"formatting" poems
probly a few minutes
and i was done
writing wasn't feeling the same
i stood on top like
bricks around disaster
i was looking up
i took my shoes off
threw them aside still laced
i wasn't being funny
i know where this is going
where i write
where i see cracks in perfect paths
where blood taste like metals of purity
with every year burning
where these flowers like to live
die on vines from inside
allowing ivy to climb my back
i am a length of fence
in a yard with no dog
on a gate without reason
sitting on a post during live events
i am a fool for giving into seasons
romancing everything like a poet
following every inch of broken glass
nodding to my friends that i'm willing to mend
but waiting for them to laugh
outlined with chalk on the sidewalk
where blood stains concrete my convictions
flowing from the curb to the overpass
in the night like candles floating water
under tree branches ready to crack
formatting clouds to sky write, come with me
a man in the park on his back
Nov 1, 2016
Nov 1, 2016 at 5:24 AM UTC
I can spit out words in a matter of seconds
I can twist my thoughts into metaphors and anaphora and all this rhetoric they taught me,
they said it would make my argument stronger,
that it would make me a better writer
well
here I am,
am I?
I can do it all
I can make pain taste like sugar, granulate it so finely to where it melts on the tongue
I can cope my problems into understanding, make feeling alone no longer a possibility
I can even create something similar to hope with the way I form these phrases together
I can almost do it all, but
I cannot write you into my arms
I cannot place you in this bed next to me
I often wring passion into language, this pouring out becomes exhausting and
It doesn't matter how many times I rewrite this poem
Poems don't make people fall in love
People make people fall in love
I wish
I could make you fall in love but
I am not one of those who can
I've learned it doesn't matter how nice these titles are,
the stanzas, the formatting, the content is not important
Whether or not I bury my soul into the center is irrelevant when
you are currently the only thing living inside of it
Every time I pick up a pen or
a pencil or a page I hear you
My head has become a blank thesaurus, everything sounds like your arms holding
I search for inspiration and your name is all I can find
I want to say the same goes for you with mine but
that would be a lie more than
anything else
I guess that's what writing is more than anything else
deceit, fabrication, myth, romanticization
a reflection of everything we know to be false drawn into something it's not
I have been trying to scribe my way into your heart but
it's clear that I cannot let myself in without invitation
the welcome mat means nothing if it goes unread and
as much as I would like to get a call from you tonight,
it would be silly to wait up for fiction
I thought the rhetoric I've learned would help me feel better
I thought writing this might take away the aching, make me happier
well
here I am,
am I?
Apr 9, 2015
Apr 9, 2015 at 2:21 PM UTC
I have a name
I have an address; & some contact
information
_I am educated_
I list working on a degree in your field June 2012
And many relevant classes. GPA: 3.0kay
I graduated high school with flying colors. June 2008
_I have experience_
I've done a few interesting things before: Various Times
Various Positions, Various Places
* I worked one or two places you might even have heard of.
* I even got work on a product that you probably use.
My experience isn't that extensive: I'm Not That Old
A Personal Project, Various Clubs
* I'm just graduating,
* How much can you really expect?
_I have many skills_
I claim to do: some things that you do;
I claim to use: some of the tools that you use.
I look pretty much like all the others in this pile:
My content is glittering, my formatting pristine,
But
I'm special.
Pick me!
9.19.11
D.B. Guy
Nov 3, 2012
Nov 3, 2012 at 2:46 AM UTC
I’ve left the oven on
for years.
Somewhere between metaphor and meaning,
something’s always been burning.
But no one’s eaten in a while.
They called it voice.
I called it
a slow confession wrapped in rhyme.
A sugarcoated breakdown.
Something easy to swallow
if you didn’t read too carefully.
They wanted brevity.
I brought blood.
They wanted truth.
I brought formatting errors
and a whisper shaped like static.
Do you remember the one
with the anti-light?
No?
Of course not.
You don’t remember the one who screamed last.
You remember the one who rhymed "heart" with "start"
and got 200 likes for it.
Now my name is on the box
but it’s spelled wrong
and the font is smiling too hard.
The cookies still crumble
but no one eats the edges.
That’s where the poison is.
That’s where I lived.
So I’ve folded the apron.
Swallowed the last word
before it could become a quote.
Let the gods of good taste keep their ovens.
Let the algorithm rot.
I’ve got shoeboxes full of unsent stanzas
and no more hunger
for applause shaped like echo.
Apr 21, 2025
Apr 21, 2025 at 5:37 AM UTC
Written May 24, 2012
Sitting at the quarry
or outside in the back
it was never white and black
it was only a love story
with lots of pain, and true, some glory
that started with a panic attack
and a man that couldn't cut some slack
and ended up pretty **** gory
with a girl in a hospital waiting room
alone and really cold
but she always did keep true
even while awaiting doom
what he did was oh, so bold
yet she still said "I love you."
