Boris Johnson: Cuddly Conservative
Dec 27, 2003
Stoke-On-Trent UK
Does anyone here enjoy poetry? I do, but I find myself leaning towards odder, more modern poetry than the traditional stuff.

I occasionally write songs and poems, so I've included one here. I don't like to make my poems so cryptic that no-one can interpt anything from them, yet I'm a big fan of wordplay and double meanings. I am terrible at most forms of written English though, so they are written purely to be read aloud. (hence the lack of real formatting)

I stopped writing constantly a year or so ago, so what I write now never really get's finished, and is often rushed.

Anyway.... (The Bold Text is the title btw. long, I know..)

I admire those who don’t have to think; yet I do not think before I act on occasions that
barely leave me intact.

I’d kill to say I act on basic instinct
but even these words left me tired
the next morning-I rose to an empty bed:
I’d slept on the floor again,
the same as the day before.
Empty bottles beside my head’s
shadow shot; a glass stare. (I decided
I wished to have been hit with an Irn-Barr
instead.) I heard a voice “You need to help yourself...
Scratch that. Hang yourself.”
I just ended it: Closed the red silks.
Or rather, I opened them. Teenage Cliché
forever will rule.
Pretty good poem, I used to write poetry, my english teacher said I was very good at it, but I got bored, so I stopped, plus I have pretty low self confidence so I could never bring myself to read them infront of anyone except close friends and family.
No im afraid not, most of them were in jotters or fileblocks that have long since been thrown out.
I took a class last semester, a creative writing one. My hobby is freestyling and I've entered a few battles (and won some too) so most of my poems were full of rhymes. I have a few that dont, however. If your interested, I'll post, but the problem with my sort of poetry (as with most poetry) is that it looses its impact when read and not heard.
Please:) I just wrote a rather quick one taking ideas from the first and older poems....

How to die at least seven times within a stanza Or: The Teenage Poem with Bitter Sweet
Humour circulating it’s long, delicious fingers.

Your loss of blood has always been a subject
close to your heart. I didn’t think you had the guts
(you don’t now, but that’s too much) as you couldn’t
hold a blade to save your life. “Never mind
the signs” I thought. (Neither did you
but that wasn’t your fault-It was all that port
you had drank before that make you run red.)
I bet you wished you’d have been smashed
with an IRN bar instead.
This is one of my favoite non-rhyming ones called technology

Populous lifted by electric strings,
Master puppeteers twiddle their fingers
Making bodies dance to a different tune,
Full-blown assimilation,
Without this constant feed one dies of starvation,
Lifeless shells replacing vibrant eyes
And limbs of dust weave alien tapestries,
Every move ungraceful, clunky walking
And jittery arms push the beast forward.

Blood replaced by gold, pumped slowly like molasses
Through leeching arteries and spat out by packed veins,
Tongues unravel and graze the floor,
Tears and dribble roll down greedy chins
Plopping against mechanical feet,
All fighting to keep the power flowing
And clamoring for more gas.
Even those few who claw over each other
Struggling to flip the switch trip over reluctant legs
And fall back into the rising heap of bodies.
This is an exerpt from a three page poem I wrote about getting loose.

But I can feel the beat, that shit imbedded in my pores,
Soaking through the skin begin to throw my bones on course,
Of course, there are those times I wish I’m dumb deaf and blind
So I can hide from all the shit that’s breakin’ bats against my mind

Hence I confine and find the fine line
And whine about the many hardships that wholeheartedly bind
Myself to prior memories, there is no remedy for this melody
Of cracks bangs and thwaps beating my brains almost to felony

And so I sit back, collapse and clasp
The vast gas for my veins, pumping that bullshit insane
And yet I’m killing my body through my unhealthy new hobby,
God forbid I ever end up meeting my cousin Johnny,

Hence it’s a circle, distress simply leads to distress,
But I confess this doesn’t stop me from acting with intentions that aren’t best,
Meh, poetry is just a loose collection of random words
Decyphered pure
Instilled toxin of vocabulary enters
The twisted floating home of my captured neurons for a visit

