"fullstops" poems
My poems don't have a sentence.
They're vague, unfinished, unclear.
And they certainly don't address the reader,
For that would be unprofessional, dear.
My poems don't have a meaning.
They're meant to be read and understood.
And they certainly don't have a title.
Yes, guidance is not at all good.
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Commas and them old fullstops.
Questions? Hah! What do they even do?
Exclamations? What silly ideas!
My poems don't need you!
Yes, my poems never rhyme.
For what use will it lend?
Yes, my poems never hold ironic lies.
And of course, they'll never end.
Aug 3, 2018
Aug 3, 2018 at 6:07 AM UTC
i used to hate fullstops
i hated the way they ended
stories which i never wanted
to see ending
i hated the way they sit
on the side of a page
thinking that they had the authority
to stop. and restart
i hated the way they didn't signify
a beginning, only an end
and the possibility of things continuing
were never certain
but what was certain,
was it's end
poetry‘s not meant to be certain
it's not meant to close up a story with a single line
or a single rhyme
must less a single dot
but then your life starts spinning
and suddenly you're looking at this tiny dot
and just wishing it could appear in your life
so that your story can finally end.
Aug 28, 2015
Aug 28, 2015 at 7:58 PM UTC
Every book has a last page, every song a last verse to sing.
Every sentence its full stop, every beginning its ending.
Every existence will one day cease to be,
In the inevitability of death, there is unity.
'Death is simply a beginning,' confidently some state.
'In death, there is nothingness,' others iterate.
But the lock of death in the living world has no key.
In the ignorance of death, there is unity.
In the hearts of some resides unwavering misery.
Others march on, donning costumes of pseudo-normalcy.
The actuality of their loss, still others refuse to see.
In the incoherence of death, there is unity.
Cinema, literature, poetry have ostensibly tried to explain,
With the knowledge directors, littérateurs, poets feign.
No living soul can grasp its intense incongruity,
In the incomprehensibility of death, there is unity
Mar 5, 2015
Mar 5, 2015 at 8:34 AM UTC
I hate using fullstops in my poems.
I want you to smoothly glide
Line to line,
Perhaps let a comma guide
You here and there
But no stops,
Just inhalations,
Imbibation
Of free flowing sentences
That carry you comfortably afloat,
To the fluid denouement
Of the poem I wrote
Sep 20, 2014
Sep 20, 2014 at 1:20 PM UTC
from your pen
bleeds thousands
and thousands
of tragedies
the cries of people
in a surrender
against your hands
the screams of
devastation
incredibly rotten
plans to burn
the world
from your mouth
came whispers
that start
tornadoes and
earthquakes
heartbreaks
funerals
they all flow
and there is no
comma
nor fullstops
epilogue:
one day, i heard you laughing and saying that funerals are the real fun.
Mar 9, 2016
Mar 9, 2016 at 1:41 PM UTC
Turn around as the moments pause
as fullstops escape a rooted fool
watching the admiration melt
those words that flow to silence
from a ****** to the verified meanders
every time now and again the bitter taste
acclimatise the altitude of my brains
far beyond any bearable responses
of the tiny tiny teases and leases
The rope is stricken in handheld tickets
roaring as the rocket of emotions pocket
sirens picket setting the rotten resistance
one that is quieter than the quiet quoted
as the phrases evaporate in misty clouds
remnants of sweetness decant unknown
the pace slows and the taste envenom
painting the blues in a pungent smile
Mar 8, 2018
Mar 8, 2018 at 1:21 PM UTC
It was when I first found myself
So deep in a conversation,
Perhaps without any comas and fullstops.
It was then that I came back to my senses.
It was then when I first noticed
That my subconscious mind was imitating you in my speech,
It was then that I noticed how in your absence a bit of you still lingers.
There and then I was convinced,
Without a doubt that I was in love.
Oct 16, 2020
Oct 16, 2020 at 3:19 PM UTC