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WHY SHULD I LERN TO SPELL?
HELL,
NO ONE REEDS WHAT I SAY
ANYWAY!!! :(

Sing for the cool night,
whispers of constellations.
Sing for the supple grass,
the tall grass, gently whispering.
Sing of infinities, multitudes,
of all that lies beyond us now,
whispers begetting whispers.
And i am glad to also whisper . . .

I WUS HURT IN LUV I’M DYIN’
FER TH’ TEARS I BEEN A-CRYIN’!!!

i abide beyond serenities
and realms of grace,
above love’s misdirected earth,
i lift my face.
i am beyond finding now . . .

I WAS IN, LOVE, AND HE ******* ME!!!
THE ****!!! TOTALLY!!!

i loved her once, before, when i
was mortal too, and sometimes i
would listen and distinctly hear
her laughter from the juniper,
but did not go . . .

I JUST DON’T GET POETRY, SOMETIMES.
IT’S OKAY, I GUESS.
I REALLY DON’T READ THAT MUCH AT ALL,
I MUST CONFESS!!! ;-)

Travail, inherent to all flesh,
i do not know, nor how to feel,
although i sing them nighttimes still:
the bitter woes, that do not heal . . .

POETRY IS BORING!!!
SEE, IT *****!!! I’M SNORING!!! ZZZZZZZ!!!

The words like breath, i find them here,
among the fragrant juniper,
and conifers amid the snow,
old loves imagined long ago . . .

WHY DON’T YOU LIKE MY PERFICKT WORDS
YOU USELESS UN-AMERIC’N TURDS?!!!

What use is love, to me, or Thou?
O Words, my awe, to fly so smooth
above the anguished hearts of men
to heights unknown, Thy bare remove . . .

Keywords/Tags: Poetry, writing, chit, chat room, forum, website, social media, workshop, mortal, mortality, grass, multitudes, Walt Whitman, love, awe, serenity, serenities, grace, heights, Parnassus, art, spelling, grammar
Chris Saitta May 2019
The dead lie like Rome,
Like toppled sunshine in stone,
From a boy who had blown
Into the seashell of the Forum,
Heard back in restoning, the alley of home,
The narrow, basket-flowered angiportum…
But, lips too strong, let out unknown
The stone-witherings of Medusa
And the bone dust of empire.
young lassies near and far
were subjected to looking
at his personal bar

he'd stage the exhibits
on mobile phone devices
all those groinal tid-bits

exposing his wares
in a devil may care way
of indecency to the eyes
he'd frequently flay

on a particular poetry forum
the fellow can be found
advertizing his kit bag
so unedifyingly around

a sixty year old man
would in time be
getting a nab
for putting out there
his wayward
tab

somewhere inside
the Ohio state
law authorities
will pinpoint
the repugnant gate
Sara L Russell Nov 2014
----

Sunset sky
Late leaves fall
as litter flies

----

All night
awake
feels strange
I crack

Late flight
I break
I'll change
come back

----

I don't know why she never really knew me
I wish I knew why she was so unkind
And why she cut my clothes to shreds so rudely
And ripped the peace cleanly out of my mind

----

i hate myself
i hate my life
my fingers close around the knife
my cuts are mouths screaming in vain
as blood mixes with streaming rain

----

Hey lonely -
your poem ******.
Read more, get out more,
eat meat or forever hold your peas.

----

Nightfall comes
wood smoke curls
as lights go out.

----

N E 1 want 2 chat?
No?
'bye.
Notes: I wrote this in several different styles to represent several different poets in a poetry forum. Some are dreamers, one is suicidal, one is a flippant self-styled critic. The haiku poet opens and closes the night's poetry discussions, but a latecomer has the last word. Inspired by the newsgroup alt.arts.poetry.comments
Martin Narrod May 2014
The likes of you I can't describe,
Yet I love to eat between your thighs.
The melody you spake to me
Unfolds my greatest sovereignty.
I crave to quaff all of your spit,
And swallow every drop of it.
Don't cheat me of your tasty flesh,
Those bare and supple ****** *******,
Your eyes that follow my firm gaze,
While we kiss and lick and misbehave.
I need to feel each piece of skin,
Smashing girl and boy parts over and over again.
It's such a treat to eat you whole;
I'm obsessed with eating 19-year-olds.
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Jvak Mar 2014
So close, so far; so close, so far.
Only four years apart.
And here is a man who has created something that others enjoy,
but he can call his own.
Something easy, something accessible, something simple,
and he's served so many who can so easily take it for granted.
Has he money or merit or formal praise or accolade,
I know not, but fame and fame and fame,
for creating a way, a niche, a salon for the literary minded
to congregate and ventilate,
meditate and salivate,    
indeed* create [and] regurgitate.
Thanks to thee our blessed Eliot York.
Lead on; lead on.
New on here and when looking around to see what the site was all about, I read   Eliot's page, and just appreciate what he has done in building this site.

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