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All great minds have been called insane .. Superfluous indulgence in petty day's gossip is not where human consciousness is supposed to find it's grave_Indeed ! They know not .. the beauty of the other side ..A place not easily accessible ... A bridge not visible.. The ladder too steep .. Or maybe hidden in plain sight !They see not ! They care not !
They just continue in their petty herds !
Of everyday groceries !
And predictable backbitchings !
How shallow, how very shallow !
Written to depict my dislike for the flawed existence we live everyday.
Amaranthine Apr 7
Howling whirlwinds hummed poesy
Through those raven orbs, little hazy
Thundered silence at just one glance
Verses slipped, words tripped, can't wait
Sang me lullaby to the death

Arising beams of sweet relief,
Veiled darkness of hunting grief
I was a prey dwelled in the trance
Swift still slow in the dusts of the breath
Sang me lullaby to the death

Buried my psyche in smokes of the glory
But my ghost invaded tremor of mystery
Beaten the old me to reincarnate new stance
Melody lured me into capricious faith
Sang me lullaby to the death

Waived grave for my wings by my dream-art
Stained my tomb hot red by squeezing my heart
Dumped under scented roses to leave no chance
Oh those raven orbs pilgrimed me to the hell of fate
Sang me lullaby to the death
Shea Jan 2019
My Grandma told me,
About a poem she wrote
About a sunset on the
Key West shore
Painting poems to be
Ethereal and bright,
Full of beauty and
Delight.
Which they are,
But

Here I sit,
Writing poems
About how much I'd love
To die.
Or writing poems
About what's inside my mind
Which seems to be
Terrible,
Dark and
Telling me to be
At the end of bights.
Lonely nights I've spent
Spend days travelling down
My brain to my pencil,
Tracing backwards
Symbols to conform to.
Writing these words
Like child's play to
Nightmares.

So tell me,
What's the real meaning of poet?
Sunsets or an experience
Making poetry
Or poesy your only catharsis?
I think or hope it's both
But either way
Like most folks,
I still don't know what the hell
I'm talking about.
Morningstar dazzling my chamber
with shades of amber, I arose to the aroma of coffee,
and felt the bleeding ink in my veins
seeking for papyri to scrawl
my enduring love
for poesy !!
©shadeofalonelygirl
annh Jan 2019
I am Bic Pentameter
Bic Pentameter is my name
Rhythm is my business
Time management is my game

Short, Long & Sons employ me
To tidy up their verse
The satirists are not too bad
But Catullus is a curse

I have danced with Sappho
Brought Shakespeare home for tea
Swapped pretty tales with Byron
Bounced da Padova on my knee

Marlowe picked a fight for nought
Auden spiked my drink
Wordsworth was insomnolent
He never slept a wink

Yeats, now there's an anecdote
Worthy of the press
The critic's choice by all accounts
The brightest and the best

But listen to me prattling on
To my work I must attend
Performance, prosody, poesy
The rules of scansion do not bend

For metre is all important
When reciting off by heart
The classic works of yesteryear
And I shall play my part
Iambic pentameter - a line of verse with five metrical feet, each consisting of one short (or unstressed) syllable followed by one long (or stressed) syllable.
Star BG Nov 2018
Where would a poem be,
without a readers eyes?
The glowing ***** that lead one to pool of soul.

Where would a poesy be, without inquisitive eyes?
The obe’s that pulsate to expand and explore written word.

Where would a sonnet be,
without eyelets that focus divinely?
The optics that have power to shift words into consciousness.

Where, oh where would a poem be,
without gazing eyes shaped like sun?
The vision seeds, that shine to cast their view upon a dream.
It came while chatting with  Jayantee Khare  Thanks JK
Shea Nov 2018
I'm searching but I can't find
A single life
That wants to deal with mine.
Shea Nov 2018
My mind is filled with scraps of poetry
The words he owes to me
I will never get back
The fact I failed to submit
Shows I'm only bones
And the range of the water
I have been given
Has out lived the living
But the waves of the yesterdays
Like blue days of a dream
The scheme of things have played out
My food for thought
Was laid out
On the couch where we said
Monsters hide at night in bed
And tell you to give up the dream
Of winning faith and dying clean
And if the thing of things must be
The living clean
The way I live
Or never have lived
Could not hold up the way of the shiv
And if the living hope to live
Or love or all
Then washing over once was dry
Will flood the eyes of beggars choicey
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