"plotline" poems
I didn't mean to bother you.
I know you're busy.
And as it turns out,
I'm bad at apologies.
So here's a poem:
Rose are red,
Violets are blue,
I'm also bad at rhyming,
So here's a Haiku:
Haiku's aren't easy.
So I'm having some trouble.
How about a song:
This is a song without music
So it's not very good
But you should know
That I'm sorry
Hey, Hey,
I'm sorry for bothering you
Hey, Hey,
Maybe I should try a Limerick instead:
There once was a guy named Dan
He had just eaten some ham
He tried to write stories
To say he was sorry
But everything he wrote was bland
Alright, so maybe the Limerick thing didn't work out either
.
.
.
Hmmmmmmm
.
.
.
Oh! Oh! How about an epic story!?
(But you just said you were bad at those)
It was a dark and stormy night.
(Come on, that's lame)
SHUT UP, BRAIN. I'M TRYING TO MAKE THIS APOLOGY CUTE.
.
.
.
Ahem
.
.
.
So there we were, alone out on the battlefield. A single hawk circled above.
"I don't know how much more of this heat I can take," you told me.
We continued walking when suddenly, a giant tiger with teeth as sharp as a knives jumped out in front of us!
"Why is there a tiger in this desert!" you screamed in horror.
"Don't question the plotline!" I yelled raising my sword.
The tiger leaped at me with all its might.
"I'll protect you, my dear!"
I dodged left; sword still at the ready. The tiger turned around slowly, his dark eyes burning into my soul. What could I possibly do to defeat this huge beast? The tiger jumped again, but this time I was ready. I ran at him and slid onto my knees. As the tiger lept over me I thrusted my sword upwards into its stomach, killing it instantly.
We had survived the attack, went to find shelter, and lived happily ever after. The End
Long story short: I'm bad at saying sorry, I don't know what that story had to do with saying sorry, and I hope this made you laugh a little. It certainly made me feel better writing it.
This Thanksgiving, I'm happy you're back in my life. :)
Peace.
Nov 27, 2013
Nov 27, 2013 at 11:13 PM UTC
Life is the prattle of an old lady.
She squawks either too loudly
or makes you crane to hear.
as she sits rocking,
her senile nonsense numbs your intelligence
until you sit bleary-
gaping at the air
like the fattest fish in the aquarium.
your every comment drowns
in the mush
of her tapioca voice.
you sit uncomfortably in her fishbowl world of
cottage cheese,
faded floral print- lace doilies
and contemplate your deft superiority
as her denture clicks gnaw on your sanity.
as soon as you think
a vague plotline surfaces in her mumbling
a new great aunt’s third cousin’s baby
weaves its way into the conversation,
and you are hopelessly thrown
like a reused dryer sheet
back into the colored load.
occasionally you attempt to establish a connection
between you and the venerable wrinkled smile
but she mishears and begins another
disconnected strain
featuring Bobby, the lad turned soldier.
but
just
as soon as you gain confidence
that you know how to handle this doddery senior-
she slams you with a small token
of sage advice
that shatters your naïve sphere
with its mind-wrenching validity.
Nov 21, 2013
Nov 21, 2013 at 9:10 PM UTC
There's a room somewhere,
locked fast behind an unassuming door
looming grey-brown at the end of a
misshapen corridor.
Inside, the relics of a time lost in time
to time.
A mitt, engraved with the counterfeit signature
of a ballplayer whose name once rang a bell,
smelling of adolescent sweat,
still dusted with sandlot crumbs,
a reminder of those ground *****
that sped by too fast to field,
those fly ***** just out of reach,
suspended in a June twilight
lost to time.
Ribbons and awards and certificates,
signed by leaders of puny regimes
paved and repaved over,
proof of a world before this,
an era of (now) perceived achievement,
legitimized, glorified by Old English type
printed on recyclable stock paper.
Ticket stubs from blockbuster flops,
receipts of a linear plotline:
Drama, comedy, a budding romance -
Temporarily amusing on such a spacious screen
but ultimately unfulfilling;
the plot peters towards the end.
Lost in time the boy cries out
with no one left to answer but the man
who, as quietly as he entered it,
exits the room,
as always, leaving the door just ajar,
enough to muffle the shrieks of a little boy
chasing an invisible horizon.
Oct 23, 2012
Oct 23, 2012 at 8:46 PM UTC
“Write about *** I whisper to myself
“No. No, that’s disgusting” I respond with vigor
“Write about love.” I suggest in the condescending tone adults often take with me
But I do not want to write about love,
I have never been in love
I have never felt anything like love
I hate writing about love
I hate the pronouns
I always want to write about hers
About the smell of perfume on her dress
And the way her hair curls and twists like the plotline of an Oscar Wilde novel
I always want to write about she’s
And the way she never makes fun of my silence
And the way she laughs
And the way she cheats off of me in geometry,
Even though we both know my answers are always wrong
She’s like a triangle
A cute
But if I were a shape
I’d be obtuse
Because when we walk to together in the hallway I always get the urge to grab her hand
But I never have
And I want to tell her to take off her makeup because she’s just so perfect
And you know she cried last week and I didn't know what to say
I never know what to say around her
But she never minds, she can have a conversation with me and I never have to say anything
And some days it takes all my restraint
Not to write about her
And I want to write about how I love her
I want to write about the way I love her
But hatred always hits me in the gut
And pain in the face
And shame cripples my fingers
So that I can never write she
And when he comes out of my pen
I rip the pages of my failed poem out of my notebook
And cry
Because I can’t stand writing lies
Aug 2, 2013
Aug 2, 2013 at 9:15 PM UTC
(3 hours. 3 years. A lifetime.)
