#deadpoetssociety
What has happened to us?
Not the norms that we as a society agree on
Not the laws or reforms that we used to believe in
What has happened to us?
If I ask a question 'Are you ok?'
I get 'I'm fine.'
Yet their eyes lower,
Their smile turns over,
Their words falter.
I watch everyone fit into a box.
To be a student of perfection,
And a small box online closing over them
To be a new trend
Shaming any imperfection.
**** that.
Let's take a page out of a dead society
"You must strive to find your own voice."
Oh, Mr Keatting
How many children need to hear your words today?
"Oh Captian, My Captain!"
How many people need a captain to help guide them from yesterday?
We live for today,
Not for tomorrow,
And certainly not yesterday.
Let us take a page from their society.
To be empathetic toward each other,
And to take that chance.
To no longer take a glance at the good and the bad.
To sit and talk with one another, not through a phone.
So that no one has to fall with a hole in their chest.
Apr 8
Apr 8, 2026 at 9:36 PM UTC
He lived in a world filled with writers
A generation of handsome skilled fighters
But when his father said no
And was unaware of the blow
He blew up his future like igniters
Mar 23
Mar 23, 2026 at 10:05 PM UTC
A sweaty-toothed madman-
That's what I am, I guess.
I am no Whitman fan,
My yawp, nevertheless,
Sounds loud and clear above
The heads of those who sleep.
Deviancy I love-
Conformity won't keep
Me warm, no web of lies
Can wrap as snug and tight
As the blanker truth buys.
It's cheap; Mentally light
To express who you are-
Shine honest and brightly.
Blow those shut doors ajar-
Never go quietly
Into that good, final night.
"With much impropriety,
Join us in our human fight."
-- Dead Poets Society
Mar 6
Mar 6, 2026 at 2:20 PM UTC
How anyone can watch this movie and not say
They were in love
Truly.
How anyone can watch this movie and not feel
The greatest emotions they’ve ever experienced
Truly.
How anyone can watch this movie
And not scream
And not sob
And not beg
And not grasp the people they love
Truly.
How anyone can watch this movie
And not experience
The poetry
The beauty
The love
How anyone can watch this movie and not know
This
This is what we stay alive for
Truly.
Feb 20
Feb 20, 2026 at 7:49 PM UTC
Neil
A dead poet
Did you think of him
When you took the gun?
Or was it just
My imagination
You’re just a character
Just a movie
But do you know
What you mean to me?
When I can’t stand it
And I go to grab that knife
I look at my perfect
Seamless skin
And I think of your crown
And I set the blade down
And when I take the razor
And hold it to my legs
I drop it in shock
Watching Todd run through the snow
I’m not dead
I’m not a dead poet
And I won’t be
Feb 3
Feb 3, 2026 at 8:41 PM UTC
A gun came up along the way.
Marrying you with the grave prematurely.
However, all that was needless,
As your father had already engaged you two before,
You’d been dead inside for oh so long.
Todd was right about that all along,
More perceptive than the rest.
How ironic and grotesque:
a fire burning so truly and strongly was put out
with a single blow,
How the greatest few hours of your life were made gradually
into your worst and, eventually, your end.
And how is that fair?
The curtains have been drawn,
The audience is long gone,
Yet your act won’t be in vain,
Not if I have something to say.
No, most certainly not!
You’ve become the greatest proof for all those fools
Of the power of the living word,
Of the power of a rebelled voice,
Of the immortal art of a being of poetry,
who’s the true soul of the universe.
Keating’s work became fulfilled in your choices,
The very fruit of his teachings.
You showed those mortals, that no matter
what they claim, do or inflict on you,
they could never **** you.
Neither rules, nor words nor the trigger.
You’re the champion, you’re the winner.
Altogether, we became Poetry ourselves.
No quills, paper or audience were needed,
just the world around us, our voices and passion in our eyes.
We gained the upper hand in the process of the withering,
Weaving ourselves into the tether of all the matters.
Now, no grave or unwritten memories shall restrict us or make us perish.
Never more, as art has no rules.
With all due respect, I give you back
your rightful laurel wreath.
With all your greatness you deserved that prize,
of meaning greater than just a crown of an actor;
The victory over others’ power,
Over fear to speak,
Over fear to sing,
Over fear to be.
