PoetWhoKnowIt: Favorites

Jul 2013 PoetWhoKnowIt

Frankie T

on the table there is a knife and a small pile of *******
a lighter, a bottle of cough syrup, a shot glass
three empty beer cans
a worn copy of Hemingway's best work.
these are the times we live in.
this is our place,
reflecting our lives--
this is how we live.

we spend a lot of time
outside.

Jul 2013 PoetWhoKnowIt

Pieces of Me

Jul 2013 PoetWhoKnowIt

Amanda

Pieces of Me

Pieces of Me
Take a closer look and you shall see
all these little, pretty, ****** up pieces of me
here they reside for all to see
because I wear them proudly on my sleeves
all these scattered and jagged pieces of me.

Sometimes these pieces of me get lost in their great abyss
from time to time they wander there and scream in an innocent bliss
“Hey, this is beautiful, does anyone else see this”?
These pieces of me are all unique and different
but as a whole they are not all here yet
so the rest of them I will not forget
what is even more, I await them with no regrets.

Take a closer look and you shall see
all these little, pretty, ****** up pieces of me
here they reside for all to see
because I wear them proudly on my sleeves
all these scattered and jagged pieces of me.

These pieces of me come home at their own will
and once we connect, it is me that they fulfill
attempting to whole the person sitting at the windowsill.
But for now, I am sitting here just wishing
all my irrational illogical pieces to just start glistening
and open themselves to a universe that is listening.

Take a closer look and you shall see
all these little, pretty, ****** up pieces of me
here they reside for all to see
because I wear them proudly on my sleeves
all these scattered and jagged pieces of me.

My goal is one day to achieve
a complex puzzle so beautiful and complete
something everyone could see and think, “wow isn’t that just so lovely”?
A lovely puzzle made from the finest, tiniest, prettiest, scattered, jagged, unique,
different, irrational, illogical, and ****** up pieces of me.

Jul 2013 PoetWhoKnowIt

The Paradoxically Rewarding Folly of Philosophy

Jul 2013 PoetWhoKnowIt

Anubis the Philosomancer

The Paradoxically Rewarding Folly of Philosophy

The Pursuit of Understanding
is a Fool's Errand; a Wild Goose Chase.
Though the goal of absolute Understanding is a Horizon forever sought,
the very act of trying to get there will take you places and provide perspective.

I figure
it is better to engage in a Fool's Errand of this sort
than it is to flounder in the complacency of everyday acknowledged ignorance.
We shall always be ignorant in some regard
but we should nevertheless always seek to understand:

The Obstacle is the Path
The Path is it's own Reward:
To remove the Obstacle is to remove the Path.
To remove the Path is to annul Purpose.

Jul 2013 PoetWhoKnowIt

Is There Anybody Out There?

Jul 2013 PoetWhoKnowIt

Cassie

Is There Anybody Out There?

nobody gives a ****
about poetry
or books
charles bukowski
or siddhartha
nobody gives a ****
about the universe
or extra terrestrials
carl sagan
or that we are stardust
nobody gives a ****
about Led Zeppelin
or Pink Floyd
Joni Mitchell
or Nirvana
nobody gives a ****
except for me

So it seems. I know this can't be true. I know you exist.

Jul 2013 PoetWhoKnowIt

gravity

Jul 2013 PoetWhoKnowIt

Alexis Jas

gravity

they say
that if you drop a crumpled piece of paper
and a rock
at the same time
they will reach the ground
at the same time

they say
that it has to do
with mass and surface area
also weight and gravity
and loads of other things
that i don’t pretend to understand

however
it doesn’t take a genius to see
that i am falling for you
faster than you
are falling for me

it doesn’t make sense
because science says
that no matter what
the two objects should reach the ground
at the same time

so why am i down here
looking up
at you

Jul 2013 PoetWhoKnowIt

Flax

Jul 2013 PoetWhoKnowIt

Christine Eglantine

Flax

I love you more than the sun in the sky
the thing that banishes those demons from me
and scatters them to the four winds
just flax in the wind.

Jul 2013 PoetWhoKnowIt

Writer’s Block

Jul 2013 PoetWhoKnowIt

Fish The Pig

Writer’s Block

Trapped in a disorder,
Surrounded,
Encased by a series of heated lies,
An arrangement of glass dolls by my side.
Here it comes,
An energetic melody that makes my heart beat fast
And brain overreact
So I cannot write proper poetry.
So hyper, so happy, so nothing.
Misery is in the past
But still clinging tight
So I wonder what it is,
That prevents the many powerful words I once held
From emerging in splotchy ink down on parcel.
I’m not happy,
That’s for sure,
But I’m not miserable,
I’m at some horrid place in between
At a place where I am not happy enough
And not sad enough
To fill page after page with
Rhyming thoughts that flow.
This place kills me.
No matter the dark rooms I once cried in,
I’d suffer a dark earth for an eternity
To see my bony hand swishing swiftly across the page,
Producing miserable rhyming thoughts once again.
What am I without poetry?
I don’t know,
And I don’t ever want to find out.