1. 'and the Doctor said, "are you saying you feel guilty unless you are hungry?"
Discuss, with reference to the roles of female c haracters in the American moderns, particularly to Plath's representation of Esther in The Bell Jar , the relevance of this quote to your adolescent development.
(10 marks)
2. Should a poet's work invariably utilise enjambment or read in sequence, allowing the poet freedom to let the poetry find it's own form?
(Candidates are encouraged to explore the source to which the question above alludes, and to formulate an original argument with an effective use of rhetorical devices to communicate it,)
(8 marks)
3. Elucidate your role as a daughter, then compare and contrast it with your role as a student. Use quotes directly taken from personal experiences and your own examples to clairfy your explanation.
(5 marks)
4. They are all looking at you and laughing at you. You are a joke. You are hallucinating and haven't slept in days. How does this make you/the reader feel and do you think this was a part of your plotline intended to elicit a particular response?
(5 marks)
5. Love is not unconditional. Discuss.
(10 marks.)
6. "To live is to suffer, to survive is to find some meaning in the suffering."
This famous quote by Nietzsche presents him as a nihilistic and misanthropic individual. Do you see him in this light or can you find hope in his hopeless stance? Use examples of your own suffering to corroborate your viewpoint.
(8 marks)
7. Is morality a prerequisite for appreciation of art? Are you? Are you appreciating/appreciated? Discuss.
(10 marks)
8. Calculate the 369th digit of pi as the fractal proxy to represent the infinite worlds contained witin each human being, and in doing so determine the contribution that you and the offspring you will most probably never have cannot contribute to the world shared between the infinite number of individuals posessing their own words, continuing on to deduct your own value from that of the mean value of the population considered in this infinite data set and draw up a graph to visually demonstrate the extent to which the world doesn't need you.
(15 marks)
9. Using the individual calculations formulated in question 8, derive the meaning of Y.
(5 marks)
10. Draw the shape of your sadness
(20 marks)
11. Don't you think you should have learnt by now?
(25 marks)
12. Explain what you are hoping for, and substantiate your hopes with empirical support.
(5 marks)
Dec 28, 2014
Dec 28, 2014 at 11:25 PM UTC
*is russell brand the presenter on the pointless blog?
i swear it's russel brand! no wait, it's someone
called alfred dyson... ***** the fun out of it
it's still russell brand to me, eating pickles for
he he giggles.*
you know, the only reason i cried when i first
watched the cinematic passion of the christ,
it wasn't the plot and the outline,
i cried when i heard the resurrection of ancient
Aramaic... that got me... it pierced my soul...
so you're living with your parents
because the nigerians and saudi arabs bought
you out of right for home ownership,
and in the background you just hear an i.v.f.
baby argument, a test-tube baby argument damning
you for not enough capitalistic incentive...
herr doctor freud comes in too into the plotline...
and then you turn back and watch russell brand
on the pointless blog discovering sardines in
digestive juices of preservation of sour marbles
in the museum alongside mummies.
*brian molko already did the trans-gender **** me
mascara look without, as the homosexuals already said:
well i did confuse the **** with the ****
but by god i didn't confuse the ******* emblem with
architecture and warring attempts...
brian molko made the girls jealous with his
androgynous appeal... girls got jealous,
pressurised the trans-gender movement to a tic tac toe.*
Mar 6, 2016
Mar 6, 2016 at 6:25 PM UTC
It may happen today
That moment of glory
When we do the impossible
and fade into legend
It might happen tomorrow
As they turn the page
You shout victoriously
and fade into legend
It might happen next week
When you take her hand in yours
Charging deeper into the plotline
and fade into legend
It started on page one
With the opening paragraph
That will enthrall a generation
and fade into legend
We are not here forever
Every story has an end
But the great will be remembered
and fade into legend
It may happen today
It's all up to you
Do it for the story
and fade into Legend
Apr 2, 2015
Apr 2, 2015 at 11:30 AM UTC
Night, blurred lines waver
Tired eyes read denouement
Now sweet sleep beckons.
This day different to the last
by the state of the weather
The length of the journey
The words both spoken and
left unshed.
This day constant in the heart
by the warmth of the glances
The need of the touches and
The words unspoken, whispered
and openly stated
Now we are at days end
and night throws it's cape wide
We settle the plotline and savour
the page...
Finis this chapter,
Tommorow a new page
Nov 22, 2024
Nov 22, 2024 at 9:00 AM UTC
in the coldest months i let the hair grow like ivy up the sides of an old house,
my old house of a body
let the blemishes form, i invited the oils into my pores and the dirt under my fingernails
i wanted to be ugly- (but not too much so)
i wanted eyes to not rest on me for long
i wanted to dissipate into the background
a chameleon girl,
a blurry figure at the edge of the movie screen
a girl just walking by
with no plotline or context
when she opens her mouth only ravens fly out
she wanted to erase all the places she had been hurt
but she could not reach far enough
so she became invisible, instead.
Jan 8, 2018
Jan 8, 2018 at 11:49 PM UTC