I scratch the neon paper with thoughts in my mind-
The way you scathed laboured wood under dim candle light.
Clueless to my aptitude the falsity of what is new
What I know is- You, not you but your marvelous craft-
papyrus paper and pen, quill to bound book.
What makes a poet? I really do not know.
i wish i’d bled enough;
my wrists — sore from scratching,
from trying to crawl
out of this treacherous skin
my lungs — dry from screaming.
my lips — chapped from chanting prayers;
one for each gravestone in my brain —
for a single name.
and i wish i’d bled enough —
died an enough number
to never die again,
but my wrists, they still have spaces for my wounds
and my mind, it still has spaces for my tombs
and tonight, i will hold funerals
for the parts of me that bled to death,
for the parts of me that in the caskets lie
and for those that still
are yet to die.
The world is made of mystery
as wild as the dunes
where secret spirits gather
and grasses whisper psalms.
My guesses cannot run as fast
nor can ideas fly
to catch all that amazement
floating upwards toward the sky.
This universe enormous,
its distances unknown.
Its stars and moons and planets
live in their spacious home,
but all that can belong to us
is life and death alone.
Same meter as Emily Dickinson used, that is tetrameter followed by trimeter
There’s this crazy house but
Where? No one really knows.
And it’s full of poems, not a line of prose.
And even though the sky’s the roof
all the doors are closed.
She keeps the whole place clean
and neat so anyone can see
that what she’s really after is Possibility.
For this is the Dickinson rag, yea, yea,
this is the Dickinson rag.
There was that carriage, sweet and slow -
Sunday driver – stop and go.
He picked her up along the way -
It seems it was the end of day,
and they drove to some strange mound -
damp and musty, underground.
Was her gossamer gown a bit transparent?
Cause the guy’s intentions weren’t apparent.
I guess she really liked the ******
Cause she wrote him poems in great number.
For this is the Dickinson rag, yea, yea,
This is the Dickinson rag.
Her characters are really weird -
Those roses “out of town?”
Wish I’d gone along with them –
but I got no scarlet gown.
Yea, Emily, your verses rock,
but I know I’m not alone
In not quite understanding
what means “zero to the bone”.
And that’s the Dickinson rag, yea yea,
that’s the Dickinson rag.
Death is the thing which withers
The tale that is all told -
And is the moon the world obscures -
And never stops - at all -
And slowest - from the veil - is stirred -
Her new and ancient form -
That holds through night and day interred
Within the heavy storm -
I’ve held her in the grimmest hands -
And yet she spoke to me -
I’ll - never - in eternity
And more than life - of thee
Obviously, I wrote this poem using the rhythm and rhyme pattern of Emily Dickinson's famous "Hope is the Thing with Feathers". I hope that isn't cheating.
I am poetry.
My back is the spine.
My arms turn into the cover.
My fingers smooth into pages.
The prints printed on my thumbs bleed words.
I am a poem,
Every single part of me.
I am all the thoughts the human race has ever had.
I am the mother, I am the dad.
When you want a piece of poetry to feed your mind—
I'll peel the layers off my thumb, ‘til they form sentences,
I'll bend my fingers back, back until they turn into stanzas,
I'll snap my arms crooked, ‘til they cry out titles,
I'll arch my back, and screech as they brand me with the name of my owner.
I am a haiku.
The original OG.
You can't handle me.
I am a sonnet,
Betrothed to Shakespeare.
Like a kid learning his alphabet, and he gets stuck on G:
My couplets are more star-crossed than Romeo and Juliet could ever be.
I am T.S Eliot here to sing you love songs—
Don’t you cast me to The Waste Land.
I am Maya Angelou ‘bout to free the bird from its cage—
And still I rise.
I am Emily Dickinson finally stopping for death—
You can’t **** me.
I am living, breathing poetry.
My veins bleed poetry—fear this blood.
My eyes cry poetry—see these words.
My shampoo brand is poetry—feel these curls.
And take up the pen.
Poetry is our oxygen.
Let us all breathe it in.
Our words will save this nation.
From a simple sentence to a conversation.
We are poetry.
We will save the world.
You are poetry.
You can change the world.
I am poetry.
Use me to save this world!
And when I finally die,
I'll be reincarnated into a tree.
I'll be turned into pages for the next poets to use.
And when they do—
I'll be free.
Charles (Tennyson) um, Turner wrote for sense
Of April's playful hours, but who t'avail
Set down those languished moments chill'd exhale
Through til we hugged that cuppa in defense,
And looked out on the misty hours pretense
Tricked out to suit our fancy, sweaters bail,
Nor thought it but delightful as the pale
Eye of these region clouds forswore what hence?
Perchance the fragile warmth we cherished too
Much, was it? Em'ly Dickinson in poor
Scuse was not thankful of soft joys, cuz her
Dear longing for--was't romance far more true
Than zephyr whispers? chilled her soul as twere.
I can't decide if she was right 'non, too.
NOTE: pretending is the theme for April 2019, if you read MY work.
nobody get hurt
We just project
redirect the blame
and sink back
with coping devices
of mass distraction
The artificial womb
of the masses
Tethered by an invisible
feeding us way
Like hungry ghosts
the next notification
We can’t run.
We can’t hide.
There’s a threat to survive,
But we’re so ******* desensitized
Seduced by the school shooter
we don’t hear him coming
singing siren songs
heart-beating shotgun blasts
in sync with
The American Horror Story allegory
Just forget it
Too much in the queue
Too many new things
We can’t reject this reality
It’s really ******* broken
Em, I’m sorry we’re descending
Much Madness has lost its meaning
It’s just the means to
unlock an achievement
Emulate another scumbag.
romanticize a villain
amplify the bodycount
Like how many do you need to ***** out
before they give you the cover
of the Rolling Stone?
Stranger than satire.
The Judge, the jury
cut all your losses for ya
cashed in your lil tax deductions
The most sacred snuffed out
before the light could become them
Get woke a-f,
This is enlightenment!
Come on get
your mind blown!
He’s the one who loves
to shoot his gun
But he knows not what it means
knows not what it means.
Do you know what it means?