#edgarallenpoe
In a distant meadow lies my mind
To get there, I cannot tell you how—
It is not a place that all can find
But if you're lucky and the path is kind
It will open up so that my thoughts you can unwind
And I can see it now
Fields of dandelions are where I hide
So come in spring to make a vow
For on the wind our wishes ride
Make a wish to say you tried
And only the weeds will know if you lied
Can't you see it now?
It does not matter if you mean well
I sometimes make mistakes in who I allow
Between poison and passion I cannot always tell
So you may come to stay but do not dwell
And of my secret garden do not tell
To those who would turn a paradise into hell
And I can see it now
Wildfires— the flames I cannot tame
Confusion, pain and anger that furrows my brow
Putting pesticides to primroses it's such a shame
My daffodils lament, they cry for who to blame
Does such sorrow, such grief have a name?
Can't you see it now?
When you turn my meadow into a burial mound
Where seedlings will not sprout— they can't remember how
You turn it into a place where no dream is found
Where no wishes or vows can be bound
And where loves whispers dare not sound
And I can't see it now
Apr 27, 2023
Apr 27, 2023 at 9:01 PM UTC
I hate me
Unless I should die now for thee.
I hate my life
Ere I bade this end into broken strife.
Keep a sigh in the lonesome sky!
I wanna die.
Jan 29, 2021
Jan 29, 2021 at 7:30 PM UTC
I scratch the neon paper with thoughts in my mind-
The way you scathed laboured wood under dim candle light.
Clueless to my aptitude the falsity of what is new
What I know is- You, not you but your marvelous craft-
papyrus paper and pen, quill to bound book.
Jan 7, 2020
Jan 7, 2020 at 7:51 PM UTC
Once upon a midnight,windy,
Graveyard heavy, tombstone weary,
Rose a man of great renowned-
The writer of which works can be found
Classroom sat in many a volume galore.
As the news and folk declare-
The dead whose lungs again took in air,
The writer who now stood before-
T’was Poe (and raven) of “Nevermore”.
“So if it be daemon, omen, curse or hex-”
In deciding action next, he spoke forth these words of old,
“I have been given further morrow, time of which furthers my sorrow,
Yet if I may this new life borrow- borrow perhaps to bring prose more-
In the hope,to continue prose more-
Pen to paper I’ll restore.”
Many a night spent struggling to create rhymes anew,
Edgar realized how language had changed,
For **** no longer meant to slay, and his beloved had turned to bae!
On his desk the perched bird had flown-
To say these words in had it flown-
Quoth the Raven “Just use Rhymezone.”
Feb 18, 2019
Feb 18, 2019 at 9:32 PM UTC
To what awaits thee,
I fear,
Death,
Death is near
Ever nearer
It so comes,
Slowly,
Mentally painful
The excessive hope
Thou tries to find
Has left, but brings
Some peace of mind
Assessing the fate
Of what horror lies
Thou ever awaits
Beautiful demise
Why beautiful
You say?
For isn't death
Much better than life?
Oh, the terrors in life
But in death is rest
And isn't death best?
Far more better than pain and strife?
Watch the deathly gleam
Of the object of your worries
Does it not calm you
To know death is close?
Or does it fuel it's decent
From your fear?
Oh, how it gets near!
Goes here, to there, to here
It's goal is you
It's purpose is true
It does not want you here,
So leave.
Leave this world!
Thou wishes to stay?!
Nay!
It will not allow you another day!
It strikes you with gladness
With every stroke it pains you,
Blood flows forth from your skin
There is no more, no more thoughts from within...
Nov 7, 2018
Nov 7, 2018 at 11:57 AM UTC
I listen to the wind blow
But I do not watch for I do not know
Because of fright I do not look
I just continue to read my book
The strong howls that I hear
Seem to strike up too much fear
For it to be just a gust of air
Why do I feel such a great scare?
Ever so often the moon peeks
To show the little light I seek
I dare to glance out the window
Only to see the basic I did know
But take another look again
And there I see a chilling friend
I quickly run to lock the door
But I must glance just once more
Expectant to see the creepy stranger
Nothings there just my deepest anger
My eyes I use as such a sturdy tool
Seem to do nothing but make me a fool
I must suffer a sleepy head
So I turn back to go to bed
Than before I know it
I am dead
Aug 31, 2018
Aug 31, 2018 at 3:04 AM UTC
All those books they made us read,
The smelly yellow-pagers
That weighed as heavy as the guilt
We felt as "zombie teenagers";
Do we remember anything?
The names of the main characters,
Or maybe, who died in the end--
Or the ones who were in pictures?
It wasn't that we hated books--
We didn't understand them;
Before the teacher's spiritless voice
Made us slowly condemn them.
