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Eleanor May 8
How ridiculous it is
to think me and you
there was never a reason to be true
where did everything end up
im outside and youre blue
i paint portraits and poems
he wouldn't like this. god. cobain. he wouldnt like this
jack **** is what i got
some compliments that didnt add up
you want nothing and thats still a lot
where do we even end up
this isnt what i wanted
we dont mesh, the colors on your collar
and the taste of my breast
was there somehow out there you felt the insecurity of my flesh
i hear birds chirp now, your season gone
i ask myself how i let things get so wrong
play acoustic ill fall asleep
fast and weak i take a seat
wish again you were here with me in this park
next to the street
i feel you even when youre not here
not sure if its really you or a ghost i feel near
i want you to be what you can never have
you want me for my years on letterman
wheres your angle
you do nothing for free
you aint jack ****
dont **** with me
i watched too many courtney love interviews tonight, if that ***** can play guitar me the **** too.
Nigdaw Jun 2019
Member of the 27 club, too young to die
Too fast to live, only lent to us
A break in the clouds that let some light in,
Original flash of inspiration jumping
From my radio to shout, music isn't dead
Too soon to leave us only wanting more
Sharon Talbot Aug 2018
Fingerprints and fibers,
Accumulated talk,
Whispers in the corners,
Bodies demarcated in chalk
On the marble courtroom stairs.
His misery became a pall.
With mourning signs in splattered pairs,
Red flowers on the wall.

All that he had left behind was grief
And powerless rage,
A Tansu chest in high relief,
A coiled brass clock fatigued with age.

Retreating to a white house in Simrishamn,
He’d walk his dog along the shore,
Find sterile clues amongst the sands,
And travel a ferry between two lands.

And now: An experiment! Blame Google Translate for this weird (?) Swedish translation: Please tell me if this is a bad translation!

Fingeravtryck och fibrer,
Ackumulerat samtal,
Viskar i hörnen,
Kroppar avgränsad i krita
På marmor rättssal trappor.
Hans elände blev en pall.
Med sorgsignaler i splatterade par,
Röda blommor på väggen.

Allt som han hade lämnat var sorg
Och maktlös raseri,
En Tansu bröst i hög lättnad,
En spolad mässingsklocka utmanad med åldern.

Att återvända till ett vitt hus i Simrishamn,
Han skulle gå sin hund längs stranden,
Hitta sterila ledtrådar bland sandarna,
Based on the show and novels of Henning Mankell, "Wallander", an existential, chronically depressed detective from Ystad, Sweden, is unable to leave his police work at the office. He alienates everyone and loses anyone who gets close. In the end, he is left burdened with Alzheimer's and tragic memories.

Och resa en färja mellan två länder.
Baserat på showen och romanen Henning Mankell, "Wallander", kan en existentiell kronisk deprimerad detektiv från Ystad, Sverige, inte lämna sitt polisarbete på kontoret. Han alieniserar alla och förlorar den som kommer nära. Till sist lämnas han av Alzheimers och tragiska minnen.
Henry Koskoff Dec 2017
taupe is the hue
that comes to mind

when two chords
are played in pairs
four times
which makes eight movements

then the words come
but they don't arrive
or completely appear
they merely peek
from behind the stone wall
of the bass
muffled and shrouded
by some dull amber liquid

it is Kurt
and he speaks of his home
of Oregon
in all of its earthy moisture

and then when the chorus arrives
the spectacle of violins
and the tangibility of his words
is lucid enough to paralyze
and lay to rest
Hayley Rena Dec 2017
Raised by
Kurt Cobain anger,
low grunge in earbuds
make it easier to ignore the mass of loud kids in the halls,
Hope they stay away.
For me? Socializing will drain you.

Raised by
Amy Winehouse.
Big winged eyes but,
her voice was bigger.
Showed me how to close doors,
and what hides behind them.
For love is a losing game,
yet we end up addicted anyways.

Raised by
The Beatles.
60s pop and rock,
Oh! Darlin’ they are good!
Taught me to think for myself
and let some things be.

Raised by
Cage The Elephant.
Showed me the world is
cold, cold, cold.
Cause there ain’t no rest for the wicked!
I’ll always find
trouble on my left
and to my right.

