and shackled, blustering but never tackles; content equals nought. From TV tower the happy hour beams out to probe and scratch and scour the droves that can't contest the power of our beloved Head. The megaphones in every house and every home increase their shout to grease the wheels and stirr the louts to work until they're dead.

Five fathom deep into the smog at Clapham weeps a hopeless dog, before they sweep him off to clog the gas chambers instead. Hands reach up to grasp barbed wire in dying screech of drum-trash-fire as just beyond, the guards retire to their warm pillbox shed. A foghorn yawns through fog-of-dawn, the voice of waking demon-spawn all gathered here to scream, and mourn society by thugs. And finished now, the broadcast slows, diminishing amongst the rows of terraces, they're comatose, their sleep enforced by drugs.

But somewhere high above the town, a painted figure, nightmare clown, a tainted saint of death looks down atop a stacked carpark. Ford Wellingtons like dying stars burn, skeletons of brother cars and twisted bones bent into bars piled fifty deep in dark. Across the wide expanse of snide immensity of urban scree, the fences rise for all to see the prison that they're in. But indistinct, the clown's cloak clinks, his belt bedecked with killing things to jam into the cracks and chinks of governmental sin.

With no-one warned he leaps adorned with sweeps of black that cloak his form - the city sleeping chokes this morning; he'll make sure of that. The spectre swiftly, deftly lifts his swoops and sways and slides to kiss the rooftops for brief seconds, missed as soon he plays the cat. Dancing gaily round a spine of long-forgotten stone and grime he plants his foot on, just in time to circumvent a fall. Light, he near tapdances, fear entrances a mere mortal but not him; he smiling shears and canters off, beyond the Wall.

A shadow slipping, sighing seen by no man and no camera-screen - his black broken only by gleam of sharpened Sheffield steel - he plummets through the gulping breathless cramp, myopic feckless damp of fog, dystopic dust and waste conspires to hamper, hide the face of this old city clamped, once-great but now the Leader masturbates his filth and lies and shit and hate

- but death, unlike, will not discriminate.

 

[Phantim]

Incidentally, the poem I wrote (up above) was inspired by the song "Industrial Disease" by the "Dire Straits."

you forgot the part where you slit your wrists

This reminded me of a short poem I came across years ago.
"And So He Died, Quite Alone"

And so he died, quite alone,
and there was no one to pray for him.
Nor would he have cared, I think:
he knew friendship illusory, love
unreal, and sex an emptiness. But
I should have been there, when he
died; in the rain, that night, I
stood, looking in through the win-
dow, watching: I saw his head fall,
his hand, and then: the gun. - by James Quinlan

 

[Sulkdodds]

Incidentally, the poem I wrote (up above) was inspired by the song "Industrial Disease" by the "Dire Straits."

It's funny, because there's a poem by Tony Harrison that goes exactly to that tune.