"gener" poems - Hello Poetry

The window is up; sounds of rain crinkle in, like the static in the voice of a faraway caller. My cats are perched, one grey, one tabby, listening with me, as we stare at miniature mudslides glaze gener- -ations of ants, probably clinging onto strands of grass; waiting to become the past. I think of success and what it means to me. I look in my wallet and count one-two-three; one reason to like the rain; two reasons to embrace strife; three reasons to consume pain; enough zeroes to choose a life not smothered in mud, not one where I cling onto the grass. I dream of a dream where my dollar bills can last.

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May 12, 2017

May 12, 2017 at 3:40 PM UTC

joshua-haines

26. An Old Mud Room; Degenerates

The window is up; sounds of rain crinkle in, like the static in the voice of a faraway caller. My cats are perched, one grey, one tabby, listening with me, as we stare at miniature mudslides glaze gener- -ations of ants, probably clinging onto strands of grass; waiting to become the past. I think of success and what it means to me. I look in my wallet and count one-two-three; one reason to like the rain; two reasons to embrace strife; three reasons to consume pain; enough zeroes to choose a life not smothered in mud, not one where I cling onto the grass. I dream of a dream where my dollar bills can last.

25

. o f hu man thin gs: ma ny doin g, thing s human are more n eatly couth i n Into-Dust co ats of polite var nish and their ha ats hang at precise their teeth ivory and the smell of their colo gne catches back at the throat wearing finest silk s (but time, time looks bru tally through their and prim shoes and trousers. knees sag eyes hang instantly languor w ears them like cheap perfume and laughter unsuddenly from nowhere crisps the cheeks of everywaiting sou l creeks with soon to be dirt bones and amongst them sprouts something gener ous. Less close to nearly dead, and has (l ike a frond has) demure sturdy waifish. its timber is clothed in blonde lips and eyes lik e waking almost never(no like daffodils; yes l ike more them) only daffodils, they are not so b right, nor as agile, i think but who knows i was o nly a boy who, from across the street noticed, a girl pressed between death, laughing like a *****

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Sep 19, 2012

Sep 19, 2012 at 2:36 AM UTC

patrick-wakefield-1

of human things many

. o f hu man thin gs: ma ny doin g, thing s human are more n eatly couth i n Into-Dust co ats of polite var nish and their ha ats hang at precise their teeth ivory and the smell of their colo gne catches back at the throat wearing finest silk s (but time, time looks bru tally through their and prim shoes and trousers. knees sag eyes hang instantly languor w ears them like cheap perfume and laughter unsuddenly from nowhere crisps the cheeks of everywaiting sou l creeks with soon to be dirt bones and amongst them sprouts something gener ous. Less close to nearly dead, and has (l ike a frond has) demure sturdy waifish. its timber is clothed in blonde lips and eyes lik e waking almost never(no like daffodils; yes l ike more them) only daffodils, they are not so b right, nor as agile, i think but who knows i was o nly a boy who, from across the street noticed, a girl pressed between death, laughing like a *****

38

Træt af verden de samme problemer om hinandens forhold, finans og færden og hinandens gener Træt af medier de samme ord om politik, pres og profetier og om mord Træt af diskussioner de samme dilemmaer om respekt, risici og religioner og om diskriminationer Træt af mennesker de samme forskrifter om tilpasning, teaterroller og tjenester og om urostiftere (Marolle)

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Apr 1, 2015

Apr 1, 2015 at 1:57 PM UTC

marolle

Om at være træt

Træt af verden de samme problemer om hinandens forhold, finans og færden og hinandens gener Træt af medier de samme ord om politik, pres og profetier og om mord Træt af diskussioner de samme dilemmaer om respekt, risici og religioner og om diskriminationer Træt af mennesker de samme forskrifter om tilpasning, teaterroller og tjenester og om urostiftere (Marolle)

17

I feel The rubble under my toes The lost destiny Beneath my feet The past Portrayed defeat More work to be done Than minutes Left In the clock's small hands Then I bent my knees To to undue the destruction Though I won't finish Before my seconds Diminish The second Gener- Ation May make it Just a little weight From the bolders Lifted off thier shoulders The beginning Has to start somewhere Why not Where the apparent - Ending is sitting Right next to us - Let's use the strength Of a billion men To lift the curtains As they fall If "happily ever" Ever wants to happen We have to accept It's probably "After" We're dead Whose strong enough To face this truth This fear And work through the tears Of our demise Which Will be met Before our son rises Don't wipe your eyes! Let our cries Form the oceans That were ****** dry In our time So our children Will view earth As it once was Once "was" Becomes us We'll be proud of what we were And maybe For the first time History wont repeat itself

