i saw a sacred soldier and i colored him yellow
like the moonlit sunflowers of a prized windowsill
i saw a limping grocer and i colored her ruby
the way her navy eyelids seemed to sparkle in the sand
i saw a flattened reindeer and i colored it green
the lichen liken flesh to flavors dappled in their roots
i saw a wicked windstorm and i colored me white
to make myself more stoic to its wide and frigid hold
i saw the box of crayons and i colored them all
the wish of adding normalcy to each illustrious stroke
each streak of crayon creation was just the somber spread of life
a line to trace the chase that death could never hope to lose
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():
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Quote from ClockworkSwordfish »
Had semenulative upkeep before it was fashionable. Look what you forced me to do, Wizards! IT DIDN'T HAVE TO GO DOWN LIKE THIS!
Quote from LandBoySteve »
Like I said, I can only go by my own experience, which is now 18 years. Kind of disheartening when you think you know something and you find out that you're a notch below a low grade moron.
Is art not putting life to canvas?
Not giving life
But translating what's happened to you
To a beautiful medium
The first world war, the hell in the trenches
Became the most twisted beauty
Wilfred Owen
Rupert Brooke
Even something so simple
And yet so damned complex
As Depression
Sylvia Plath
Even something as common as love
Too many poets to possibly name
Then my unlived, loveless self
is incapable of art
art is
such a damsel in distress
waiting for some kind knight
to rob and rescue her into safety
art is
white feathers
plentiful feathers that fledges Dove:
savor the blue canvas of freedom
art is pleasure.
if it feels good-
I am sure it's an aroused good
like waking up on Sundays
Art is
tragedy under the hands of the insecure
as confined in the statement below:
- I am weakness and imperfection;
Show yourself; take wings;
Let me soar through winds of fiction
Make me fly over folk and lore
Above all and the stars galore
Above Mars, Jupiter and Flare,
Ganimede and the Demon Mares,
Mungo Jerry and March Hare,
Saturn in his hula-hoops,
The Andromeda Galaxy with her fireflies
painting mad blue
this standard concept of Me.
Thought I'd post it here: new banner is up! Comes straight from the Weekly Contest in the Avatar and Sig Shops, huge thanks to ExpiredRascals, for making the PRC/Sig Shops crossover contest happen, Gaea's Reagent for the banner we now use, and Kakistokrat, for participating in that contest.
There, as if asleep, fuming steam off its face, the car
rested on the side of the road, one wheel down, flat.
The rubber, airless, sagged like the tired breast
of an exhausted mother, done feeding, leaning
to the curb. You will find me here,
observing the damages, holding
a hub cap in hand. I am
at this part of town where the asphalt
is peeled. Where high rises
and cranes pin the sky, imitating
in a way, the obelisks
of ruins, especially
in the setting sun. The only thing
that stands apart
are the pedestrians who walk
to the liquor stores and gas stations, laughing
amongst themselves—the way pilgrims do
when travelling.
Today is an invisible globe
the real god particle
I can only see the impressions
but oh, how peaceful
I am a sleeping leaf in the stream
the stream itself as it flows
washing over the earth
like the breathing winds
Today is the chant of ages
our ancestors sofly hum
their song is in the branches
it's alright
nobody knows better
trust in the damp soil
in long grasses
and the fallen antlers
Today is lost and eternal
the hidden sanctuary
entirely unscientific
dancing in the mist
it stays off the map
but with peace and warmth
let the birds guide you
they know better
Headache
My covers raised so slightly from something the night before
Was it my girlfriend, or a whore?
My head is killing me as I reach for my oxycodone
The bottle reminds me of the car I once owned.
The two pills slip into my hand, but quickly turn to sand.
How many have I taken today? I seem to have forgotten
Just one more, I think and I stroll across the room
I press my sore finger tip into the Coffee Button
A loud blast is heard inside my ears
was is this?
