Your imagination is wicked,
Says an old friend on a train, I don’t even exist.
your mind takes you places
Sometimes she smiles first, asks easy questions
and acts like your responses aren’t ridiculous. She tilts her **** in your direction, exposes **** rhymes, assonance, and alliteration, and whispers something about being free tomorrow. Alone. Bored. She, like you, could use some warmth, some jokes, a good **** Other times, you’re drunk as ****, and so alone you need to take your mind off bridges, pills, plastic bags— the face in the mirror getting deeper creases than you thought possible. So you find someone who looks bored and alone and say something awkward, stupid, not funny— she doesn’t even look at you.
I'd give anything to get poems out my mind
They're putting me in a bind But in time I may come to find That they're worth something once refined
Sometimes the muses gift you with inspiration, meters tall
Sometimes they curse you with none at all. The muse's presence can be a blessing and a curse, But I'd still prefer that over the reverse
This poem’s not in
Iambic Pentameter, It is a haiku.
Old silly poem
There exists a special type of insanity,
Only known to poets And those who adore poetry. It is something that cannot be explained Or described, only experienced. And those who experience it Are never the same. They know The burning need to write and read And the comfort of finding yourself In someone else's words. This madness holds a hidden truth: No one chooses this insanity. Instead, it reaches out to those Broken, disillusioned, embittered And held captive, by life itself. I do not ask you to pity the poets, Or those captivated by poetry, But the next time you see one Ask them: Why do you love poetry? And watch as their eyes light up.
The other day, I started talking about poetry and my friends couldn't understand why I loved it so much. That conversation led to this poem
Like a tiny moth
I am drawn to these pages To perish in flame
Does a poem have to be thought out
does it take years to edit and perfect Or can it be, can it just remain, a few simple, raw lines
I wonder how many of us spend hours perfecting a poem. Or is it the raw ideas in our head that are truly the thing of beauty
Does this poem have *** appeal?
Oh don’t you know it. It’s got green eyes, dark hair, and a jawline that’s stoic. It’s thickly bearded, and has a good dress sense, audaciously flirtatious, and knows self-defence. This poem’s got thick muscly arms which look good holding babies, and skilful, strong hands which look soft for the ladies. This poem smells good even after the gym, with a gorgeous deep voice and gorgeous smooth skin. It wears tight jeans which show off its dic– tion is good, so you can hear what it’s saying. But this poem has a boyfriend— I know, how dismaying.
If you were to stab a poet
with intent to really hurt, would you be at all surprised when blood begins to spurt? You wouldn’t see a drop of ink, that’s not what’s in their veins despite what teenage “poets” say with their undeveloped brains.