After a hard days thinking Isaac fell asleep under an apple tree, Woken with a jolt, with a sharp kick to the groin, Oi! this is private land, and don’t threaten me with gravity! Gravity? sounds interesting, sadly the weary road I must re-join.
Listen mate you kept on muttering it, gravity! gravity! Not a clue, sorry no offence intended, my mind wobbles, Best clear off sharpish! otherwise t’Squire will have it in for thee, Off he went with a smirk and a wink, and lots of stolen apples!
Stopped to admire the Squire’s smart, nearly finished stable, Enjoying a muncheon-break, he was felled by a flying brick, Carried comatose into Smug Hall, was laid out on a billiard table, Right on cue sat bolt upright, send for the cook and be quick!
After furtive mutterings, eureka! the apple pie was invented! Later in a violent storm took shelter, under a handy apple tree, Crushed by a falling bough, sadly death could not be prevented, Body barely warm his last whispered words, gravity! gravity!
Poor Sir Isaac did sort of discover gravity, what a tragedy! But claimed instead by Squire Smug of Smug Hall, Not always wise to totally trust taught history! It was on my land! Smug smugly proclaimed to one and all.
we sing our love— are we in the same key? the notes seem to fall flat our hearts are missing chords why can’t I ever match your tempo? the harmonies sound dissonant— as if we’re doing our own solos we dance, trying not to step on each other but somehow we are always a little offbeat
Like ships in the night we pass - side by side - not breaking our stride, not looking left, not gazing right, barely glimpsing each other, like light- houses, signals blinking brightly.
For the longest time we were alone still are, no change tonight, we won't; I've felt your presence long ago, it was a silent gift.
How did we not recognize each other after screaming for so many hours? Listening to your soft cries (your blue eyes), Norwegian wood between us guards your lies - you pretend to be rich and pretty; I know you're just the janitor of the ferry. The first mate, the captain, all remotely far away and you're all that's left - you are the second best.
Thankfully I'm not picky, I don't care if you're not pretty, I only need to see your hands and heart - the rough patches are a part - of you, of me, of all the world, and you're so out of reach, of sight, and I know that it won't feel right; despite that we shouldn't feel alone tonight. And you have a wife-
and I know but I don't care. You won't hesitate to stare, and I can feel your bitter look upon my back, the fingers that won't touch my neck no matter how much I beg and plead for you to take me and love me, unconditionally, before I fall into the sea, the water claiming me fully, the waves brutally forcing me under themselves, generously, drowning in my bed.
different isn't a bad thing the offbeat isn't wrong everyone is special in one way or another and that's human nature we're made to be unique be ourselves in front of others that's why I love living in the offbeat
I wanna write poetry That grabs by the throat Choking, Seizing your secrets From your tasty open mouth And speechless tongue
I wanna write poetry As wild and free As this burnt out bleeding ash B l o w i n g In a soft never-ending breeze
I wanna write poetry That howls with the loneliness Of a cold shooting star On a cloudy bleached day Missing the meteor showing By a few thousand years
I wanna write poetry With odd jumps and Pauses That captures music And dance Andy everything Between the odd cacophony Of unwell put together words
I wanna write poetry That SCREAMS with the Silent fury of a Self-inflicted cage Locked by being lost and used But open yet to like minded needy hands
I wanna write poetry Not with rhymes But with the rhythm Of my off beat jazz And out of tune, Flat, Voice.
I wanna write poetry.
First poem I wrote after years of not writing at all. I'd never written poetry before this really, but I became very interested in it a few years ago, and even more so in the recent months and it was the first one I thought was alright.
the problem with poetry is that not everyone understands the crap that you are trying to convey, the message is always encrypted in cryptic code, you have to get past the firewall before you can see the
01011100110011110010101000111100101's
many of us don't have the time to pursue the purpose of a poems meaning because we are busy deciphering what the **** our own heart is trying to say while simultaneously trying make sense of it, so that we can post on hello poetry, hoping that maybe a handful of depressed poets might take the time to view it, let alone like it, or possibly even comment or **** maybe even share it, assuming we said anything of merit.
it's in our nature to ignore and call others ignorant and believe that we are intrinsicly more important.
I've been called A freak A ****** A headcase I've been told that I'm crazy I'm insane I'm bizzare I've heard my actions are Alarming Unsettling Offbeat All of this may be true But it's me.
