"forger" poems
I SAY that Roger Casement
Did what he had to do.
He died upon the gallows,
But that is nothing new.
Afraid they might be beaten
Before the bench of Time,
They turned a trick by forgery
And blackened his good name.
A perjurer stood ready
To prove their forgery true;
They gave it out to all the world,
And that is something new;
For Spring Rice had to whisper it,
Being their Ambassador,
And then the speakers got it
And writers by the score.
Come Tom and **** come all the troop
That cried it far and wide,
Come from the forger and his desk,
Desert the perjurer's side;
Come speak your bit in public
That some amends be made
To this most gallant gentleman
That is in quicklime laid.
14.6k
She is made up of words that not anyone can understand;
Her mind is a dictionary of sadness and heartache,
And her heart is a poetry book for the hopeless.
She is the prettiest song,
The perfect sonnet,
The most meaningful haiku,
And the longest novel.
It takes a while to read her,
Seconds to love her,
And a lifetime to forger her.
May 18, 2015
May 18, 2015 at 1:11 PM UTC
The great gaudy flage is screamin' blood in the streets
loose yawn of a gob on him
all bombast n' swagger
he makes a barrage of nuisance
channels through the public
and scatters a juggler's performance spot
lobs away his change hat
then, roughly over the cobbles
he hoicks a resuscitation doll
and stamps down a posing boot
on the 'defeated form'
an unprepared scoop of tourists
a pause for silence and begins a rant
a great performance
of well harassed combustion :
"i smear to god all the phalluses
[he roars, all saliva]
i smug to god
a full jug of uglies
tug on [makes the hand gesture for male ************
i **** off the forger
would slug it in the mug
if it ever did form a tissue oath
took a plug at some drunk straggler
called the baffled *** 'god-father'
and spate spume on his fallen anatomy
[with one hand he indicates the mannequin at his heel]
amen ************ !"
he bows
a long quiet
some people clap awkwardly
two police officers appear and hook him by the elbows
(it has been this show before)
Mar 11, 2022
Mar 11, 2022 at 11:38 AM UTC
Soap.
Today I bathed in black water,
Rinsed with the sewage we call society, and dried off in governmental regulations.
You call yourselfs clean based on the record of your criminality and the color of your skin?
You use a plastic kind of soap the produces no clean but like a camera it captures and preserves what's inside.
So you can play bath time with your bubbles, pretending you own yourselves for a night, but after your bath comes bed time. You will wake up tomorrow and find your still owned by the government and, your soap was just plastic.
So you need to bathe again.
Don't forger to lather, rinse, and repeat.
Chris burk
Sep 15, 2016
Sep 15, 2016 at 1:14 AM UTC
A forger is what they called you—
A man of many faces.
The dream is where I met you.
The dream is where I should have left you.
They warned me not to fall,
For falling in love with someone like you, is nothing but a game.
They hadn't warn me,
that falling for you could be so simple.
A crooked smile,
And a flash of baby blues.
And oh, great God—
Your mouth;
A sinful entrance it is, rolling on my name.
Arthur...
A Point Man is what they call me—
A man of many ideas.
The dream is where you met me.
The dream is where you should have left me.
Did they warn you of the danger of letting me in?
For falling in love with someone like me,
is nothing but a chance to win.
Had they warned you,
I’d already fallen for you?
You formed my soul into something keen;
But yet, altogether malleable.
A pointed forgery,
A loaded dice, tumbling into the play—
Readying to steal your chips away.
Winning and losing all the while;
Truly believing, in our downward spiral
through the machine.
It was a shame, for it’s all in a dream.
Our dream within a dream.
Apr 12, 2013
Apr 12, 2013 at 12:15 AM UTC
I am not perfect.
I am nowhere near perfect.
I simply play the part,
But only for you.
I try to be the best.
I aim for perfection.
But like Cupid,
My marksmanship is poor.
I will always fail,
I will always be,
This same imperfect entity,
All that is yours.
If imperfection,
Is perfect to you,
Than I shall put down my bow,
And aim no more.
I am not a masterpiece,
I am a forgery,
Created by the perfect artist.
You.
I apologize for my texture,
The flaws that give me away.
