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Victoria Feb 19
Once upon a midnight,windy,
Graveyard heavy, tombstone weary,
Rose a man of great renowned-
The writer of which works can be found
Classroom sat in many a volume galore.
As the news and folk declare-
The dead whose lungs again took in air,
The writer who now stood before-
T’was Poe (and raven) of “Nevermore”.

“So if it be daemon, omen, curse or hex-”
In deciding action next, he spoke forth these words of old,
“I have been given further morrow, time of which furthers my sorrow,
Yet if I may this new life borrow- borrow perhaps to bring prose more-
In the hope,to continue prose more-
Pen to paper I’ll restore.”

Many a night spent struggling to create rhymes anew,
Edgar realized how language had changed,
For **** no longer meant to slay, and his beloved had turned to bae!
On his desk the perched bird had flown-
To say these words in had it flown-
Quoth the Raven “Just use Rhymezone.”
poesuer Nov 2018
a word doesn't have to be real for it to have meaning
nothing has to be real for it to grip your stomach and throat and force butterflies into every part of your anatomy
the emotion crawls under your skin and all you can do is feel it

a woman rises in the dawn with her fiery red hair, eating men like air
you become that smiling woman, only 17 and not even a lady
dying becomes your art, and you are indeed very good at it

a man frowned like thunder and went away, the stars not needed today
you begin to pack up your very own sky, melancholy filling your entire world until it all comes to a standstill
wind does not blow and not even streetlights shine
your very own lover is still in tact, a phone call away even
but he frowned like thunder and went away

a raven, a remorse, a rapping at the chamber door
a madness, a mania, a man whose mind is gripped by loss
a horror that now belongs to you, the pigeons on the street start to quoth "nevermore,"
every crow is an omen, every bird is wandering through purgatory just to torment you,
and you have no loss to speak of

I dreamt I wrote that feeling, I dreamt I put it into words
I dreamt I transcended humanity, I dreamt I became the art
I dreamt about the feeling, I dreamt you felt it too
I've been reading a lot to get out of my writers block and this is the result. three of my favourite poems, lady lazarus by Sylvia Plath, funeral blues by WH Auden, and the raven by Edgar Allen Poe served as main inspo. I tried to make them into something new, about poetry itself and how much of an amazing art form it is. about how you don't have to empathise to be able to feel the intense emotion and power behind them. also, I know 'dreamt' isn't a word. I just like how it looks/sounds more than 'dreamed'.
Renee Danes Nov 2018
To what awaits thee,
I fear,
Death,
Death is near

Ever nearer
It so comes,
Slowly,
Mentally painful

The excessive hope
Thou tries to find
Has left, but brings
Some peace of mind

Assessing the fate
Of what horror lies
Thou ever awaits
Beautiful demise

Why beautiful
You say?
For isn't death
Much better than life?

Oh, the terrors in life
But in death is rest
And isn't death best?
Far more better than pain and strife?

Watch the deathly gleam
Of the object of your worries
Does it not calm you
To know death is close?

Or does it fuel it's decent
From your fear?
Oh, how it gets near!
Goes here, to there, to here

It's goal is you
It's purpose is true
It does not want you here,
So leave.

Leave this world!
Thou wishes to stay?!
Nay!
It will not allow you another day!

It strikes you with gladness
With every stroke it pains you,
Blood flows forth from your skin
There is no more, no more thoughts from within...
A small poem about Edgar Allen Poe's "The Pit and the Pendulum" but in this one he dies in the end.
Dev Aug 2018
I listen to the wind blow
But I do not watch for I do not know
Because of fright I do not look
I just continue to read my book
The strong howls that I hear
Seem to strike up too much fear
For it to be just a gust of air
Why do I feel such a great scare?
Ever so often the moon peeks
To show the little light I seek
I dare to glance out the window
Only to see the basic I did know
But take another look again
And there I see a chilling friend
I quickly run to lock the door
But I must glance just once more
Expectant to see the creepy stranger
Nothings there just my deepest anger
My eyes I use as such a sturdy tool
Seem to do nothing but make me a fool
I must suffer a sleepy head
So I turn back to go to bed
Than before I know it
I am dead
Written in 9th grade instead of completing homework.
All those books they made us read,
The smelly yellow-pagers
That weighed as heavy as the guilt
We felt as "zombie teenagers";

Do we remember anything?
The names of the main characters,
Or maybe, who died in the end--
Or the ones who were in pictures?

It wasn't that we hated books--
We didn't understand them;
Before the teacher's spiritless voice
Made us slowly condemn them.

"Memorize the vocab words,
And don't forget the spelling!"
Was that the point of literature?
But definitions aren't compelling.

So all those hours in English Lit,
The days spent reading Steinbeck,
Were soured by the grouchy face
Always looming over my desk.