The headache
or the Contin
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Originally Posted by Arcadic View Post
scumbag
Want Higher Level Card Evaluation? Visit Diestoremoval.com
my mouth is full of winsome lies -
and eyes are full of death besides
but luckily the soul is wise -
it sees beyond my blindness and
forced failure makes a better guise,
so as i come again alive,
it feels like life's a decent plan
Thirty degrees in the shade by the creek (10)
Hotter in the afternoon sun (8)
I take off my clothes, leave them lie in a heap (11)
Let the dog off her leash for a run (9)
With wind on my ass cheeks, I succumb and put on my shoes (14)
When I wander the creek, I don't want my poor feet to bruise (14)
I hobble down the stream for a bit (9)
A low buzzing grows louder in my ears (10)
I slow and creep around a thicket (9)
A maelstrom of flying cavaliers (9)
Thousands of dragonflies swarming the clearing (11)
Metallic hues: reds, greens, and blues domineering (12)
Fours of thousands of wings careering (10)
Mating battle, me silently cheering (10)
the ababccdedeffgg rhyme scheme is also weird, but probably acceptable. however, you can't call it a sonnet if all the lines aren't 10 syllables (with maybe one or two exceptions, typically to accentuate a word or line)
the cantrip
the whispers held a muse in locking step
she'd graze the ears of all who'd listen in
with expectations that this work would prep
her soul for glory waiting 'round the bend
but as each life arose to statures rare
and as each happy ending met its close
she'd find no whispers answering her prayers
no righteous pathway for her to expose
she gouged her eyes out in a fit of rage
and ruby tears replaced her sacred gift
but tearing holy flesh did not assuage
her hollow heart that she had cast adrift
no rays of sunlight now can grant her sight
all she can do is smile in the night
Had semenulative upkeep before it was fashionable. Look what you forced me to do, Wizards! IT DIDN'T HAVE TO GO DOWN LIKE THIS!
Quote from LandBoySteve »
Like I said, I can only go by my own experience, which is now 18 years. Kind of disheartening when you think you know something and you find out that you're a notch below a low grade moron.
the ababccdedeffgg rhyme scheme is also weird, but probably acceptable. however, you can't call it a sonnet if all the lines aren't 10 syllables (with maybe one or two exceptions, typically to accentuate a word or line)
Shakespear's sonnets beg to differ. There's a fistful of different structures, the most common of which is the English sonnet of 14 lines of 10 syllables (and yes, I do know this solely thanks to wikipedia). We can discuss the application of the term "Sonnet," in the poll thread, come monday morning. Now, for the poem.
Some wordplay,
Or mangled allusion to start
Some
weird
Line breaks
and seemingly
meaningful struct
uring
We all want to escape,
we honestly do.
From the world.
From everyone.
Their phoniness.
Their monotony.
How can they do it?
Work fourty hours,
sleep fourty hours,
another fourty watch TV.
Live only on weekends
We won't do that.
We'll live.
We'll rebel
We'll drink, we'll smoke, we'll ****
Catcher in the Rye, Fight Club, Steppenwolf
We'll take drugs, we'll run away
We'll only care about not caring
But with this rebellion
will come an eventual revelation
That it aint working
That we rebel in the way that they say is rebelling
And so we won't be rebelling at all
That we're stuck with them
In their world
In their life
We'll give in, we'll give up
We'll work,
Get married,
Have Kids,
Save up.
It's the only thing to do
They all want to escape
they honestly do
But there's just no way how to.
Some suffer in vain
Others pray to never suffer again
From what I'm used to say
I say the suffering is worth the pain
Something that could never be fake
Your own headache.