Its reaction, global control of emotional vocal continuity soon to be restless
And yet still I am infected!
For every proto plot point paragraph sentence of a broken dream or adventure in this rotten world I absorb it continues thought to change the world around me with only words how accomplished

yet self-awareness rebounds the boundaries of non-existence; this clearly is a rhyme of substinence made readily for the virgin day of newborn matter
and in case you haven't noticed i type this like cold reversal spider's web
(on the fly) and meaningless it is, and yet it cannot be
for all poetry has a meaning left inside it like cloud shape formations striking you to stone like Medusa glances

this has been a post-production of my charred fingers upon the mental wireframe keyboard encapsulation device of trusting innocence, still infringed and violated by the bias of the mind.
And a short rebuttal to your suicide poem, done in the traditional style:

Funny how emotionally unbalanced my mind has to be
To functionally function in a world of random misery
Yet uncertain as my actions are in the face of one Red Bull
One thing is certain, that to live even while miserable
Is still living, and therefore pertinent to the subject that is at hand
When you decided on the night of inaction to commit your plan
To reality, triggered solely by one drop of rain you made up
Your mind, to take the chattering cup and spill it

Evidently it was used to hold the ever-filling vastness of temptation
And emotion, rivalling your depression in its desire for connotation
It was too much, too much at one time, and you felt unresolved
To solve the problems deep within your soul, was too much trouble
I agree, for what is the point of spending all your free time
On small things, deciding the details when there's life on the line
That's worthless, inherently all life is devoid of purpose
And you knew it, that's why you pulled the blade from out of your purple purse
And you took it, knead it through your fingers like a wad of dough
And you saw your hands painted with dark red flow like claret wine
And other such cliches, but you didn't seem to mind
When you committed this blade to holy testament, and finished what you hadn't started
Ended the pain for yourself but began it for others
Irrespective, how worthless their lives are to you as to me anyway
But still

Do you not see any pain in this? Is your absolution the freedom for others, or merely the trappings of entrapment melting life into death? There is no room for dead souls to think, and no air from which deal souls form a breath.
Disclaimer: I don't profess to be any kind of a poet. This is all meaningless junk intended to criticise poetry, NOT actual poetry, and belongs to school we know as 'Vogon poetry'. Despite its crappiness, I believe that it ranks with all the other poetry in this thread.

I took a class last semester, a creative writing one. My hobby is freestyling and I've entered a few battles (and won some too) so most of my poems were full of rhymes.
I've tried two styles, why not try another. This'll be a challenge.

Lyrically / you're testing~me but never stressing~me
Empirically / You try to mess~with~me but can't get the best~of~me
I recklessly / devour MCs, my power tempts~these
fools who like to wear~Tees I stab 'em in the kidneys
My mind~straight for the rhyme~race / Effort? I put in nine~eighths
A mind~state that makes me a kind~mate but never timed~late
I wait for a final~place to make my entrance, prepare for an adventure
The tension sends~ya to heaven, plentiful methods of expression
And I'll guess~one: Flow like more~semen / Than an a horny~teen~an'
If that was disgusting to you, avoid watching porn~CDs~then
This rap is fairly crap but for an amateur / I'll damage~ya,
Like Paris did Achilles but savager, a battler with stamina
I can say I rock the mic but this shit~is~hypothetical
Right now I got three bitches with me, licking~my~testicles

And I'm OOOUT!! ;)
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What type of playas wanna test my prowess, left bloodied and stabbed
theyve been had, heard Triks was coming, bitches got all giddy and glad
I riddle the man who steps up contesting parallel flows with bullet holes
shot from fresh chrome and implantend inta niggas domes
so I still hold the crown and rival leaders simply content with emulation
of stlye thats gracing niggas ears, yet their confused and vexed from contemplation
b/c a copy is simply unorigional, yes, undercritical of other individuals
this message all but subliminal,
quite contrarily a merry g would step up to me and be like damn b
I heard your rhymes remove the sight from those who see
yet I restore the senses of the blind and ressurect they corneas
and all a yas can kiss my ass until i belt out more a those
hot ass lines burning though rhythym and time
unbound by universal law and crackin open a niggas mind

Just a written freestyle. Thought I had ta represent! HOLLA!!!!! :D
(btw- nice one Rico, but I disagree about your views on some poetry, though I have read some wierd nonsensical shit that seems slapped together like your example)
EDIT: GPJosh- rap = poery (well, some rap atleast)
I like poetry! I find it easier to talk about deep sensitive subjects in a poem. This makes poetry a good way for me to express myself.

Here is one of the poems that I made:
I ponder
yet an answer I find not
Hear about my wonder
and give answering it a shot
Why did Bill Gates, that famous prick,
Name his company after his dick?

Pretty good, right?