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"croise" poems
Let me know If I make too much noise Trying to appeal like the modern Noyes I can be Batman, he can be my Alfred Washing out all the dread One by one My work is never done Heaven knows why I measure my toise Thinking I landed a Croise But instead it looks like a kindergarten project These lines I reflect Are meant to create a sect That disannuls the usual meaning of the word I'm not dishing out a gird I'm splitting the morally absurd Into all the fragments I want Labeling none I can relate to revolving doors Because they never stop They never drop The momentum World filled with white Commonly labeling knight Spent so many nights trying to get it right So many Nebulas saw me as a light Made me think a little more open Ready to bring the heat like Copan Commonly called Peter Pan Just got used to it all I come back when I fall The lone exception Their biggest pushed deception Is that the tale never happened Till I was given the time slot Ninety ninety seven Praying that I'be been blessed by the Tree Of Heaven Would be endorsed by Seventh Heaven Can't be affiliated with the fake father I know this is quite a fother But I got to bring this to a poise Blue, teal, turquoise I feel my own noise I chose to be the Spiro Disco Ball A constituted mystery I'm my own consistory Flashy, want to be loved by all I might not make that goal at all But I'll continue to turn The life of the party I hope this delivery is never tardy Give up, I hardly I'll turn until there's no meaning and purpose left. When will that be?
0
Mar 15, 2018
Mar 15, 2018 at 10:02 PM UTC
peter-r-hamilton
Spiro Disco Ball
Let me know If I make too much noise Trying to appeal like the modern Noyes I can be Batman, he can be my Alfred Washing out all the dread One by one My work is never done Heaven knows why I measure my toise Thinking I landed a Croise But instead it looks like a kindergarten project These lines I reflect Are meant to create a sect That disannuls the usual meaning of the word I'm not dishing out a gird I'm splitting the morally absurd Into all the fragments I want Labeling none I can relate to revolving doors Because they never stop They never drop The momentum World filled with white Commonly labeling knight Spent so many nights trying to get it right So many Nebulas saw me as a light Made me think a little more open Ready to bring the heat like Copan Commonly called Peter Pan Just got used to it all I come back when I fall The lone exception Their biggest pushed deception Is that the tale never happened Till I was given the time slot Ninety ninety seven Praying that I'be been blessed by the Tree Of Heaven Would be endorsed by Seventh Heaven Can't be affiliated with the fake father I know this is quite a fother But I got to bring this to a poise Blue, teal, turquoise I feel my own noise I chose to be the Spiro Disco Ball A constituted mystery I'm my own consistory Flashy, want to be loved by all I might not make that goal at all But I'll continue to turn The life of the party I hope this delivery is never tardy Give up, I hardly I'll turn until there's no meaning and purpose left. When will that be?
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Il en passait des nuits à écrir’ des poèmes, Des mots pleins de ratures, sa vie à la bohème, Regardant dehors, il voyait la lune-pleine, Les étoiles du ciel sombre, éclairaient sa peine. Il se voyait déjà, volant ‘delà les cimes, Courant maladroit’ment, il était bellissime. La tête lui tourne, il semble qu’il hallucine, Il hallucine, il hurle et même, il s’enracine ! Peu import’ le chemin, il se guide avec l’âme, Et s’il croise quelqu’un, son récit il lui clame. Il n’y comprenait rien, peut-être était-ce un âne. Tristement à ses mots, toutes les fleurs se fanent. Il aimait observer les gens. Étonnamment, Leurs chants lui inspiraient de sa vie le roman. Et même seul, il veut les mots qui correspondent, Il en accoucherait comme les poules pondent, Dans tous textes, il en voulait un qui soit l’œuf d’or. Mais les passions, les accidents, il les ignore. Son imagination était en plein essor, Écrivant poèmes et poèmes, encore, encore, Ici, là bas, où qu’il soit il y vagabonde. Ça y est, il repose calmement sa blonde, Regarde autour de lui, il n’est pas seul pourtant. Toujours le pir’ moment pour ses etourdiss’ments.
0
Oct 13, 2017
Oct 13, 2017 at 5:19 PM UTC
lucaspilleul
Étourdissements
Il en passait des nuits à écrir’ des poèmes, Des mots pleins de ratures, sa vie à la bohème, Regardant dehors, il voyait la lune-pleine, Les étoiles du ciel sombre, éclairaient sa peine. Il se voyait déjà, volant ‘delà les cimes, Courant maladroit’ment, il était bellissime. La tête lui tourne, il semble qu’il hallucine, Il hallucine, il hurle et même, il s’enracine ! Peu import’ le chemin, il se guide avec l’âme, Et s’il croise quelqu’un, son récit il lui clame. Il n’y comprenait rien, peut-être était-ce un âne. Tristement à ses mots, toutes les fleurs se fanent. Il aimait observer les gens. Étonnamment, Leurs chants lui inspiraient de sa vie le roman. Et même seul, il veut les mots qui correspondent, Il en accoucherait comme les poules pondent, Dans tous textes, il en voulait un qui soit l’œuf d’or. Mais les passions, les accidents, il les ignore. Son imagination était en plein essor, Écrivant poèmes et poèmes, encore, encore, Ici, là bas, où qu’il soit il y vagabonde. Ça y est, il repose calmement sa blonde, Regarde autour de lui, il n’est pas seul pourtant. Toujours le pir’ moment pour ses etourdiss’ments.
Continue reading...
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