Dec 26, 2012
Dec 26, 2012 at 2:20 AM UTC
Time is flying towards infinity
As an unknown operating system.
I'm losing programs from my machine
C drive is formatting without command
I'm a tree beside the street
and time is walking in front of me
I'm screaming on and on without sound
refraining without barricade.
Sorrow is a small virus dark blue
spreading spores into my blood
On the dining table a dream
or a yellowish green apple
Putting head under a sharp knife
to slice thickly as salad!
What is existing or non-existing
nothing can be shared
No pains can be measured
Is there anything beyond feelings?
Any flower sweet and unseen?
Any moon within clouds?
I'm losing pockets from my shirt;
Coins from wallet, spaces from hard drive...
Poem 13
Book 'Beckoning Jade-Dreams' April 2007
Copyright Musharrat Mahjabeen
Mizan Publishers, Dhaka, Bangladesh
ISBN 984-8700-82-X
Aug 20, 2012
Aug 20, 2012 at 8:07 AM UTC
me thinks a sonnet is very hard to write
putting it on paper doth require skill
one must show the ease of a carefree kite
whence applying each and every ink spill
there's no room for bad mistakes being made
the formatting should carry the right tone
as stated by Will who knew of poetic trade
penning many hundreds in iambic cone
one did dare Shakespeare's enduring trail
on attempting his fourteen line layout
oh yes the challenging road did prevail
depicting a time honoured rhyming rout
with couplet concise one shall fly away
leaving a poem of red roses in May
Jul 29, 2018
Jul 29, 2018 at 7:37 AM UTC
Caught up in the heart of it
Tumbleweeds rolling by my legs
City sun washes over me
These bare dotted trees my only friends
Guilty of the guile that is within me
What you're supposed to do isn't free
Cast out and burned out
I hear the dry whimper of drought
Death comes and death goes
Stale hospital sheets between my finger tips
Gut is busted and the TV is rusted
Friends I knew turned out couldn't be trusted
I scream for forgiveness toward the icy winter sky
Trying to make a man listen who isn't anywhere
I shake praying to my hands and dull razor blades
Washing my thoughts so I'm not afraid
Lost at sea without a crew
Fifty foot waves all around me
Who knew there would be so few
Breathes until I saw that life was the biggest prank
Of them all
Seeing the mirrors cracked reflection of summer's past
I ask, "Who is that on the other side?"
Future fears formatting themselves furiously
Attempting to sweep away dear father's ashen crops
Make not the mistakes He has made
Begin again anew
Feel his muscles leak with that of poison
Smoke being what fills
His weak, corroding lungs
Give all Your love
Like the rays of first dawn's Sun
Or the breathe of fresh tree's leaves
Or the dream of winter's fog filled
With what you fear the most
Eyes open to see out my window
Old ladies bang their cloth drums
Dog's unchained take verbal orders
The business man receives his first folder
Each one of us a day older
Nov 10, 2012
Nov 10, 2012 at 3:06 AM UTC
AttributedMarkdown: Native Markdown Parsing on iOS
==================================================
here is an asterisk
here is some italic
prealkdjflsfdj
>> Markdown is intended to be as easy-to-read and easy-to-write as is feasible.
-- [Daring Fireball](http://daringfireball.net/projects/markdown/)
### Usage:
// start with a raw markdown string
NSString *rawText = @"Hello, world. This is native Markdown.";
Nov 15, 2014
Nov 15, 2014 at 8:55 PM UTC
She tells me I taste like too many apologies
I remind her I am a notebook full
of archaeological love letters
There is not footnote to this story tale
there is the script and no sequel to follow
I am falling into the well of woe
searching for my fingers
in an effort to assemble them
contorting in such fashion
formatting this jest of speculation
into the peering ideology of self appreciation
She reminds me of the day
she smiled and felt it rattle my bones
I have not ceased to read dictionaries in a n effort
to find the right words to ***** on your shoes
to get you to smile my way once more
she is filling my glass with the words spewing from her lips
and I am drunk on her laughter
ringing in my ears like a telephone calls
from a gravesite
telling me
it’s time to come back
May 4, 2015
May 4, 2015 at 4:07 PM UTC
Booting Up with or with out you . . .
Retrieving my Life . . .
Relinquish Bad Sectors . . .
Formatting Hatred . . .
Partitioning Space and Time . . .
Installing New System . . .
Restarting System failures . . .
Loading my Pieces together. . .
Starting new Stupidity . . .
Waiting for another Connection . . .
Synchronize with another System. . .
Error Starting to Fail System . . .
SYSTEM INFECTED . . .
SYSTEM CORRUPTION . . .
. . .
THEN THE CYCLE REPEATS . . .
Until Found a SYSTEM Called...
L.O.V.E...
