Bored poets write ennui
Saintly poets write psalms
Bad poets pennings
Are made into songs

Silly poets write limericks
And limericks they read
Drunk poets write scribbles
Drunk on their mead

Angry young men
Write rants by the hour
Wide-eyed young girls write
Of bunnies and flowers

Idiots write nonsense
Off the seat of their pants,
Got news for you, scoffers!
So do savants!

Gays write of rainbows
Heros epics of old,
Storytellers write of
pirate plunder and gold.

Broken poets write humbly
Strong writes unadorned,
Happy bards write of roses
Bleeding poets of thorns.




Soul Survivor aka
Write of Passage aka
Invisible inc


But what makes a true poet
Is simply when
They type on a keyboard
or write with a PEN

like sardines
we're packed
in oil to be fresh
we are only skin and bone
we are only flesh

freeze-dried in the sun
sun kissed in the snow
we shuffle into boxes
for they are all we know

we follow the leader
with soul killing greed
there's no place for freedom
of thought or word or deed

we don't pick at the wound
cover up the scar
God is in a building
and music in a jar


soulsurvivor
4/30/2015

This is not a poem of woe
I'm in the zone... the writers flow
Where I'll stop I just don't know
I can't have a cup o joe
It doesn't seem to want to slow
I'm up all night and can't let go!

Oh! Dear God. .. I ask you. PLEASE!
I'm so tired my brain might seize!
I just need a moment's peace
Somewhere where my mind is freed
My motor starts to choke and wheeze
I need some help... get antifreeze
Rid me of this poeteeze...

... I just want my vitamin Z's!!!
Catherine

he promised me
the stars 🌟 💫💫

how was I to know
all he had was
a pocket full of

GLITTER


SoulSurvivor
Catherine Jarvis
(C) 2014 September, 2014

By the Olympìan furnace Vulcan stands,
Beating out the swords for gods.

God's angel's armor is made elsewhere
Made for Jesus's angels of war...

The demons become Zeus and Apollo
Their worthless gods‐o-war they follow
They breathe in goodness,
and breathe out hate,
earth and wind, they mate and
spew out cloudy corruption.
I bite the breathing ****** blossoms
trying not to inspire
inky irritation.
ignorance.
ignominy.

I inhale anyway.

how, after all, can one
stop breathing?


Write of Passage aka,
Invisible inc aka,
SøułSurvivør
(C) 5/13/2017

Devil's are fallen angels and demons are the Nephillim the product of the mating of women and fallen angels. They died during the flood, and are now evil spirits

When a person inhales the ash from a volcano, they take in billions of tiny fragments of glass. If you don't suffocate from this you drown in your own blood.