Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
Shane Oltingir May 2014
Give us burn-outs, bars, and battered schools,

Streets of litter, needles, walls,

Smoke and smog and drugs and drab,

******, and heartbreak, liquor, ****;

Fury, ****-ups, fear and fights,

Cut down trees, and sleepless nights;

Polluted rivers, dead-end jobs,

Tell us that there is no god.

Then wake up each and every morning,

Embrace and kindle global warming;

Watch as wars and famine strive,

And watch your poems come alive.

For that is what we writers need.
Just so you guys are aware, in this piece the use of the word '****' is simply a British colloquialism for cigarettes -- it is not a reference to homosexuals.
Shane Oltingir May 2014
If one compressed a smile into

A brew, a concoction, a molecular grin.

Would you trade what makes you who are ,

for the artificial kindness within?

If what once could flood a page with words

From tobacco clouds and whiskey rain,

Was that which sent you off, and into

The nether kingdom of Dante's reign.  

Would you become a soldier

For a life of Chemical Happiness?

I would sooner swallow my sadness.

For at least I know it is natural.
Shane Oltingir May 2014
Be not afraid to **** your darlings,
For they will fall as humans do,
And bleed their words upon the page --
A bandage wrapped around a wound

Be not afraid to **** your darlings,
For they will litter every shelf,
Their headstones will compose the cover,
Of books which you have built yourself.

Be not afraid to **** your darlings,
They will not grudge nor hold in strife,
For bestowing death upon your darlings
Has instead bestowed upon them life.
This poem was inspired by the film "**** Your Darlings". It is a must watch for any aspiring writers :).
Shane Oltingir May 2014
I, one day, wondered, whether I,
Was loved by she whom spent my time,
My money, patience, days and nights;
I wondered if her words were true.

So lost, and feeling loveless, I
Wondered long into the night,
With nothing left to warm my heart --
For my burning joy had smoked them all.

I decided that I was not loved;
From me she stole the very last
Inch of thought, and sleep, and cigarette
And not a thank you, from her lips, did pass.

I awoke to find myself alone,
Her presence preserved in mountainous ash;
And beside me where she used lay,
Was a house made out of cigarettes --
Graffiti'd with a note which read:
"A pack for every one you gave."
Shane Oltingir May 2014
The drunken poet drinks his strife:

He stumbles, falls, and tumbles rhythm;

Vomits verse unto the ground --

That he cleans up in the morning --

Before passing it off as poetry.
Shane Oltingir May 2014
One day, I swear, you will regret this
She said in a contemptuous snarl,
Gnawing at my ego with a ******* zeal,
Clawing at my love-drunk smile.

One day, I smiled, drink in hand,
At the feral beast whom ravaged my smile,
For now its tame, and strives to play,
In the garden with my wife and child.

I do not regret a thing.
Next page