next PRC Vitamin H
Vitamin H
United shoes and an untucked shirt
I ring the door bell to a man with a beard
He pulls out a bag with something like dirt
As his burns the spoon, thing smell weird
The needle dips into the concave metal
it sucks out the liquid into it's tube
I feel a sharp pain and scream like a kettle
he gave me no lidocane or lube
My arms go numb from the incoming storm
I feel all happy as I advanced to lay
As it rushes to my head, I start to feel warm
Nothing like some Vitamin H to brighten my day
Private Mod Note
():
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Originally Posted by Arcadic View Post
scumbag
Want Higher Level Card Evaluation? Visit Diestoremoval.com
I thought I'd be normal
when I did the things that everyone else did,
when I put on those masks
and smiled
and followed the maxim
"fake it 'til I make it"
but normality is more than just a mask
it's a state of being,
a knowledge that you can talk to people
without being misunderstood most of the time,
without being endlessly questioned and analyzed,
without questioning and analyzing yourself
to the point of
inaction
my mouth is full of winsome lies -
and eyes are full of death besides
but luckily the soul is wise -
it sees beyond my blindness and
forced failure makes a better guise,
so as i come again alive,
it feels like life's a decent plan
There is an ocean just past the seventh
where sailors see creatures and maidens of the deep blue,
where the sirens stay that catch rays on rocks,
and the ships crash when asleep,
Captains beware and sailors be weary,
The islands uncharted and covered with dense fog
Like ice
Melting as the temperatures go cold,
voyaging across a black vacuum
consisting of nebulas and colored dusts
in blue, pink, red and all
shades of violet
splotched over quantum dots of
white
that appear as stars
from some visceral dream made
into a canvas by none other
than a drunken god and
an artist. Mr. Osawa,
If you could rethink what was possible
and remember every revolution
for the seconds it spun
on that little disc
in my car, maybe you could
craft me a song to guide through the night
whenever I pass these cities and intersections
on the map. Maybe I could
dream a little myself
when I hear you, and see
that the highways and lights
are like constellations
in the earthly sense.
And when I traverse
on that coordinate plane, maybe
I could suspend the notion of traveling
from here to there, and that my car
was not a car, but a ship,
a sail boat, some shuttle
drifting, not driving.
Join the Poetry Running Contest!
i saw a sacred soldier and i colored him yellow
like the moonlit sunflowers of a prized windowsill
i saw a limping grocer and i colored her ruby
the way her navy eyelids seemed to sparkle in the sand
i saw a flattened reindeer and i colored it green
the lichen liken flesh to flavors dappled in their roots
i saw a wicked windstorm and i colored me white
to make myself more stoic to its wide and frigid hold
i saw the box of crayons and i colored them all
the wish of adding normalcy to each illustrious stroke
each streak of crayon creation was just the somber spread of life
a line to trace the chase that death could never hope to lose
Not giving life
But translating what's happened to you
To a beautiful medium
The first world war, the hell in the trenches
Became the most twisted beauty
Wilfred Owen
Rupert Brooke
Even something so simple
And yet so damned complex
As Depression
Sylvia Plath
Even something as common as love
Too many poets to possibly name
Then my unlived, loveless self
is incapable of art
Draft it on Cubetutor!
art is
such a damsel in distress
waiting for some kind knight
to rob and rescue her into safety
art is
white feathers
plentiful feathers that fledges Dove:
savor the blue canvas of freedom
art is pleasure.
if it feels good-
I am sure it's an aroused good
like waking up on Sundays
Art is
tragedy under the hands of the insecure
as confined in the statement below:
- I am weakness and imperfection;
Show yourself; take wings;
Let me soar through winds of fiction
Make me fly over folk and lore
Above all and the stars galore
Above Mars, Jupiter and Flare,
Ganimede and the Demon Mares,
Mungo Jerry and March Hare,
Saturn in his hula-hoops,
The Andromeda Galaxy with her fireflies
painting mad blue
this standard concept of Me.
Do not standardize me.
special thanks to sentimentgx4 for the sig
Pourquoi?
Join the Poetry Running Contest!
There, as if asleep, fuming steam off its face, the car
rested on the side of the road, one wheel down, flat.
The rubber, airless, sagged like the tired breast
of an exhausted mother, done feeding, leaning
to the curb. You will find me here,
observing the damages, holding
a hub cap in hand. I am
at this part of town where the asphalt
is peeled. Where high rises
and cranes pin the sky, imitating
in a way, the obelisks
of ruins, especially
in the setting sun. The only thing
that stands apart
are the pedestrians who walk
to the liquor stores and gas stations, laughing
amongst themselves—the way pilgrims do
when travelling.
the real god particle
I can only see the impressions
but oh, how peaceful
I am a sleeping leaf in the stream
the stream itself as it flows
washing over the earth
like the breathing winds
Today is the chant of ages
our ancestors sofly hum
their song is in the branches
it's alright
nobody knows better
trust in the damp soil
in long grasses
and the fallen antlers
Today is lost and eternal
the hidden sanctuary
entirely unscientific
dancing in the mist
it stays off the map
but with peace and warmth
let the birds guide you
they know better
He is no captain, but he barks just the same.
