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Poetry Thread Activate!

 
    • L_E_D_Zep a dit :...
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    • 21 juin 2010, 21h59m

    Poetry Thread Activate!

    Alright, so I see no poetry thread on last.fm and feel it's time to bust one out. I'm not some self acclaimed poet or know much about it but this is what I'm feeling.

    My ABAB 4-line stanza poem that I've been thinking about since going to sleep last night. HURR DUR I know not every rhyme is synced up but who care it's poetry.


    Infested With Hate

    Just a troubled young youth,
    All from the start,
    Shadows through sleuth,
    In my head they play their part,

    This shit festers in my brain,
    Smiles are my decoy,
    In this hell I cannot contain,
    Any happiness or joy,

    They all look down upon me,
    People point and laugh,
    This person I will be,
    Will become a villain of wrath,

    I shall use my powers,
    To overcome this fear,
    Blood spilt like showers,
    I will kill all my peers,

    As the clock strikes four,
    I pick up the gun,
    I start this war,
    And I'm already done.

    I look towards the floor,
    And snicker at the victims,
    Kicking aside the corps,
    I proceed to clean the scum,

    With my blade in hand,
    I dismantle their heads,
    Knowing this was planned,
    I have made my bed.

    In this cell I am in,
    I will never free,
    There is no rising of my chin,
    Nor begging or a plea.

    This is where it ends,
    No way out so I have to decide,
    I make my amends,
    Followed my suicide.

  • merde a dieu

    • L_E_D_Zep a dit :...
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    • 21 juin 2010, 22h19m
    Alright, I can play that game too. I need to better examine your terrible taste in Dad Rock and lame grammar in order for this to happen.

  • play what game? i was quoting the french poet arthur rimbaud who wrote that as graffiti outside a church. i think it's brilliant for the fuss it would have caused at the time especially with it meaning "shit on god"

    • L_E_D_Zep a dit :...
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    • 21 juin 2010, 22h26m
    Sure you did.

  • C'est tout fini.

    na kavacam nargala stotram
    kilakam na rahasyakam
    na suktam napi dhyanam
    ca na nyaso na ca varcanam


    http://theoldkingdom.wordpress.com/
  • yeah i did so you can suck my smelly arse crack for attacking me for no reason you clown

  • KnowsMyMind said:
    yeah i did so you can suck my smelly arse crack for attacking me for no reason you clown


    Or re-arranged as Haiku:

    yeah, I did so you
    can suck my smelly arse crack
    for attacking, clown

    na kavacam nargala stotram
    kilakam na rahasyakam
    na suktam napi dhyanam
    ca na nyaso na ca varcanam


    http://theoldkingdom.wordpress.com/
    • L_E_D_Zep a dit :...
    • Utilisateur
    • 21 juin 2010, 22h34m
    LOL nice!

    • sgath92 a dit :...
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    • 21 juin 2010, 23h50m
    Roses are Red,
    Violets are black.
    If you dump me,
    I will stab your back!

    The roses are welting,
    the violets are dead.
    The sugar bowl's empty
    and so is your head!

    • [Utilisateur supprimé] a dit :...
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    • 22 juin 2010, 2h01m
    Thats a terrible thread title

    makes poetry sound like a Transformers movie.

    • fadingecho a dit :...
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    • 22 juin 2010, 4h23m
    There once was a cockroach named Fred
    Who dreamed that he was dead
    When he woke and found it true
    He didn't know what to do
    So he hate a bologna sandwich


    Okay. I actually didn't write that. But it's pretty much my favourite poem ever...

    I have not written in ages. Nothing interesting, anyway :P

    • Hex-Omega a dit :...
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    • 22 juin 2010, 6h52m
    DaddyPobbin said:
    Thats a terrible thread title

    makes poetry sound like a Transformers movie.

    Roses are red,
    Transformers are gay.
    This poem is less creative,
    Than director Michael Bay.

    Ok, poetry certainly isn't my strong point.

  • Hex-Omega said:
    DaddyPobbin said:
    Thats a terrible thread title

    makes poetry sound like a Transformers movie.

    Roses are red,
    Transformers are gay.
    This poem is less creative,
    Than director Michael Bay.

    Ok, poetry certainly isn't my strong point.


    Except that it clearly is. How about haiku?

    Giant robots and
    dirty/attractive actress.
    How hard can it be?

    I'm actually convinced I could make a better film, given the same budget, and I know NOTHING about film-making..

    • sdgrandia a dit :...
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    • 22 juin 2010, 8h50m
    DaddyPobbin said:
    Thats a terrible thread title

    makes poetry sound like a Transformers movie.


    it's only terrible if you are brainwashed and refer to the Michael Bay movies, the movie from the 80's is a classic!!!!

    Roses are Red,
    Violets are black.
    If you dump me,
    I will stab your back!

    The roses are welting,
    the violets are dead.
    The sugar bowl's empty
    and so is your head!


    <3<3<3

    • sdgrandia a dit :...
    • Utilisateur
    • 22 juin 2010, 8h51m
    notwhatyoumeant said:
    Hex-Omega said:
    DaddyPobbin said:
    Thats a terrible thread title

    makes poetry sound like a Transformers movie.

    Roses are red,
    Transformers are gay.
    This poem is less creative,
    Than director Michael Bay.

    Ok, poetry certainly isn't my strong point.


    Except that it clearly is. How about haiku?

    Giant robots and
    dirty/attractive actress.
    How hard can it be?

