Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
Ryan Apr 2018
With what could have been...but will never be
Nevermore...
With what will become...I will never be
Forevermore...
I will live with my consequences
I will suffer in silence
Her chamber door...
I’ll watch as she sleeps
Her sheets wet from sweat
My dear Lenore...
With the pitch black at my back
I’ll look to the past to fix my future
Forever on...
Who am I to you? We’ll just ignore
Sleep now child the one I most adore
I wish to stop you from aging
Keep you at twelve I must implore
Your nieve movements pale skin so perfect
On this winter night your the one I adorn
With a swift slit of the wrist
My wish can come true
To have you to keep you to hold you my Lenore
Your hand in mine I’ll smile while I realize I’ve become so much more...
It’s not done yet
she blew me
an
kiss

it
flew
through
the
circle

in
be
tween
her fingers
she blew
me
?






...
..
.
who was
chunking
...
..
.
Though a wimpy, tiny, and puny
(smaller than a breadbox) Ogre
whereat my portable minuscule
fingerhut size adobe abode ex
posed to Strunk and White raw
grammatical elements of style,

I counted Flip (Wilsonian) view,
to camouflage myself anytime
and anywhere as significant add
vantages. The obvious down side
(i.e. severe limitations to pull off

major coup) forced me to axe
paunches pilot while taking a chopper
if I van nah miniaturize daring deed
(done dirt cheap) reconfigured,

retouched, recorded by Das scribe
named Magnum Opus. Indeed,
this chance to golong (equivalent
of Olympic gold) foretold peering
into granule size barren crystal ball.
Preliminary steps undertaken

to pull off impossible mission;
mo' difficult than a blind man
taking eighty steps to Honah
infiltrating 70+ shades of gray area

prime Donald Trump real estate.
A priority prevailed to act on
the QT (q-tip) lest cover get blown,
and suspicious communique encrypted
to gal lobe trotting henchmen.
Urgency spurred daring deed,
cuz targeted subject in question

(majority population counted
as debouched, delirious, and
demonstrably dangerous
demagogue, in short a "FAKE"
president! Security details
(like stray cats on the prowl),

could sniff out ploy to re
program depraved, deranged,
and detached supposed Master
at helm. His audacity, effrontery,
and isolationist iffy ideology
placed him squarely as half baked
cookie monstrosity against

United States Commander in Chief.
First order of business necessitated
tranquilizing this doughty, haughty
enemy of the Lumpenproletariat!

Renown chemist friends of mine
(actually War tin buddies) alias
Diet Coke and/or Diet Pepsi
secured an ampule Taj Mahal

~ circa 1631vintage. One ampule
viz pill could knock out a giant –
sans, Jack and the beanstalk fame.
No ifs, and or bots, the secret
got pulled off without spilling

figurative (jelly) beans. Once
inside auditory labyrinth, I
immediately noticed striking
deus ex machina ***** riot ting
resemblance to microscopic cave.
A thick baad *** sieve sludge
of cerumen sis tah

(waxy substance) deaf finitely
posed an initial dilemma,
which audio slave solution
entailed collaboration to build
a toothpick fence. Pensiveness

unexpectedly found subject
reflexively scratching, poking,
and jabbing inadvertently
finding me toward ground zero.
Paul-Dieter Feb 2018
Revolted fading decay
Did pursuade,
Like blood on the shore,
To write with the blackness of my heart
And with hope nevermore

The black ink blooms on paperback,
With the heart that spurts its veins
Accross the page
Growing into its darkness and pains

The white fading,
drimpel, dubbed unpailing
With the words posing as potent but poison
Possesed in perfect form of pretence...

The Words so falsly true...
The words bleeding out, "I love you"
Tribute to Edgar Poe. The poem tells the story about a writer who utterly despises love, but when he himself gets tangled in it, he gives in and writes a letter expressing his feelings towards his love interest...
sunprincess Feb 2018
Wonder if I'll ever be a poet
like Emily Dickinson,
Sylvia Plath, Christina Rossetti

The great Edgar Allan Poe,
William  Shakespeare
or even Robert Frost

I'm beginning to think not
Cause none of their muses
ever come to visit me

I'm sorry I have no idea
Where those two roads led
diverging into a yellow wood
Hannah Zedaker Jan 2018
Dead,
the day before yesterday.
Grieved by it, personally,
Reputation: few or no friends
Suggested art - lost its erratic stars
A dreamer! Dwelling in ideal realms
                          -the brain-
Madness

Melancholy

Indistinct curses with eyes upturned, already ******.
Happiness wit hglances introverted, shrouded in gloom,
arms wildly beating spirits - sought to forget
close by,
those glimpses
open to the doom of death
I pulled these lines from the Obituary of Edgar Allen Poe to construe a poem that I feel has both a theme of its own but draws aspects from Poe's life as well.
Star BG Jan 2018
What happens when you take a child’s ear
and shape it with Poe and Shakespeare's talent?

What happens when one grows exposed to
delicate musical and grand memories?

What happens when child’s mind is filled
with great aspirations from knowledge of many topics?

What happens is...
a divine, sacred, smart and grifted poet,
meant to grace the world.

Meant to be an avatar in life.
carving other ears splendidly.
Inspired by Jeannie Kristufek Hawrysz a grand poet Thank you.
ConnectHook Nov 2017
LO! Death has reared himself a throne

In a strange city lying alone

Far down within the dim West,

Where the good and the bad and the worst and the best

Have gone to their eternal rest.

There shrines and palaces and towers

(Time-eaten towers that tremble not!)

Resemble nothing that is ours.

Around, by lifting winds forgot,

Resignedly beneath the sky

The melancholy waters lie.

No rays from the holy heaven come down

On the long night-time of that town;

But light from out the lurid sea

Streams up the turrets silently —

Gleams up the pinnacles far and free —

Up domes — up spires — up kingly halls —

Up fanes — up Babylon-like walls —

Up shadowy long-forgotten bowers

Of scultured ivy and stone flowers —

Up many and many a marvellous shrine

Whose wreathed friezes intertwine

The viol, the violet, and the vine.

Resignedly beneath the sky

The melancholy waters lie.

So blend the turrets and shadows there

That all seem pendulous in air,

While from a proud tower in the town

Death looks gigantically down.

There open fanes and gaping graves

Yawn level with the luminous waves;

But not the riches there that lie

In each idol’s diamond eye —

Not the gaily-jewelled dead

Tempt the waters from their bed;

For no ripples curl, alas!

Along that wilderness of glass —

No swellings tell that winds may be

Upon some far-off happier sea —

No heavings hint that winds have been

On seas less hideously serene.

But lo, a stir is in the air!

The wave — there is a movement there!

As if the towers had thrown aside,

In slightly sinking, the dull tide —

As if their tops had feebly given

A void within the filmy Heaven.

The waves have now a redder glow —

The hours are breathing faint and low —

And when, amid no earthly moans,

Down, down that town shall settle hence.

Hell, rising from a thousand thrones,

Shall do it reverence.
The Dim West . . .
(more like Dhimmis, ha ha ha )

written by Edgar Allan Poe
Colm Nov 2017
I could dry my skin and be like the bark
As one day I may sprout like a tree
Once again
But never in the moments to pass
Can I survive and be content
With thoughts that aren’t mine
Even if conjured up for a good cause

Because I write for the mind
As I am of the mind
And though I love the natural pass
The whim of the willow and waves which crash
Know this about me
I am as selfish as any human can be
So please appreciate it when it’s for you

Because most of the time my prose are for me
It is what it is. (:
Next page