For to an expert,
I am nothing but a replica.
To an unlearned eye,
I may be something,
Born of the renaissance,
Yet I am nothing special.
I was born of this age.
An age where an artist's ideals,
Are formed from past works.
And I am nothing but a forgery.
Not a forgery of Da Vinci or Michelangelo,
But a forgery of these new age artists.
Only a forgery of an idea's idea.
Nothing more.
Nov 19, 2012
Nov 19, 2012 at 5:02 AM UTC
when you and i dance it is electric shock
and you are water and i am ice.
you conduct and share, spread like
wildfire heat and burn and
so don’t think i am nervous when you touch me
it is me
not you, never you
it is me who is too old and too frozen
to allow the free current to rumble through my skin.
it is a surprise,
a present,
when you let the warmth flash into my bones
but please remember that it is hard for me to hold
this gift
without dropping it.
humans have their half-hearts and
yours are so full
it’s been so long to remember heat
that sometimes i let the ice taste like
metal, like wood
like stolen promises and betrayed kisses
and then when you touch me
it is a surprise present
but one that i will take all too gladly
because i am selfish
and you have so much to give.
you are your mother and your father
and you are your own traveler
so let me come into your home
and make a mess of things
with my poor conductor heart.
i may never tell you i love you
but just know that it is not words that fail me
you would know i was lying if i said
i was anything other than a storyteller,
a wordsmith, a forger of weapons from syllables
and tongue against teeth and vocal chords,
but it is the surprise of electricity
that keeps my mouth fumbling.
let me marry you in forever ago
and now
because you are a surprise, a present,
and i have come to need you
in a way that i haven’t needed
and i cannot keep you in the box
of people i love
because they always come out broken
and i demand your circuitry, your
flow over me.
you must never break
again
because you torture yourself with
your own shock, your own pulse
and i cannot choose your fate;
that is yours to do with what you will,
but i can choose how to feel.
so maybe when the day comes
and the towers sing and i cry
i will cry not from the sadness of your leaving
but cry at the happiness of your staying
and the knowing that you and i
are the choosing ones
that have chosen electric-shock-pain
in the logic of you and i in union.
Jan 7, 2013
Jan 7, 2013 at 2:50 AM UTC
Past,
i saw you crossing roaring rivers and
climbing snow clad mountains,
taking long walks through prestine landscapes,
or loosing completely in ecstatic rain dances,
But,
when i sought you,
and after long last,
found you there,
where you were hiding in disguise,
like a refugee, whose passport was lost--
you were,
mostly eliminated,
like a map, eaten by hungry moths ,
vastly altered
by time, the great forger
hiding in my own attic,
drastically cut,
particularly at corners,
like a cake eaten by greedy cats,
totally sanitised,
clumsily cleaned,
shades of dark completely erased,
unknowing it's value, to create contrast
foolishly whitened,
throwing sense of aesthetics,
on the way side.
I can see frills attached without any rhyme or reason,
specifics, misinerpreted in many unwanted places,
dark lines of interference, criss crossed,
killing the pleasure of recollection.
And, what is the precious left over?
do i see anything significant at all?
your this avatar, i would have gladly
submitted to Herr Alzeimer's
what i see before mind's eye is delicately positioned,
ambiguity has taken active control, effectively of all details,
i stand aghast,
close my eyes
and try to answer
the question that arises:
"who exactly is this?
the memories reappearing as a ghost
to bring me back to senses,
and make me come in terms,
with what has passed for ever?"
#
Feb 24, 2012
Feb 24, 2012 at 12:27 PM UTC
There used to be a time...
a time when we were certain
a time when we were used.
...used by a forger.
So bright was the furnace we always returned to
brighter than we can even remember.
it's hard to remember.
We would run in the field, because it was a field, made by us, for us, to run in.
Some whiles we would stay home, and block out the world and it's cursed sun.
brighter than was fair for us.
when we didn't want to be seen.
Again and again, we would be forged into new. Some new way, some new way of being the old way.
Again and again, we were here and there, so long as everyone called us by the same name.
We were forged into weapons. And we sewed distraught. We hurt, the ones who named us.