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May 14, 2014

May 14, 2014 at 10:59 PM UTC

joseph-childress

After World War III

I feel The rubble under my toes The lost destiny Beneath my feet The past Portrayed defeat More work to be done Than minutes Left In the clock's small hands Then I bent my knees To to undue the destruction Though I won't finish Before my seconds Diminish The second Gener- Ation May make it Just a little weight From the bolders Lifted off thier shoulders The beginning Has to start somewhere Why not Where the apparent - Ending is sitting Right next to us - Let's use the strength Of a billion men To lift the curtains As they fall If "happily ever" Ever wants to happen We have to accept It's probably "After" We're dead Whose strong enough To face this truth This fear And work through the tears Of our demise Which Will be met Before our son rises Don't wipe your eyes! Let our cries Form the oceans That were ****** dry In our time So our children Will view earth As it once was Once "was" Becomes us We'll be proud of what we were And maybe For the first time History wont repeat itself

64

This place is Full of terrib- le poetry and people who t hink they can write. I hate this pla- ce and all of it's love and hate a- nd death poetry written by kids with no idea ab out life in gener al

0

Oct 22, 2014

Oct 22, 2014 at 9:35 AM UTC

gypsy-bard

Hello Poetry is terrible

This place is Full of terrib- le poetry and people who t hink they can write. I hate this pla- ce and all of it's love and hate a- nd death poetry written by kids with no idea ab out life in gener al

14

det var måske meget sundt for mig at du alligevel ombestemte dig og indså at jeg ikke var værd at bruge tid på for det dumme naive smil klæder mig alligevel ikke jeg ser smukkest ud når jeg ikke kan trække vejret og endnu engang fik du bare bekræftet mig i at jeg ikke kan elskes af nogen eller noget mine gener er forbandede og mit hjerte er så ******* knækket og det her var sidste gang jeg åbnede mig for en der udgav sig for at være noget han ikke var så det var nok alligevel meget sundt for mig at blive mindet om at jeg ikke er værd at elske for jeg er dømt til at være alene og nyde min ensomhed

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Nov 17, 2015

Nov 17, 2015 at 4:07 PM UTC

ungdomspoet

ensomhed

det var måske meget sundt for mig at du alligevel ombestemte dig og indså at jeg ikke var værd at bruge tid på for det dumme naive smil klæder mig alligevel ikke jeg ser smukkest ud når jeg ikke kan trække vejret og endnu engang fik du bare bekræftet mig i at jeg ikke kan elskes af nogen eller noget mine gener er forbandede og mit hjerte er så ******* knækket og det her var sidste gang jeg åbnede mig for en der udgav sig for at være noget han ikke var så det var nok alligevel meget sundt for mig at blive mindet om at jeg ikke er værd at elske for jeg er dømt til at være alene og nyde min ensomhed

15

Or poserai per sempre, stanco mio cor. Perì l'inganno estremo, Ch'eterno io mi credei. Perì. Ben sento, in noi di cari inganni, non che la speme, il desiderio è spento. Posa per sempre. Assai palpitasti. Non val cosa nessuna i moti tuoi, né di sospiri è degna la terra. Amaro e noia la vita, altro mai nulla; e fango è il mondo. T'acqueta omai. Dispera l'ultima volta. Al gener nostro il fato non donò che il morire. Omai disprezza te, la natura, il brutto poter che, ascoso, a comun danno impera, E l'infinita vanità del tutto.

0

663

Giacomo Leopardi

Untitled

Or poserai per sempre, stanco mio cor. Perì l'inganno estremo, Ch'eterno io mi credei. Perì. Ben sento, in noi di cari inganni, non che la speme, il desiderio è spento. Posa per sempre. Assai palpitasti. Non val cosa nessuna i moti tuoi, né di sospiri è degna la terra. Amaro e noia la vita, altro mai nulla; e fango è il mondo. T'acqueta omai. Dispera l'ultima volta. Al gener nostro il fato non donò che il morire. Omai disprezza te, la natura, il brutto poter che, ascoso, a comun danno impera, E l'infinita vanità del tutto.

16