He leads not soldiers, but he commands just the same.
He'll not survive, but he stands just the same.
He is no willow, but he weeps just the same.
He is but a man, and he lies just the same.
Join the Poetry Running Contest!
Join the Poetry Running Contest!
My covers raised so slightly from something the night before
Was it my girlfriend, or a whore?
My head is killing me as I reach for my oxycodone
The bottle reminds me of the car I once owned.
The two pills slip into my hand, but quickly turn to sand.
How many have I taken today? I seem to have forgotten
Just one more, I think and I stroll across the room
I press my sore finger tip into the Coffee Button
A loud blast is heard inside my ears
was is this?
The headache
or the Contin
scumbag
Want Higher Level Card Evaluation? Visit Diestoremoval.com
we all came from the stars
there we return when we close our eyes
constellations in the high skies.
I can love
I can love myself
How could it be otherwise?
if I am part of the stars
the same dust and water from Mars
form my tears.
special thanks to sentimentgx4 for the sig
Pourquoi?
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=pixkuUL9LgU <inspiration
Passenger
where would you (where would you)
go without (go within)
everything (everything)
leading in (asking when?)
to me (from me ...)
give me strength (give me hell)
give me love (william tell)
understand (just demand)
give me hope (empty hands)
what I see (endless me)
in mirrors (echoing)
ugly and (deadening)
luminous (maddening)
nothing but (everything)
hopelessness (staggering)
hoping I'm (living still)
not a ghost (lying thrills)
reflections (inflection)
LYING to (hiding from)
me
(and I'd hide better if I could see)
eyes show duality,
penmanship, sophistry,
let's stop this chivalry,
enrich our enmity!
deceiving everyone.
dressing up - dressing down?
give me a second chance
give me a second life
give me a way to
escape from this second night
please
and eyes are full of death besides
but luckily the soul is wise -
it sees beyond my blindness and
forced failure makes a better guise,
so as i come again alive,
it feels like life's a decent plan
the ababccdedeffgg rhyme scheme is also weird, but probably acceptable. however, you can't call it a sonnet if all the lines aren't 10 syllables (with maybe one or two exceptions, typically to accentuate a word or line)
the cantrip
the whispers held a muse in locking step
she'd graze the ears of all who'd listen in
with expectations that this work would prep
her soul for glory waiting 'round the bend
but as each life arose to statures rare
and as each happy ending met its close
she'd find no whispers answering her prayers
no righteous pathway for her to expose
she gouged her eyes out in a fit of rage
and ruby tears replaced her sacred gift
but tearing holy flesh did not assuage
her hollow heart that she had cast adrift
no rays of sunlight now can grant her sight
all she can do is smile in the night
I did not say goodbye—not even
when his body was lowered,
the frame, in black, a fallen tree,
his departure, a mountain on its knees.
Shakespear's sonnets beg to differ. There's a fistful of different structures, the most common of which is the English sonnet of 14 lines of 10 syllables (and yes, I do know this solely thanks to wikipedia). We can discuss the application of the term "Sonnet," in the poll thread, come monday morning. Now, for the poem.
Some wordplay,
Or mangled allusion to start
Some
weird
Line breaks
and seemingly
meaningful struct
uring
Themes-
The narrowly
out of reach-
And
The much,
Much too near-
My lack of morals
and god
and talent
And some more
self-loathing
And then I admit
and then I make it
Look easy-
Grin, a little
Then the lines
slow
down
and I hype up
the final reve
lation,
that comes artfully overdue
Join the Poetry Running Contest!
We all want to escape,
we honestly do.
From the world.
From everyone.
Their phoniness.
Their monotony.
How can they do it?
Work fourty hours,
sleep fourty hours,
another fourty watch TV.
Live only on weekends
We won't do that.
We'll live.