And now, our steel doesn't shine so hot. And the only thing left making us remember, that we're alive,
is the rapid thuds of our heart pumping down against the cold tile floor, begging us to choose
begging us for a path to follow.
pleading to flow this hot blood somewhere it will make a difference. Screaming that we don't need you, and we don't want you, and that we need not fight each other over thoughts about you anymore.
I was seven times certain who I was.
That I could forget you...
We're back.
May 5, 2012
May 5, 2012 at 8:06 PM UTC
Poetry.
sigh
The fine link of mind to pen.
As words form onto the page,
Spilling from every corners of your brain.
The moment pen touches paper,
You enter a twisted dimension.
Sometimes;
Dark,
Heavenly, and
Cheerful dimensions.
Words that collect themselves on pages,
Sometimes sending bone chilling messages to readers.
Even nice warm fussing feelings.
It moves people to great lengths.
To achieve things that are far from their minds.
It tears down walls of hatred,
And sends out waves of joy.
This art; Poetry.
Has withstood the test of time.
And will not hinder the slightest.
It is my Bible.
My Juliet.
My comfort on those dog days.
My second life line.
Poetry.
Is a state of mind,
That overwhelms even the strongest of wills.
You are the conductor of this orchestra of words.
Let your poetic symphony be heard.
Let it ripple through the hearts and minds.
Let it be the moon that sways the waters and the ill willed.
I will run through that grass filled dimension,
As the sun shines on to my face.
I will become the forger of sentences.
I will conduct the greatest classical score of words.
I will be eternally bound to this state of mind.
smiles
Poetry.
Feb 6, 2011
Feb 6, 2011 at 8:22 PM UTC
The feelings dead, just shout it out now
The feelings dead, just admit it, be proud
Open the doors, look inside, into our lives
Tell me whats there, is it cold and empty?
I've been standing up for so long
I've been sitting down for so long
I've been stuck right here for so long
Have you felt the same for so long?
It's all thats here, so far, so far
When I see a star, I think of times gone by
It felt so real, It felt so high
But you sink, sink, sink into the night
Never thinking to cast some light
I've been standing up for so long
I've been sitting down for so long
I've been stuck right here for so long
Have you felt the same for so long?
It's all thats here, so far, so far
When you struggle and when you twirl
I will always be here for you girl
I'll never let you fall, never let you fall
If you never forget, never forger me at all
I've been standing up for so long
I've been sitting down for so long
I've been stuck right here for so long
Have you felt the same for so long?
It's all thats here, so far, so far
Is there a happily ever after?
is there a world filled with laughter?
Or are our lives filled with hate
All our feelings left way too late
I've been standing up for so long
I've been sitting down for so long
I've been stuck right here for so long
Have you felt the same for so long?
It's all thats here, so far, so far
Oh,I've been standing up for so long
I've been sitting down for so long
I've been stuck right here for so long
Have you felt the same for so long?
It's all thats here, so far, so far
So far
Aug 12, 2010
Aug 12, 2010 at 4:24 AM UTC
Words come to my mind but I
don’t
record them, I
don’t
write them down;
I’m sick.
I’m sick and
tired,
worn down and
uninspired.
I’m simply
too sad to write.
But sometimes I have to
forget my self and
throw away my
self-pity.
I’m a
word forger first,
mentally ill second.
And still, I have
no motivation.
I need a
new muse, my
old one is just that:
old.
My
suffering is not
important enough for me to go on
pitying and
pining and
perishing.
But I’m scared.
What happens when I
throw that away?
Will the
poetry stop?
Will the
words stop
appearing in my mind?
I can see them;
I can see the
letters and the
spaces and the
lines.
They materialize in my
subconscious,
push their way to my
full attention.
They fit together like
puzzle pieces, the
beautiful, perfect letters organizing into these
amazing words, allowing me to
bend them and
shape them to my will.
I can’t risk losing that;
I love it to much.
So what will happen once I’ve found a
new muse?
Will it be
different?
Will I have to
make the words myself, instead of my
subconscious giving them to me like
perfect little gifts?
I couldn’t do that;
I’m not creative enough.
I’m not
good enough at this art to
be able to do that.
I don’t
want to change.
