If Poetry was cornered,
and about to be scorched alive
he would stand still and strong
despite the quivering fear inside.

His murderers would begin to sneer,
watching Death dangle minutes away,
and torcher him before they'd say:
"Any last words, on your last day?"

He'd swiftly swing open,
his delicate pages aflutter
as their wretched smiles
start to crack and sputter,
in shock at the boldness
of being openly sighted
and so very vulnerable
to being instantly ignited
just to save the great works
of all the world's poets,
who poured out their hearts
so purposefully in pen.

They'd see pieces of Poe,
about to exist Nevermore.
The words of Angelou,
with emotion in store.

Frost and Untaken Roads
that now all lead to Death.
Wordsworth's wisest words,
soon to take a final breath.

Eliot and The Wasteland
will find one another soon.
Not even sad Shakespeare
is going to last till' noon.

As the observing evildoers watched,
Poetry paused on a piece prepared:
"Because I Could Not Stop for Death,"
to which they remorsefully stared.

What a shame it would be,
said proud Poetry,
to let these legacies die.
the spirits of every poet
will haunt you if you try!

The mob looked at one another,
and quickly fled the scene,
leaving the ending as happy as
A Midnight Summers Dream!

Vanity lights.
Production sets.
Heat on high.
Dim lit.
Fame is all in your head.

Truffles in the air.
Wine stained carpets.
Knife over the bed.
Lipstick bruises.
The low numbers aren't fair.

A throbbing migraine or two.
Smoke envelopes the halls.
Hushhh, play another lullaby.
Of course not all dreams come true.
There'll always be a new one, more than you.

Short lives
Always left wondering
What new songs
Could they be singing?

Short lives

Smashing jail house rock
For 42 years
Released in 77
Felt like I'd died and gone to heaven

Short lives

I'm getting it on
When I stare through
My corkscrew hair

Short lives

Taken to soon
Keith first man on the moon

Short lives

27 times
Waiting for Jimi's new rhymes

Short lives

No funny games
Buddy don't fly them plains

Short lives

An old poet called Jim
Still has the occasional
Whisky or gin

Long lives
Imagine playing mind games forever?

Money is somewhat, like Water.
As it flows, thru Our Hand.
The minute U begin to chase it,
It ends up, in no Man's Land.
Money is somewhat, like Water.
As it passes, thru Our Fingers.
The more We keep working for it,
the more it makes Us Linger.
Money is somewhat, like Water.
When grasped in Our Hands.
The firmer, We begin to hold it.
The more, it Withstands.
Money is somewhat, like Water.
It pours for the Famous and Rich.
For a Guy like Me, chasing it.
I end up, falling in a Ditch.

I see you there grasshopper,
you're famous, don't you know,
Often when spied on thickets,
mistaken for crickets,
but no more,
you've made yourself quite clear,

You appear in dreams,
"Freedom, independence, enlightenment,
inability to settle down,
So it seems,

Your family's ancestors come from the early Triassic, roughly back 250 million years ago,

John the Baptist ate locusts,
wild honey too,
Still people denied you,
False claims,
YOU,
A vegetarian food,
HA!
ignorant of truth,
Blinded to the fact that
ἀκρίδες means plenty of you,

So bask in the sun,
feeling heat,
acceleration of heart rate,
watching with your 5 eyes,
When a spider comes along,
you can be ready to run,
shall I say ready to lunge.

Author Ven J Arnold
( SacredInkedBlood

One day my young niece was showing me some photos of herself and her
  friends on her phone
She had loads and loads of these photos
I was thinking to myself I don't think anyone's taken a photo of me in forty
  years,
Then I thought what'd happen if I got famous and someone wanted to write
  my biography (would be a short book)
And they'd say Give us some of your old photos to stick in the Book
And of course, I'd have a problem, I'd have no photos to give them,
Then I remembered there was this Novelty Joke shop in town
They had a great collection of all these different kinds of wigs
I thought maybe I could buy a few wigs then stage a few photos
Pretend they were from earlier days,
Yea, I could get an Elvis wig with the sideburns, I could say that was my
  Rockabilly stage
Then I could get a big Long Hair wig and say That was my Hard Rock
  phase,
I could get a Mohican wig and say Well that was what I looked like when I
  was a Punk Rocker
And Hey! Maybe I could get one of those lovely big blonde Dolly
  Parton type wigs
I could say
"Well that Summer I was listening to a lot of Country music".

I even read
your famous poems
that many people
have read.

I even read
it many times
and got lost
in it.

I even thought
I might
easily remember
all the titles
of your poems
in every word
and I have also
been able to
understand it
little by little.

I even started
writing poetry
for myself.

I even sat
for a long time
just to think of words.

I even want
to be like you
or maybe more.

“Am I enough
to be able to achieve
what you once
achieved?”,
I tell you
in front of
these poems
of mine.

“I want to be myself”,
he told me in this poem
now you're
reading.

She wanted to travel
Unravel the world
Like famous explorers
Who's wandering was all the will to ask
If there was anything beyond the horizon
That they could see.

Now shes everywhere -

Frozen stare, pigtails and grey red uniform,
Tie needling south with the straightness of a compass
And shes lost.

Where is she?
Everywhere anyone turns
Trapped in the undergrowth
Where cans and cat **** go to pasture
Her wrinkled smile
Is caked onto the branches
Paper machet - ed and as brittle
As an old map.
She breaks apart like bread crumbs
That will never lead her home.

Have you seen her?
Not tumble weeding her news
Across the m2
Or pinned to a lamppost
Weeping her ink into the missing
like a watercolour.

Have you spied her?
Not tied with weak ribbon
to brown stalks who's little
Notes speak of hope
And other things, like Angel's and innocence,
The innocence shes frozen in.

Can you find her?
Not hopefully
Flying her flag of the forgotten
On the tv
Budget crew
Remaking her last seen
With shaking cameras
And discount queens of the smaller screen
Hoping for Hollywood.

Is there a tangible
Left to her name
Thrown as it has been across
State lines, and small places
That only the locals know.
She has Columbus - ed the globe
And she only left home
Walked down her drive
And disappeared.