We'll rebel
We'll drink, we'll smoke, we'll ****
Catcher in the Rye, Fight Club, Steppenwolf
We'll take drugs, we'll run away
We'll only care about not caring
But with this rebellion
will come an eventual revelation
That it aint working
That we rebel in the way that they say is rebelling
And so we won't be rebelling at all
That we're stuck with them
In their world
In their life
We'll give in, we'll give up
We'll work,
Get married,
Have Kids,
Save up.
It's the only thing to do
They all want to escape
they honestly do
But there's just no way how to.
Draft it on Cubetutor!
Pain, Ache.
Some suffer in vain
Others pray to never suffer again
From what I'm used to say
I say the suffering is worth the pain
Something that could never be fake
Your own headache.
special thanks to sentimentgx4 for the sig
Pourquoi?
Vitamin H
Vitamin H
United shoes and an untucked shirt
I ring the door bell to a man with a beard
He pulls out a bag with something like dirt
As his burns the spoon, thing smell weird
The needle dips into the concave metal
it sucks out the liquid into it's tube
I feel a sharp pain and scream like a kettle
he gave me no lidocane or lube
My arms go numb from the incoming storm
I feel all happy as I advanced to lay
As it rushes to my head, I start to feel warm
Nothing like some Vitamin H to brighten my day
scumbag
Want Higher Level Card Evaluation? Visit Diestoremoval.com
Sorry for the tree
in your room, grown now
so even kudzus
cover your walls, leaving
only green to guide
the faded sunlight in
the late of May.
The wisteria too,
I'm sorry. It must've rooted
where your grandmother used
to sleep. And the sink,
showers, curtains, chairs
and doors, rusted by now,
would be covered
in lavender. Those lilacs
you planted since last of June
would be gone, and I'm sorry
for that as well. I'd imagined
you'd be upset
with the windows you painted
when you were young, every
color, is just glass confetti
dusted over the concrete here,
outside this complex that is
overrun with mold and age.
To this day, I don't know why
I chose to come back
even though
you've moved on.
But when it rains
just so gently
that you can still see
the little threads of light
etched on every drop
falling through
the holes of this broken roof,
I am compelled
to believe
this earth does grow
just for you.
Signups for PRC 170 are now closed, join us again for PRC 171
Join the Poetry Running Contest!
Every night, in the yard
Reading the sky above my head
I count the stars
Some flash in white, others twinkle red
Shining beauty in this starred bed
As the night grew colder
Shoulder to shoulder
Boulder and I
My eyes grew weary
And still there are many
Stars to be counted
Are there to be counted
They belong to me
In every night of mine.
special thanks to sentimentgx4 for the sig
Pourquoi?
I thought I'd be normal
when I did the things that everyone else did,
when I put on those masks
and smiled
and followed the maxim
"fake it 'til I make it"
but normality is more than just a mask
it's a state of being,
a knowledge that you can talk to people
without being misunderstood most of the time,
without being endlessly questioned and analyzed,
without questioning and analyzing yourself
to the point of
inaction
-
and eyes are full of death besides
but luckily the soul is wise -
it sees beyond my blindness and
forced failure makes a better guise,
so as i come again alive,
it feels like life's a decent plan
There is an ocean just past the seventh
where sailors see creatures and maidens of the deep blue,
where the sirens stay that catch rays on rocks,
and the ships crash when asleep,
Captains beware and sailors be weary,
The islands uncharted and covered with dense fog
On the Main Street Electrical Parade
Like ice
Melting as the temperatures go cold,
voyaging across a black vacuum
consisting of nebulas and colored dusts
in blue, pink, red and all
shades of violet
splotched over quantum dots of
white
that appear as stars
from some visceral dream made
into a canvas by none other
than a drunken god and
an artist. Mr. Osawa,
If you could rethink what was possible
and remember every revolution
for the seconds it spun
on that little disc
in my car, maybe you could
craft me a song to guide through the night
whenever I pass these cities and intersections
on the map. Maybe I could
dream a little myself
when I hear you, and see
that the highways and lights
are like constellations
in the earthly sense.
And when I traverse
on that coordinate plane, maybe
I could suspend the notion of traveling
from here to there, and that my car
was not a car, but a ship,
a sail boat, some shuttle
drifting, not driving.
Join the Poetry Running Contest!