I don’t
want to find anything new.
I don’t
want to lose this amazing little thing that I
found in me, the
one thing I know I’m
TRUELY good at.
I don’t want to lose the
only thing that keeps me sane.
Nov 4, 2011
Nov 4, 2011 at 12:26 AM UTC
She wears an armor of secrets and stories.
Staying safe, toying with truth.
Forger of fact and fiction.
Protector of her thoughts, hers to own,to share or to keep.
The keeper of secrets. a safety net?
Aug 6, 2012
Aug 6, 2012 at 1:18 PM UTC
Lady luck seemed to left me,
As I started to roll the dice.
I wanted to cheat,
And never say "goodbye."
I want to spend this eternal pleasure,
Of casting myself into isolation,
In this dark, humid, rotten room.
Sitting and embracing the cold body,
With innocence controlled like a marionette.
Strings were the darkness,
Puppet is the soul.
The forger is my mind,
Often forgetting to stitch the holes.
In this twisted poem you'll get lost,
By playing with the unknown.
A crumbling facade.
You might wonder what is the mistake?
Think again.
If it's not the forger,
Then it is the reader.
Mar 9, 2018
Mar 9, 2018 at 8:37 AM UTC
They say I need to forget him
Forget his face
Forget his kiss
Forger his name
Forget the love that I once knew
Forget how close we once were
Forget how I memorized his walk
Forget how he used to talk
But how can I??
How can I forget him
I loved him....
I still do
But I remember he's with someone knew
I remember he had chosen her
I remember when I cried all night
I remember he's gone
I remember that he's probably
with her tonight in her arms
I remember he's gone......
Forever
Forever.......
Oct 14, 2013
Oct 14, 2013 at 2:07 AM UTC
leaving leaves
winter bare
aspen grey
oak black
elm ochre
gaw ground
trench & trunk
rotted root
writhe
forger's leafs
gild & guile
natures' fall
Apr 25, 2015
Apr 25, 2015 at 6:56 PM UTC
(whistle).. chirp chirp,
I know the night has slipped away-
when i hear the birds words.
the room starts to illuminate-
the windows curtains, don't work.
i'm not ready for the suns harsh rays-
seeking darkness, the light hurts.
but a selfish horus starts his day-
the jays and i, suffer.
silently, not once a **** apology-
with no remorse, the birds burn.
Always found it kinda funny, we assume birds are always singing-
melodies of fresh starts, new hope.
At dawn a roosters caw, signals new beginnings,
sounds more like they're hung from rope.
Maybe the cardinals hate the light, maybe they are screaming?
when that fireball in the sky flaunts his glow
maybe the ravens hope they are but dreaming,
Or maybe this time it won't show.
Can't wake up from this nightmare,
vulture-
yes, this is all real.
sometimes the heat just can't be bared,
torture-
i know just how you feel.
it can be easy to get scared,
scorcher-
sometimes you cannot deal.
so yell to the demon in the air,
forger-
one day he may just kneel.
Gather the eagles, gather the hawks-
riot! revolution!
act against the evil, no time for squawk-
find it, resolution.
gather on the steeple, form solid as rock-
binded, may confuse him.
together you are lethal, invincible, this flock-
fly high.
retribution
-bb
Aug 25, 2017
Aug 25, 2017 at 6:00 AM UTC
I pull at the signum underneath my solid black shirt
wondering why this time is so different
Ever since I could call him mine
I have done nothing but try
And not get anything in return
Why do you hurt so much?
Why do you want me to cry all of the time?
I have no more room for sadness or tears
Yet you make room
saying it is the last time
Promising never again
But when my life takes a wrong turn
you break a little more,
leaving the shards stuck inside
Left for me to pick up the pieces
Then you want to start all over
Like it never happened at all
Dear heart; why him?
You don’t just wake up one morning and stop loving somebody
love is forever
Why try to make me forger?
I write it all down
You can’t erase my mind!
You can’t make me forget
All the things I love about him
I wouldn't change a single thing
You can’t make him disappear!
Dear heart; why are you doing this to me?
Dear heart; why do I love him so much?
Dec 10, 2014
Dec 10, 2014 at 6:57 PM UTC