"philisophical" poems - Hello Poetry

Where will this take us now? Is it us who outruly guiding us as we march dramaticly to the next room? Will it be us who slams the door shut, or will we be boxed in with some automatic door opening and closing as more and more people come right in? Will we move along romanticing every little acomplishment we do, or will we morbidly and silently stubble on as we are poked and proded to keep moving? Will we finally rest as we see fit, or will we be told we have done enough? We all can easily anwser this in a way most people would generaly. We could stubernly and pridefuly declare that nothing shakles and moves us from one feeding trough to the next. We could so easily be just another rebel with a hollow cause that eagerly awaits to rip open the binds of all those around him, and finally take his spot in the limelight of respect and admirition. We can continue to dream and strive to be the philisophical moses of our generation, and lead our fellow brothers and sisters into a time where we all walk at our own pase, we all slam the doors we ourselves opened, and take any path we wish to travel in a way we feel best suits us. We could all be the one to hold on to the chains, or let the cattle go, but all of us are simply black sheep. So again I ask, who? I do not know, but I non the less seek an anwser. Where will this take us now?

0

Mar 27, 2014

Mar 27, 2014 at 8:53 PM UTC

ghodan

Where?

Where will this take us now? Is it us who outruly guiding us as we march dramaticly to the next room? Will it be us who slams the door shut, or will we be boxed in with some automatic door opening and closing as more and more people come right in? Will we move along romanticing every little acomplishment we do, or will we morbidly and silently stubble on as we are poked and proded to keep moving? Will we finally rest as we see fit, or will we be told we have done enough? We all can easily anwser this in a way most people would generaly. We could stubernly and pridefuly declare that nothing shakles and moves us from one feeding trough to the next. We could so easily be just another rebel with a hollow cause that eagerly awaits to rip open the binds of all those around him, and finally take his spot in the limelight of respect and admirition. We can continue to dream and strive to be the philisophical moses of our generation, and lead our fellow brothers and sisters into a time where we all walk at our own pase, we all slam the doors we ourselves opened, and take any path we wish to travel in a way we feel best suits us. We could all be the one to hold on to the chains, or let the cattle go, but all of us are simply black sheep. So again I ask, who? I do not know, but I non the less seek an anwser. Where will this take us now?

4

There are thousands of us here In this small part of the internet. We are thousands, Voices of all natures. I wonder how many in all The corners of the world? Here alone are thousands Which plant seeds of philisophical change And the evolution of our society. How many words will it take To declare the state of humanity As the world goes deaf and blind? Every once in a while I see a poem With a national headline, Some black kid shot by a white cop. Then the poem disappears, The poet and his or her fellow Writers retreat inward Jumping into nothingness Of feelings and self loathe. We carry a banner with a million Words and nothing to say in unision. Oh God, is this the path of the poets? But suddenly I realise And I see I am just as shallow As the next, The pulse of the world will not Beat with poets, Though poets can be the racing pulse Of change. Let the poets unite on common ground! Cry out against something in unision. We are thousands of voices That cannot yell. How many of us here on the internet? How hard is it to rise against The machine and bring About change truly to the soul, To see ourselves rise up With our words? What we speak we will write, What change we write Will give birth to humanity.

0

Dec 9, 2015

Dec 9, 2015 at 8:07 PM UTC

dedpoet

State of Poets

There are thousands of us here In this small part of the internet. We are thousands, Voices of all natures. I wonder how many in all The corners of the world? Here alone are thousands Which plant seeds of philisophical change And the evolution of our society. How many words will it take To declare the state of humanity As the world goes deaf and blind? Every once in a while I see a poem With a national headline, Some black kid shot by a white cop. Then the poem disappears, The poet and his or her fellow Writers retreat inward Jumping into nothingness Of feelings and self loathe. We carry a banner with a million Words and nothing to say in unision. Oh God, is this the path of the poets? But suddenly I realise And I see I am just as shallow As the next, The pulse of the world will not Beat with poets, Though poets can be the racing pulse Of change. Let the poets unite on common ground! Cry out against something in unision. We are thousands of voices That cannot yell. How many of us here on the internet? How hard is it to rise against The machine and bring About change truly to the soul, To see ourselves rise up With our words? What we speak we will write, What change we write Will give birth to humanity.

43

I was raised on a montage Standing with roses on top of a grave Sentimental afterfacts that neither care to give Discipline that neither can ignore Cyanide adorned curtain cats Pictured in red and iridescent Topped with normal cleansers and beauties Saught all in fall and in the summer The winter and the spring Easter Egg knocks between broken wings Philisophical differences on just cause Topped with Red Dynamite in far away caves Fortune’s mistreatment Piece of pie

0

Jan 18, 2013

Jan 18, 2013 at 11:06 AM UTC

jmac

Montage

I was raised on a montage Standing with roses on top of a grave Sentimental afterfacts that neither care to give Discipline that neither can ignore Cyanide adorned curtain cats Pictured in red and iridescent Topped with normal cleansers and beauties Saught all in fall and in the summer The winter and the spring Easter Egg knocks between broken wings Philisophical differences on just cause Topped with Red Dynamite in far away caves Fortune’s mistreatment Piece of pie

15

I've been stuck reading a deranged book Where twelve year olds are ***** And a small child is more philisophical than my professor. It makes me want to become "Manda and the Giant Peach". But instead I grab a steak knife and a peach from the fridge. I listen to the rain on the tin roof. It is a deafining constant. It's the soundtrack to infinity. Every other time you blink You're naked in a bathtub in a mental institution, With some lady named Mrs. White Looking down at you as you throw a fit. I throw good fits. I hate to blink back to my peach and my knife and my book. I might as well just throw another fit And throw the peach away. Oh Mrs. White?

0

Jul 10, 2013

Jul 10, 2013 at 9:48 PM UTC

itsfinemom

Thrashing

I've been stuck reading a deranged book Where twelve year olds are ***** And a small child is more philisophical than my professor. It makes me want to become "Manda and the Giant Peach". But instead I grab a steak knife and a peach from the fridge. I listen to the rain on the tin roof. It is a deafining constant. It's the soundtrack to infinity. Every other time you blink You're naked in a bathtub in a mental institution, With some lady named Mrs. White Looking down at you as you throw a fit. I throw good fits. I hate to blink back to my peach and my knife and my book. I might as well just throw another fit And throw the peach away. Oh Mrs. White?

17

The mother feels Accomplished. Finished. By the the birth of the child. Then the rest of the life Weighs down on him. I have seen it. I have felt it. And on her death bed At least he will Be there. And that idea will be passed Through generations. But I do not like children. I do not like putting others Under pressure. So who will hold my hand When my time comes? I carry All the love In the world With nowhere To place it.

0

Dec 20, 2015

Dec 20, 2015 at 10:51 PM UTC

ray-suarez

Philisophical? Or Too Many Beers?

The mother feels Accomplished. Finished. By the the birth of the child. Then the rest of the life Weighs down on him. I have seen it. I have felt it. And on her death bed At least he will Be there. And that idea will be passed Through generations. But I do not like children. I do not like putting others Under pressure. So who will hold my hand When my time comes? I carry All the love In the world With nowhere To place it.

23