Raised by
Earl St. Clair
I might not have what I want,
but I got what I need.
And some don’t have a three story home
to feel alone in.
You just gotta deal with the pain,
before it deals with you.
Written// Sept. 20th, 2017
This was a class assignment so I know this one is a little cheesy. We had to write a poem about what has raised us wether it be experiences, music, family, beliefs, etc. Still worth sharing.
Eva Ellen Aug 2017
A man once told me, "Never write a movie where a man is left shouting after a woman who is sure to return"

I was raised by wolves and Don Quixote
lead with(in) the heart; regret with(in) the brain
dead weight hangs hungry in my chest
I see fear creep in my knees
my teeth are looking to be tested
my skin is stained like a constellation capricorn gemini pisces
I am my own galaxy:
only porcelain angels looking over me
backstage pass to my caterpillar identity crisis
My imagination (machinations of muddled emotions) was waiting for someone like you

His laugh rattles my subconscious and decomposes my rigor mortis
kiss youmeus like your tongue was made of money
finger me as much as I do my hair
I like sinking into your mind; it's warm in here
Eggs&Baco;;
bread & butter
you're the apple pie to my adam's apple (with all the cavities)
I'm a headless chicken framing instant coffee amber memories
ice cream melts the closer I get to the sun...

It rained today.
Some statues talk, some people have nothing to say;
who will you dip in gold and call your temple?
Why does it have to be art and not just us?
you're just another outlet mall; your sheep are in Leeds
the shoes are from your closet and I need reupholstering
my feet will go where they dare but
the yellow brick road is turmeric and
shame
I'm on a deserted island and all I see are birds
all my doors have a neon EXIT sign
It began and ended with the Space Odyssey-

"Martha!"
sarah s Jun 2017
im a lot like kurt cobain
when i am done writing something that seemed beautiful as i formed it
i begin to really depsise it
i am a lot like kurt cobain
overly humble, a bit too sensual
i am a lot like kurt cobain
i speak loudly but i talk slowly
i am a lot like kurt cobain
i am mild, and peaceful
i am a lot like kurt cobain
i dont have a gun
i was inspired to write this when listening to "come as you are"
Nikki Pingrey Mar 2016
The ****** poet mainlines inspiration by the gram.
chasing away the gnawing emptiness.
Fill the void with creations formed in pain, molded in your likeness
to keep at bay the loneliness.
The ****** poet and his muse paint the world in inebriated metaphors.
Burnt spoon blackened souls gather on the fringes.
Creating living seas of tortured, tumultuous shadow.
The end comes like an implosion.
Destruction turned inward one last time.
Not a result of action,
but of choices made in moments of self-loathing
when the ******’s muse was nowhere to be found.
There once was a man named Beowulf
Who was fiercer than a demon or werewolf
Except that he had a flaw
A dragon made him mortally sore
This prologue is prophetic
To the ending of this epic
So I’ll tell you more


Beowulf made his mind up at twenty-three
He would race his friend to swim across the sea
But fighting many sea monsters is quite trial
Beowulf only caught up in the final mile


Poor Beowulf, fierce as a werewolf
His equal would be hard to find
Though Breca nearly beat him
He managed to defeat him
But he would make up his mind


Beowulf made his mind up in his head
He would battle Grendel until one was dead
But even though his strength could cause a lot of harm
Beowulf only severed Grendel’s left arm



Poor Beowulf, fierce as a werewolf
His equal would be hard to find
Though Grendel he had saddened
Beowulf wasn’t gladdened
And he would make up his mind


Beowulf made his mind up then and there
He’d **** Grendel’s mother in her watery lair
Although the angry tarn-hag had put up a fight
Both monsters were beheaded that very night


Poor Beowulf, fierce as a werewolf
His equal would be hard to find
He took a child and mother
Like Cain had killed his brother
But he had made up his mind



Beowulf made his mind up when he was old
To slay a raging dragon of whom he’d been told
But Beowulf couldn’t deal with the dragon’s fire
And he was later burned atop a funeral pyre


Poor Beowulf, fierce as a werewolf
His equal would be hard to find
He once was a great hero
And now his worth is zero
But he would make up his mind
A parody song/poem I wrote a couple of years ago when studying the Beowulf epic.
Kurt LaVacque Jan 2016
I'm not afraid of the way we use to lay
All alone, in the dark
When we used to stay up late

Whispering, kissing, loving
Holding each others hand as we fall blissfully into nothing
Not knowing whether we’d wake up in this bed
Or in another book waiting to be read

We speak softly keeping our touches on the edge of our seams
Creeping ever so softly until we’re too tired to sleep
Your grip is tighter, your breath is heavy,
My heartbeat races, and we’re getting sweaty

When I lay with you I don’t wish to sleep
The touch of your waste, your lips, your taste
Watching the stars collide in the reflections of your glistening green eyes
Holding you is too nice to waste

The way your touch sends shivers down my spine
Like 10,000 hits of ecstasy molecules running through my mind
It trickles out my pours and into yours
Leaving you with the feeling of my glittery warmth

We cuddle, we hold, and we stop
Now Im afraid
Because now sleep is stealing us away
For tonight is almost done
But before we fall blissfully into nothing
I just want you to know a little something….something….

I feel you…
I want you…
I love you….
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