You were a misunderstood artist, though not like those, that are many of them.
Your amalgamation of all that you were,
Though so harshly interrupted on that fateful night,
made the authorities and that cold academy see,
That it is them who let you down, not you,
That they can never quench
the call of the Life,
the truth whispered up there
among the trees,
A soul’s thriving beauty, in all the madness of the existence
The curtain’s fallen,
The audience is long gone,
But I shall commemorate you forevermore,
As a poet and artist of the Life owes it
to another of their kin.
With all the pride, honour and bitterness,
You are more than welcome,
as a true member,
in the Dead Poets Society.
- - -
As I let quote myself
in this gender observation,
based on the B. Sáenz work:
“Por eso lloramos,
Por eso reímos,
Por eso se alborota
nuestro corazón,
Y por eso vivimos”
Jun 17, 2020
Jun 17, 2020 at 4:36 AM UTC
I walk the road less travelled
For this is where i can be myself
Not one to try and change me
Not one to tell me what to do
Just me in control
I walk the road less travelled
Finding my own way through
Not one to say what i should be
Not one to tell me i did wrong
Just me deciding for my own
I walk the road less travelled
For here is room to breathe
Not one to tie me down
Not one to disagree
Just me being myself
I walk the road less travelled
Learning as i walk along
Not one to preach their beliefs
Not one to pity on my choices
Just me living my life
Just me being me
Feb 14, 2019
Feb 14, 2019 at 12:40 PM UTC
scattered thoughts
but run
ning
non-
stop
breathe--
yoga s t r e t c h,
b r e a t h e
b e h e r e,
finally figuring out
how to focus on what i have,
not the lack--
waking up to your comments
& feel a jolt,
the remembrance of what i'm working for,
or what could be
once i learn
me--
Aug 10, 2017
Aug 10, 2017 at 10:03 PM UTC
my eye lids are crack ed
flaking, an abundance of tears
leaving so frequently
a multitude at once, i know for sure
the end is nigh
but i charlie brown drag,
puff puff, no pass
and clean, straighten
in hopes of piecing together the in-
side while at it--
self-reflection looms
as i stare steadily in the mirror,
spray,
wipe,
but i know you have much to learn
& i can weather my demons
or just
flush them,
if only soul depth
could be explained as simply
as wiping away the cat hair
from the bathroom sink--
Aug 9, 2017
Aug 9, 2017 at 4:21 PM UTC
the rain streaks the house,
mist thick with sticky-sweat
like the furrow of your brow
amidst the drone of fellow worker bees
buzzing furiously in the hive, hollow--
this work we do,
this constant give
and
give,
to the corporation of fools
and zealots destined to become sheep,
however fully compensated & empty, too--
oh to have wings,
but be afraid to fly free
fast, strong & able
as a mind without a doubt, cellophane-
clear and successfully damaged
to take threatening direction,
to find the golden ticket
amongst racist Oompa-Loompas
but walk away from the true reason for being alive--
c'est la vie--
Jul 29, 2017
Jul 29, 2017 at 1:54 AM UTC
it hurts
and I chew my lips
until they’re gone,
history–
though that’s what
lipstick is for,
to press to your
collarbone and hope
it’s enough,
am I ever enough–
this dull pounding in my chest,
gets heavier, harder
so I reach out to you
I hope the demons
will accept me,
allow the gifts I bring
to reside deep within
your chest, like the bones
of your ribcage
but they blanket my words,
reduce my efforts to cinders
like the day she left me
all alone,
always alone–
--LNM
Jul 6, 2017
Jul 6, 2017 at 11:12 AM UTC
the pulse of raging flame
sitting in wait deep
within the core of light
the flicker of spark ignites,
like the screech of dead, cold metal
along your wooden floor
as I fight the need to scream
and break your vaporizer--
this slumbering dragon
sitting in my chest
with billowing wings of
emerald green and burnt-orange
like a whirlwind of autumn leaves twirling
crescent magic of destruction
pulling and pushing
this rage up and down
until the tendrils of flame simmer
and I stand on tip-toes to kiss
your soft lips, the smoke
escaping as exhaust and love, tender--
Jan 21, 2017
Jan 21, 2017 at 3:45 PM UTC
subtle sway, my dear
the way your hips
keep time under mine
as we wiggle-ripple
to the bear-growl
you breathe deep
in my ear--
Jan 16, 2017
Jan 16, 2017 at 11:17 PM UTC
the seashell glimmer
of seafoam and fir tree moss
sparkles out the corners
of your eyes
as you dimple sweetly
up at me--
I lose where I end
and you begin,