"Memorize the vocab words,
And don't forget the spelling!"
Was that the point of literature?
But definitions aren't compelling.
So all those hours in English Lit,
The days spent reading Steinbeck,
Were soured by the grouchy face
Always looming over my desk.
I always wished someone would say,
"This isn't boring, here's why:"
But I was told to shut up and read
When sometimes I wanted to cry:
"I hate this story! Nobody's happy!
And everyone's messed up!
It doesn't make sense to force it on us
When we're already stressed out."
But we had to read it, because they had to read it
When they were young in school.
This book had an impact in history:
So now, reading it is a rule.
So if it's a must, that's fine, then.
But...why don't we make it fun?
Or talk about the psychology
And learn something when we're done?
A book can't be everyone's favorite.
We're all different people inside.
But please try to make us all interested
With wisdom only you can provide.
Mar 29, 2018
Mar 29, 2018 at 11:41 AM UTC
I’m like a knock-off Edgar Allen Poe
But instead of raving about a raven
I croon about a crow
Who comes a-fluttering
And I start my muttering
About I do not need savin’
Mar 24, 2018
Mar 24, 2018 at 5:36 AM UTC
You should have been the soul that Edgar Allen Poe loved,
So that he wouldn't have died miserable and alone,
You are the Morticia to my Gomez; deadly in love,
We would make a quirky Addams family, bar none,
I love the nerds in us and the banter of annoyance,
I love the moments of radiant love and our nature of being different,
'Cause we did meet exceptionally over persistence,
And we accept each other regardless of difference,
I wish that our love will remain eternal,
Narrated by Obi-Wan,
With a theme song by John Williams,
Directed by Lucas, nah, we don't need direction,
I do know, we need a Queen, and that's you my puddin'!
Leia to my Solo,
A Queen-B-lovin'-Quinn to my Joker,
A die-hard Drake lover with a heart for the Dark Side,
This Vader loves his Amidala, xoxoxo,
We would revel on any side but the holy!
May this love never fade, and be full of surprises,
But not the kind where there is nasi lemak with no ikan bilis!
But you make the best **** nasi lemak, sigh,
I'm forever grateful for my Babloo
I'm forever grateful that you're by my side,
My Annabel Lee, I'm grateful Poe never met you,
'Cause you're all mine!
Feb 13, 2017
Feb 13, 2017 at 9:35 PM UTC
Upon their quivering wings, (Fairy-Land by Edgar Allen Poe)
*small hands grasping too big stems.
little laughter carried on the wind
to beckon you inside.
tall trees fall in, collapsing.
trapped underneath the layers of sea foam green.
breathing in sun dropped laughter,
blindly stumbling through a lilac haze of unsureness.
left to the elements
and lost to the darkness of day time.
jabs left and right prevent the chance,
of wandering in the right direction.
flashes of blue wings and lithe bodies
in front of you,
just out of reach.
and their laughter is drowning you,
slipping into a sleep of the undead but not quite living.
fighting the drowsiness with the only source of strength left,
golden sun slipping through the cracks.
surfacing from the depths of insanity,
their laughter tumbling from your lungs,
able to breath again.*
May 24, 2016
May 24, 2016 at 9:53 AM UTC
Shh, listen.
Did you hear it?
Its disturbing echo
inching down your spine.
Its chilling breath at the
nape of your neck.
Snaking through my mind,
creeping in like fog.
Seeping through the floor,
spilling secrets like blood.
Sounds of a clock
muffled by cotton.
Cloaked, it hammers
growing louder.
Can’t you hear it?
The thumping it emits.
Shuddering through my frame,
suffocation, blame!
It’s growing louder!
Uttering secrets only I know.
Acute are the senses
that hear its woe.
Pounding away all thoughts,
persistent, Its haunts.
Shattering midnight it stalks,
nightmarish pillow talk.
It grows, my skin pales.
louder and louder it wales!
A dead man’s heart yells,
telling its tale.
Say that I am mad, do you?
If only you knew,
I hear things in hell, it’s true.
Don’t you hear it too?
Nov 14, 2015
Nov 14, 2015 at 4:24 PM UTC
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www.youtube.com/watch?v=08_cqtFLQ3c
Please watch the more views I get the better chance I have to win the 1500$ prize, or audience choice, I hope I can at least be a finalist and walk away with 200$ because this is one of my favorite poems, and Its Edgar allen poe so this is related enough to share, also If I am the winner audience choice or finalist I will get featured on larger poetry sites, for my video but that can also help with my poems and soon to come movement. So please do me a favor!
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Jun 18, 2015
Jun 18, 2015 at 10:03 AM UTC
Once I met a man named Frank,
Then he renamed himself Poe,
He always enjoyed a good prank,
But that's what made me his foe.