------------------------------------------
Norfhel V. Ramirez
February 21 2011 / 4:42PM
Jan 30, 2012
Jan 30, 2012 at 10:40 PM UTC
In nothing but a string of letters and words I'll make you feel something
It might not be great but it'll be something, it's got to be - something new, something novel
But it won't be sad. We all know what sadness is
It won't be happy or beautiful or even ugly because that's all old hat
No funky formatting, or perspective shifts, no careful pronouns
It won't have images or anything
Just words
Objective words with meanings older than the earth,
And no one will ever misunderstand just what I meant when I wrote it
And no one will ever have experienced anything quite like it before
And it'll make someone, somewhere, just once think:
"Whoa, this poetry stuff can be as spiritual as music"
I'll write something like that Someday, I think
Oct 30, 2021
Oct 30, 2021 at 7:56 AM UTC
Your poetry is like cinematography in my head.
How do you do it?
How do you point the formatting like a camera,
like you’re panning for gold,
and discovering something precious
so deep and real
just with the position of your italics?
I told you this,
and then you reciprocated,
saying,
I, on the other hand, use word choice
I listened and heard your intention
I choose and commit to one
like an undying promise
imbuing that choice with all the meaning I can.
You tell me you noticed,
and I suddenly had no words.
Jul 1, 2018
Jul 1, 2018 at 9:35 AM UTC
I have been hoping
that the visible invisibles
of Keystone Solidarity Republican
Militants
will soon come and tether a black horse
in front of my front door
to put their famous Doubt in my mind
that I am actually a horse
and not a human being
Why this simple act is taking so long
baffles me given they are specialists
in formatting doubts
perhaps they doubt horses have our legs
as I have three legs myself
though the middle leg
is not usually used for trotting
Mar 21, 2021
Mar 21, 2021 at 2:36 PM UTC
it’s weird, i’ve been writing in the box room for over a year, only seeing the apple mac displays and aesthetics... but now, to decrease noise pollution in the house in an attempt to not disturb the cats asking for treats... i took out a dusty laptop with a windows’ formatting... and already i feel like i’m re-writing dostoyevsky’s notes from the underground... the whole oddity of it is pedantically exhilarating: plus i saved wolfmother’s debut on this machine, and trentemøller’s into the great wide yonder.
this is a typical biography of poets these days:
a. gained an b/a from michigan university in english /
gained an m/a from stanford university (also in english)
b. teaches creative writing at night school
c. has some prize in literature reduced to trophy handling
akin to sports' trophies, although
got the prize without the "team talk"
of motivationalist macho-ism and buttock spanks...
d. divides his / her time between paris chicago & london
(rich parents i guess)
but there’s hardly a gritty biography so mundane it
would make people weep:
a. educated... yes
b. self-educated after crap education... yes
c. got a really cool triangular badge
by being in the elite of those learning to cycle
(when in primary school)... yes
d. divides his time between the box room, his bedroom
and the living room, ****** in the garden
too lazy to creep the stairs while the whiskey river flows
through the oesophagus valley.
Nov 20, 2015
Nov 20, 2015 at 7:35 PM UTC
mid gutter again
at a
pace I consider
meaningful, neither
too fast
or slow but, a quickness
of aim
so much
from here to there
wherever
on the sides,
flowers
animals
trees,
from them
i gather
the essence...
there a pace
i beat and step
listening to
a distant illuminating
drummer
making
ambulating causing formatting,
my way,
my destination I forget
and no matter,
with
the wandering
cadences
resounding
in my ears.
Jul 26, 2015
Jul 26, 2015 at 7:52 PM UTC
me thinks a sonnet is very hard to write
putting it on paper doth require skill
one must show the ease of a carefree kite
whence well applying each and every ink spill
there's no room for bad mistakes being made
the formatting should carry the exact tone
as stated by Will who knew of poetic trade
penning many hundreds in iambic cone
one did dare Shakespeare's enduring trail
on attempting his fourteen line layout
oh yes the challenging road did prevail
depicting a time honoured rhyming rout
with couplet concise one shall fly away
leaving a poem of red roses in May
Mar 20, 2021
Mar 20, 2021 at 1:20 AM UTC
I’m new to formatting my poetry
Can someone help me figure out Japanese Lantern poems and other forms?
Google isn’t a help
Jan 11, 2019
Jan 11, 2019 at 5:07 PM UTC
Celestials.
Vibrations
of creation.
Sirens
calling.
Creation’s
song,
permeating
all.
Seeds of
origin.
Planted.
Information
erupts,
exchanges.
Echos
reverberating
time
immemorial.
Spinning,
formatting.
Mirrors
of eternity,
reality.
Reflecting.
Never
ending
fractal
scenes.
Playing
out.
Beyond
conception
creator
aside.
Awash
in ripples.
Energy.
Giver
of substance.
Purveyor
of life.
Purpose?
No purpose!
No reason
understood.
Self
generation.
Never ending.
Never ending
story
of the
evermore.
Nov 29, 2024
Nov 29, 2024 at 9:48 PM UTC