a lavish ocean of
passionate spray along the wind
of birds flying overhead
and delicate kisses mingled
amidst sheets--
i don't know
how i came to know you,
feel you so deeply a part
of me so quickly,
but I have to wonder
if the stars have
a plan in mind for us
to learn together,
beneath the radiant moon--
--LNM
(01.16.2017)
Jan 16, 2017
Jan 16, 2017 at 12:32 PM UTC
what’s this love
you write about,
this never-ending
bump and grind,
hips sway sultry beat-
box time as I make
pancakes,
sweet syrup melting
liquid brown like
those eyes,
behind me first, I pull
push, need, don’t
stop
and I’m giving your
mouth wet moisture
drop drip passion
I never stop
moaning, writhing
a vision of
curvy flesh
and goosebumps, tender
the wind rustling just outside–
marvel makes good movies
but I write rhythm ***
for words reveal
so much, so little
the perfect monotony
of heartbreak and passion
looming, so
I light up and imagine cosmic
galaxies above,
the vast comforts
of space and bedsheets,
for I’m but a simple
hunter of new things
and hidden smiles–
–LNM
Dec 1, 2016
Dec 1, 2016 at 10:27 PM UTC
carry on from the beginning
we are the alive poets society
words said by another
all we believe in is each other
secretive language all our own
passionate words among loving tales
writing words, raptureously flowing
others left completely unknowing
O captain, my captain
guide us in the ways of words
careful now, do not reveal
for they are our only seal
the only initiation
is contributing a verse
in a poem called living
or this play unforgiving
our pens speak like our tongues
writing what we wish we could say
undercover we stay, quietly
we are the alive poets society
carpe diem
May 2, 2016
May 2, 2016 at 5:26 PM UTC
carry on from the beginning
we are the alive poets society
words said by another
all we believe in is each other
secretive language all our own
passionate words among loving tales
writing words, raptureously flowing
others left completely unknowing
O captain, my captain
guide us in the ways of words
careful now, do not reveal
for they are our only seal
our pens speak like our tongues
writing what we wish we could say
undercover we stay, quietly
we are the alive poets society
Aug 27, 2015
Aug 27, 2015 at 7:35 PM UTC
And he wanted to join,
"the living poets society,"
because it was a club I was in,
and he wanted to hear my poems at my own will,
and write some of his own,
And he wanted to do it,
so he could get close to me,
*But isn't that one thing they argued about,
in the movie?*
May 25, 2015
May 25, 2015 at 3:48 PM UTC
Seize the Day
Thats what it means
Seize the Day
Such a wonderful philosophy
Carpe Diem
Such a strong phrase
Carpe Diem
I do my best to give it praise
So seize the day
What ever chance you get
Carpe Diem
Seize the day and then you're set
Nov 25, 2014
Nov 25, 2014 at 2:08 PM UTC
We don't read and write poetry because it's cute. We read and write poetry because we are members of the human race. And the human race is filled with passion. And medicine, law, business, engineering, these are noble pursuits and necessary to sustain life.
But poetry, beauty, romance, love, these are what we stay alive for. To quote from Whitman, "O me! O life!... of the questions of these recurring; of the endless trains of the faithless... of cities filled with the foolish; what good amid these, O me, O life?"
Answer: that you are here; that life exists, and identity; that the powerful play goes on and you may contribute a verse; that the powerful play goes on and you may contribute a verse. What will your verse be?
Aug 23, 2014
Aug 23, 2014 at 8:02 AM UTC
today i will stand
today i will live as if life was once for me to live
and no one can tell me to sit
or to try or to die
and wilt away like the daffodils that the ones we missed
now fertilized.
and today i stand tall
i stand over the ones whose hearts were banned from dreaming
just a little push, is all they need
so i stretch out my lungs and heave in
the brightest imagination of their life,
and i scream out all that air
all the air that's been purified
all the air that they'll now breathe in,
and then
stillness
the sun rises to euphoria
those who escaped are now forgiven
the brightest light you'll see will not be the sun
it will not be the victory you claimed
but it will be the life that awaits you
ahead of you
a silver lining
stretching far and wide
guiding you through your race
the race of a lifetime
the finish line of an indelible life that wasn't wasted
not even for
a day.