For months I stood awaiting,
Months alone in my room,
Waiting, debating, and hating,
Till the fitting revenge began to bloom.
Then, once upon a midnight dreary,
I began to carry out my plan,
Fully knowing how Poe was weary,
But also knowing tis was the best day to get back on that treacherous man.
So I paint my parrot black,
And made sure it looked like a Raven,
Good thing my pet had a knack,
To turn my foes into a craven.
Telling my parrot (now a raven) "Nevermore",
I issue a simple command,
And leave it by Poe's door,
Thinking, "Oh, Poe's reaction shall be very grand!"
May 26, 2014
May 26, 2014 at 7:34 PM UTC
The terrifying teeth chatter into the crimson lips of a wound up smile, chattering along the very risen table top that draws all small toys to their finite dooms. While breaths sour hour upon hour, each idling ear suffocates the last gasping breaths of its epicurean syllabic tongue, drizzling down the stomach like melt water from a cubic glacier in an ornamental silver tub, and sternly quibbles the stem-like dactyls drawing rose champagne into a fissure of the brain's tumescent humming.
Each finger tips' nail rouge and red, each dry crevice sewn into the knuckles, and a leaflet on sadism near the scratchy illegible lines whittled on the topside of the wrists and the slalom runs of the ankle. The ankle sinister. The ghost-like hallow sockets of where eyes could have once be seen. Plaster and albicant-like dying death white skins forbade from the Flushing streets where the jazz dance once began. And with each nellypotted hop, three useless nuisances could not carry the bridle towards each nearly favorite sound that curiosity enslaved man to lean towards.
The women weirded out by corners, plastic-wrapped furniture in outdoor corridors, where sinners veil their retreats into state run triage centers. Fake plastic countertops built from fake plastic trees. With an M14's muzzle stiffening and shuttering, she who vents off her cured romances will always find herself flaccid on rubber knees. The disease of the plea, is once more an affectation of not falling for royalty but instead the royal we. There is this weapon of fraud that perplexes geneticists, that enslaves heterosexuals, where albeit nor the time or place, she venerates the libations that her mind creates, she lubricates her cells, dressing, her skin ripening, heaven trickling across her humble nape, where gentleness is only a fool's disease and need.
She. We. Heathens of eternity bowing our breaths in grand hyperbole see. I see she, and she sees me.
Mar 2, 2015
Mar 2, 2015 at 3:28 AM UTC
In the deathly silence of the calm, I feel the clamming of my palms
As I lay awake in the dead of night, so often as I’ve done before
One thought echoes out, as I begin to be filled with doubt
How these feeling come about, about someone lingering past my door
But, I know I’m all alone and no one stands outside my door
Just my imagination, and nothing more
From the dead of night, a sound pierces ever slight
My ears perk up and my mind begins to explore
Where the faint noise comes from, while my body lays numb
In the darkness of the slum, this hum I can’t ignore
A heed or warning, resonating past my enclosed door
The sound rings out “Falling For”
Who is this trickster, trader, inside my home, a dangerous invader?
Calling out to me from beyond my hardwood floor
In the dead of night, amidst four walls void of light
If I scream, will foreign ears here my plight? Or will I be no more?
Has my time come to pass for all the wrongs I must answer for?
As the whisper calls out “Falling For”
My thoughts begin to carry, how I should be more wary
Am I being tricked? True meaning behind this “Falling For”
This devilish trickster, whether Ma’am or a Mister
Swindled me in a twister, my wealth and name I can’t restore
Unaware of this chaos looming, the loosing of the war
Is this what I’m “Falling For”
Or maybe love, my damsel calling, perhaps my heart is what’s falling
To the one that I so eagerly adore
Thoughts of grandeur fill my head, for a prospect to join my bed
Where stars and sky, the mind has read, finally the weary sailor arrives ashore
Greeted by his enduring spouse to whom long ago he swore.
That she, and only her was the one he’d Fallen For
In the dead of night my mind still racing, for the sound my ears still chasing
The whisper ever so slight of “Falling For”
Kept me up all night and going crazy, my thoughts once clear now are hazy
In the deafening silence, my body lazy, to venture out past my enclosed door
I struggled battling for the meaning my mind telling me folks of lore
Of this destined fate of “Falling For”
In the dead of night, rang out a murmur, ever so slight, the noise got firmer
Beyond the walls outside the enclosed door
Down the hall in another room, a forgotten token within a tomb
Where the noise began to resume, a music box within a drawer
Broken saying the same two words kept replaying, “Falling For”
For it was this, and nothing more
Jan 24, 2015
Jan 24, 2015 at 1:54 PM UTC