I always wished someone would say,
"This isn't boring, here's why:"
But I was told to shut up and read
When sometimes I wanted to cry:

"I hate this story! Nobody's happy!
And everyone's messed up!
It doesn't make sense to force it on us
When we're already stressed out."

But we had to read it, because they had to read it
When they were young in school.
This book had an impact in history:
So now, reading it is a rule.

So if it's a must, that's fine, then.
But...why don't we make it fun?
Or talk about the psychology
And learn something when we're done?

A book can't be everyone's favorite.
We're all different people inside.
But please try to make us all interested
With wisdom only you can provide.
Steinbeck, Dickens, Orwell, Bronte, Fitzgerald, all those depressing writers that we were forced to read. I only liked Edgar Allen Poe, and that's saying something!
Merry Mar 2018
Poe
I’m like a knock-off Edgar Allen Poe
But instead of raving about a raven
I croon about a crow
Who comes a-fluttering
And I start my muttering
About I do not need savin’
Vijaya Balan Feb 2017
You should have been the soul that Edgar Allen Poe loved,
So that he wouldn't have died miserable and alone,
You are the Morticia to my Gomez; deadly in love,
We would make a quirky Addams family, bar none,

I love the nerds in us and the banter of annoyance,
I love the moments of radiant love and our nature of being different,
'Cause we did meet exceptionally over persistence,
And we accept each other regardless of difference,

I wish that our love will remain eternal,
Narrated by Obi-Wan,
With a theme song by John Williams,
Directed by Lucas, nah, we don't need direction,
I do know, we need a Queen, and that's you my puddin'!
Leia to my Solo,
A Queen-B-lovin'-Quinn to my Joker,
A die-hard Drake lover with a heart for the Dark Side,
This Vader loves his Amidala, xoxoxo,
We would revel on any side but the holy!
May this love never fade, and be full of surprises,
But not the kind where there is nasi lemak with no ikan bilis!
But you make the best **** nasi lemak, sigh,
I'm forever grateful for my Babloo
I'm forever grateful that you're by my side,
My Annabel Lee, I'm grateful Poe never met you,
'Cause you're all mine!
A poem dedicated to my wife.
Nicole May 2016
Upon their quivering wings,* (Fairy-Land by Edgar Allen Poe)

*small hands grasping too big stems.

little laughter carried on the wind

to beckon you inside.

tall trees fall in, collapsing.

trapped underneath the layers of sea foam green.

breathing in sun dropped laughter,

blindly stumbling through a lilac haze of unsureness.

left to the elements

and lost to the darkness of day time.

jabs left and right prevent the chance,

of wandering in the right direction.

flashes of blue wings and lithe bodies

in front of you,

just out of reach.

and their laughter is drowning you,

slipping into a sleep of the undead but not quite living.

fighting the drowsiness with the only source of strength left,

golden sun slipping through the cracks.

surfacing from the depths of insanity,

their laughter tumbling from your lungs,

able to breath again.
Ameerah Holliday Nov 2015
Shh, listen.
Did you hear it?

Its disturbing echo
inching down your spine.
Its chilling breath at the
nape of your neck.  

Snaking through my mind,
creeping in like fog.
Seeping through the floor,
spilling secrets like blood.  

Sounds of a clock
muffled by cotton.
Cloaked, it hammers
growing louder.  

Can’t you hear it?
The thumping it emits.
Shuddering through my frame,
suffocation, blame!  

It’s growing louder!
Uttering secrets only I know.
Acute are the senses
that hear its woe.  

Pounding away all thoughts,
persistent, Its haunts.
Shattering midnight it stalks,
nightmarish pillow talk.  

It grows, my skin pales.
louder and louder it wales!
A dead man’s heart yells,
telling its tale.  

Say that I am mad, do you?
If only you knew,
I hear things in hell, it’s true.
Don’t you hear it too?
Homage to Edgar Allen Poe's A Tell-Tale Heart

Copywrite 2013 Fall Aztec Literary Review, San Diego State University
Cat Fiske Jun 2015
Let this trend please, like it, share it, send it to collections, its Edgar allen poe.

www.youtube.com/watch?v=08_cqtFLQ3c

Please watch the more views I get the better chance I have to win the 1500$ prize, or audience choice, I hope I can at least be a finalist and walk away with 200$ because this is one of my favorite poems, and Its Edgar allen poe so this is related enough to share, also If I am the winner audience choice or finalist I will get featured on larger poetry sites, for my video but that can also help with my poems and soon to come movement. So please do me a favor!  

if your into making videos check out www.projected.com because winning prizes are 1000$ or more, and finalist get 200$ so why not even try if you're just getting into the video making thing, you could earn money for equipment and other stuff you may need. its also all about getting people to read again, so they do have poetry challenges for more money because for the obvious reason those are more important than books.
Edgar allen Poe Annabel lee video made for project ed contests
www.youtube.com/watch?v=08_cqtFLQ3c
www.projected.com
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