Aug 18, 2014
Aug 18, 2014 at 8:07 AM UTC
DEAD POETS HONOR.;
- I PROMISE TO SPEAK OUT OF TURN
- I WILL LET MY COMPASSION GET IN THE WAY OF MY OTHERWISE ACTIONS
-I WILL NOT BE AFRAID OF MY OWN VOICE
-I WILL SEIZE THE DAY
-I PROMISE TO INSPIRE, TO CRY, AND LET WORDS SEEP FROM MY EVERY PORE
i shall not break this vow of commitment to my club so help me, poet, my peers shall dig the dirt from atop my head and sacrifice me to society's whims.
i am a dead poet and this is my honor.
Aug 3, 2014
Aug 3, 2014 at 12:09 AM UTC
Hesitations grips me
Sometimes with a soft gentle squeeze and sometimes with an iron fist
That split second where you see that girl with whimsical hair and a playful smile and your body is screaming at the top of its lungs “GO AFTER HER YOU FOOL!!!” while your brain mulls over the endless stream of stressful situations
I can hear Robin Williams calling out to me “Let me hear your YAWP!” and I’m shaking, quivering, rattling, generating the vocal ferocity of a lion! And all that comes out is a whimpering “yawp…”
Hesitation grips me
A harmless compliment to brighten someone’s day, no harm done, just a quick simple “I like your pants” a smile and I’m on my way
Simple! Wrong!
That flickering candle of pleasantries is cut short by a swiftly shutting window of opportunity
The breeze not hesitating to extinguish its light
Hesitation grips me
How many moments must I suffer paralyzed lips before my can of complimentary worms is opened?
How many lovely strangers will continue to mill about their days in unblissful ignorance of my enjoyment of their simple, subtle or overt characteristics?
This hesitation grips me!
It shackles me and holds the key in front of my face and all it requires is one real Yawp! The mustering has begun! That key is my freedom of hesitant chains! Just! One! Yawp! I think I can I think I can I think I can! Just! One! Yawp! “yawp…”
Hesitation grips me
May 29, 2014
May 29, 2014 at 11:35 AM UTC
So I scuttled up, until I found a voice like Japan, I read him his rights, turned out the lights, and laid right back on the sand. They said, "Sir, he was much of a father to me, but we were labeled his kin, right in our family tree." "Oh wow", I said, with a gentle, smooth voice, he went missing last August, but now he wants back you boys?" "Oh yes, he sure is a feral man. We think that's why he dried up and flew to Japan." Right then, the two of them went silent just like two second story men, so I inquired, "What happened then?" "From Monday thru Sunday he took to prayer from the bible, and on every other weeknight he watched Japan's Top Model. He threw gallant parties to a harem of wives, he read each of their palms, and looked in their eyes; some time later, when everyone was about to leave, he'd turn on Happy End and start a wild **** By this time I was tired, the sun began to set, I grew tired of my beach patch and yearned for my bed. Although soporific, I tried to be polite, I said, "Let's finish this conversation some other time." "Of course!", they said, "We're off to bed. We'll see that you'll do the same." Then they stood up quick, and reached down and picked up my chains. The beach we laid on was black top, asphalt and tar, the bed I craved was behind a row of private bars. The two of them, them both, were children of mine, because my memory is shot, this might've been their millionth time. i got locked up in a county that's dry as a beach, like Elizabethtown, Kentucky, where I was raised till 13. No one, not even the warden, knows really why I'm here, even some man from Cell Block Five, asked me last Sunday, why was I here. My beach perhaps, it's love at last, concrete, gravel, and stone- a 6' x 10' room with bars and a porcelain throne. It's mine I cry, each night I die, with glee, with smile, with rite. But it makes the other guys run at me, and try to start random fights. I don't remember the boat I took, but I remember the tour, going to Japan at Epcot Center since I'd never gone before.
May 11, 2014
May 11, 2014 at 3:30 AM UTC