    I'm actually convinced I could make a better film, given the same budget, and I know NOTHING about film-making..


    trust me, you could make a better movie using the old transformer toys from the 80's and stop motion....mmmm :D

    • Mamaatti a dit :...
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    • 22 juin 2010, 9h03m
    O Captain my Captain! our fearful trip is done;
    The ship has weathered every rack, the prize we sought is won;
    The port is near, the bells I hear, the people all exulting,
    While follow eyes the steady keel, the vessel grim and daring:

    But O heart! heart! heart!
    O the bleeding drops of red,
    Where on the deck my Captain lies,
    Fallen cold and dead.

    O Captain! my Captain! rise up and hear the bells;
    Rise up—for you the flag is flung—for you the bugle trills;
    For you bouquets and ribboned wreaths—for you the shores a-crowding;
    For you they call, the swaying mass, their eager faces turning;

    Here Captain! dear father!
    This arm beneath your head;
    It is some dream that on the deck,

    You’ve fallen cold and dead.

    My Captain does not answer, his lips are pale and still;
    My father does not feel my arm, he has no pulse nor will;
    The ship is anchored safe and sound, its voyage closed and done;
    From fearful trip, the victor ship, comes in with object won;

    Exult, O shores, and ring, O bells!
    But I, with mournful tread,
    Walk the deck my Captain lies,

    Fallen cold and dead.


    - Walt Whitman

    lost in the kingdom of Narnia,
    brought back by nostalgic feelings
    • sdgrandia a dit :...
    • Utilisateur
    • 22 juin 2010, 9h08m
    LO! 't is a gala night
    Within the lonesome latter years.
    An angel throng, bewinged, bedight
    In veils, and drowned in tears,
    Sit in a theatre to see
    A play of hopes and fears,
    While the orchestra breathes fitfully
    The music of the spheres.

    Mimes, in the form of God on high,
    Mutter and mumble low,
    And hither and thither fly;
    Mere puppets they, who come and go
    At bidding of vast formless things
    That shift the scenery to and fro,
    Flapping from out their condor wings
    Invisible Woe.

    That motley drama—oh, be sure
    It shall not be forgot!
    With its Phantom chased for evermore
    By a crowd that seize it not,
    Through a circle that ever returneth in
    To the self-same spot;
    And much of Madness, and more of Sin,
    And Horror the soul of the plot.

    But see amid the mimic rout
    A crawling shape intrude:
    A blood-red thing that writhes from out
    The scenic solitude!
    It writhes—it writhes!—with mortal pangs
    The mimes become its food,
    And over each quivering form
    In human gore imbued.

    Out—out are the lights—out all!
    And over each quivering form
    The curtain, a funeral pall, 35
    Comes down with the rush of a storm,
    While the angels, all pallid and wan,
    Uprising, unveiling, affirm
    That the play is the tragedy, "Man,"
    And its hero, the Conqueror Worm.

    • fadingecho a dit :...
    • Utilisateur
    • 22 juin 2010, 9h24m
    notwhatyoumeant said:
    Hex-Omega said:
    DaddyPobbin said:
    Thats a terrible thread title

    makes poetry sound like a Transformers movie.

    Roses are red,
    Transformers are gay.
    This poem is less creative,
    Than director Michael Bay.

    Ok, poetry certainly isn't my strong point.


    Except that it clearly is. How about haiku?

    Giant robots and
    dirty/attractive actress.
    How hard can it be?

    I'm actually convinced I could make a better film, given the same budget, and I know NOTHING about film-making..


    I believe you! And I'd pay to see it :D Which is more than I can say for Transformers. Still haven't watched it. Don't really plan to. Nice haiku, though. I'm sure that pretty much sums it up...

    • Phoenixme a dit :...
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    • 22 juin 2010, 16h38m
    There once was a man from Nantucket....

    Meh, forget it.

    ..... but we can still be friends.

    Irony.

    Join The Best Group ever!!!
    • [Utilisateur supprimé] a dit :...
    • Utilisateur
    • 22 juin 2010, 16h50m
    The glory of the beauty of the morning, -
    The cuckoo crying over the untouched dew;
    The blackbird that has found it, and the dove
    That tempts me on to something sweeter than love;
    White clouds ranged even and fair as new-mown hay;
    The heat, the stir, the sublime vacancy
    Of sky and meadow and forest and my own heart: -
    The glory invites me, yet it leaves me scorning
    All I can ever do, all I can be,
    Beside the lovely of motion, shape, and hue,
    The happiness I fancy fit to dwell
    In beauty's presence. Shall I now this day
    Begin to seek as far as heaven, as hell,
    Wisdom or strength to match this beauty, start
    And tread the pale dust pitted with small dark drops,
    In hope to find whatever it is I seek,
    Hearkening to short-lived happy-seeming things
    That we know naught of, in the hazel copse?
    Or must I be content with discontent
    As larks and swallows are perhaps with wings?
    And shall I ask at the day's end once more
    What beauty is, and what I can have meant
    By happiness? And shall I let all go,
    Glad, weary, or both? Or shall I perhaps know
    That I was happy oft and oft before,
    Awhile forgetting how I am fast pent,
    How dreary-swift, with naught to travel to,
    Is Time? I cannot bite the day to the core.


    - Edward Thomas, The Glory

    • fadingecho a dit :...
    • Utilisateur
    • 22 juin 2010, 22h05m
    Phoenixme said:
    There once was a man from Nantucket....

    Meh, forget it.


    No, wait! I wanna know where this goes!

    • sgath92 a dit :...
    • Utilisateur
    • 23 juin 2010, 0h48m

    • fadingecho a dit :...
    • Utilisateur
    • 23 juin 2010, 1h08m
    I love public access television

    • rfruth11 a dit :...
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    • 23 juin 2010, 3h14m
    +1

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