"publishing" poems
Everyone talks about depression as if they know it.
But what they don’t know is that depression is a hooded figure standing just outside of a wooden doorway,
it’s feeling the blood dripping down your skin and having the sick thought of “Oh, look how beautiful the red is” (they always say red is my color).
Depression is lying on your bed for hours on end, salt tracks lining your face like the scars on your ankles, staring at your ceiling tracing patterns in the paint and accepting death in life with this hole in your chest because death is a reward, an escape from this pain you deserve to feel.
Depression is writing sick poetry on skin and publishing it with scars, cutting on ankles, not wrists because you’re scared you’ll get in trouble but you so desperately need to be seen, and never are.
Depression is writing the word “alone” and seeing the word “home”, accepting the pain like a gift because you deserve it.
Depression is admitting suicidal thoughts to paper and not to people, and loving the broken things, hoping to tie them together, thinking maybe things will get better, but knowing that’s just wishful thinking.
Depression is hearing your mother call you monster and disgusting through the too-thin walls of your door when she thinks you can’t hear, and then telling you to your face that you have no right to cry, as if sadness is a privilege and you’re so pathetic that you don’t deserve it.
Depression is shutting yourself up in your room and hearing your family laughing downstairs because you feel like you can’t be a part of them and learning at a young age to love family always but that family isn’t always love
Depression is wanting to take love and your heart and break them into tiny little pieces and throw them into waves, to throw them away
Depression is a foot when the shoe hasn’t been broken in yet, is you when you haven’t broken life in, is seeing happy people and thinking they all look the same, like the front covers of magazines with smiles reaching their eyes when yours can’t.
Depression is wishing you could package your smiles into tiny little piles and hand them to people more deserving of them because you know you’re wasting them with half-assed lines of “I’m fine”
Depression is having to view your past as if it wasn’t yours, because to accept it as reality is to accept finality of your life through suicide.
Depression is a hooded figure standing just outside of a wooden doorway and when you close the door out of fear it keeps pounding, possessive, ****** and when you open the door out of anger you shout, “I’M SCARED” to thin air but your voice comes out as a whisper.
Feb 25, 2014
Feb 25, 2014 at 8:34 PM UTC
Anything can
look like a poem
and sound philosophical
simply by moving
the words on
different lines.
Am I doing it right?
Is this
really
talent?
Art?
Effort?
I think I am trying.
Really, I am
I go back and change the order
and I break lines
where it sounds right
But it does not take me long.
Not at all.
I try to be
intentional
and call it natural rhythm.
Instinct and style taking over
I alternate between
agonizing every detail
like When to Capitalize
and publishing free form poems without looking over them twice.
How is writing supposed to feel?
Should I labor?
or should it flow?
Or do I get to decide?
I think the things I talk of
mean something
at least.
But am I just
pretentious?
fooling myself into thinking that
using common poetry formats
somehow makes my work worthwhile?
May 23, 2018
May 23, 2018 at 5:12 PM UTC
Why is hellopoetry.com black and white? I've always wondered about this... why my colorful photographs are required to travel back in time. How does this effect the poetry in any way, shape, or form? But I understand the wisdom of this design now. And it sets a great metaphor for all of the people of the pen involved in this truly noble motion, this secret society for people with passion, talent, and troubled minds and souls. Hello Poetry is black and white not because it has to be monochromatic and modern, but because us poets fill these pages with enough inovativeness and color already with our words, ideas, thoughts, songs, senryus, ballads, heartbreaks, insecurities, that adding literal color to this website would be overwhelming. These soft undertones of gray, black, and white may be considered drab and depressing to some, but to us poets it represents timelessness. And this is probably why we are all here. Hourly, daily, weekly, monthly, or even yearly publishing poems. Because we all know we are not going to live forever, and we are so entirely insignificant in the broad scheme of things and of the universe itself, that it is a bit comforting and helpful to have this coping mechanism or soft blankie to calm our fears, that this literature we write, however insignificant it may be, is absolutley permanent. And that maybe someday it will be remembered so a small bit of us may live on. Tom Riddle knew the needs and wants of man kind before anybody else realized it. Maybe he was just trying to cope with the fact that he is insignificant. These poems are all our Horcruxes so viveamus per camenam nostram.
Apr 5, 2014
Apr 5, 2014 at 5:19 PM UTC
Depression is a hooded figure standing just outside of a wooden doorway,
Blood dripping down your skin and having the sick thought of “Oh, look how beautiful the red is”
(everyone always says red is my color).
Depression is writing sick poetry on skin and publishing it with scars, cutting on ankles, not wrists because you’re scared you’ll get in trouble but you so desperately need to be seen, and never are.
Depression is accepting ruin in life with this hole in your chest because death is a reward, an escape from this pain you deserve to feel.
It is writing the word “alone” and seeing the word “home”, accepting the torment like a gift because you’ve earned it.
Depression is admitting suicidal thoughts to paper and not to people, and loving the broken things, hoping to tie them together, thinking maybe things will get better, but knowing that’s just wishful thinking because
Depression is tying yourself together with the severed nerves in your heart;
It is rope, it is ribbon, it is thread, it is DNA;
It is hearing your mother call you monster and disgusting through the too-thin walls of your door when she thinks you can’t hear,
And depression is sadness being a privilege you’re too pathetic to have.
It is a hug, a freezing touch, a reminder that
Depression is being birthed a lie.
And it is shutting yourself behind that wooden doorway
And hearing your family laugh like cackling hyenas,
Eating at your self esteem like softened prey
And learning at a young age to love family always but that family isn’t always love because
Depression is family.
It is an unfurnished home,
An empty frame,
A foot when the shoe hasn’t been broken in yet,
you when life hasn't been broken in yet,
Seeing happy people and thinking they all look the same, like the front covers of magazines with grins reaching their eyes while yours can’t, and wishing you could package your smiles into tiny little piles and hand them to people more deserving of them because you know you’re wasting them with half-assed lines of “I’m fine”
Depression is having to view your past as if it wasn’t yours, because to accept it as reality is to accept finality of your life through suicide.
It is the note masked inside of a poem,
Envisioning pills as if they were peace,
Depression is the last stanza,
It is the audience,
It is this microphone,
It is me standing in a room full of strangers
And for the first time finally feeling like I'm being heard.
Depression is a hooded figure standing just outside of a wooden doorway that keeps pounding, possessive, ****** but when you open the door out of anger and shout “I’M SCARED” to thin air, your voice comes out as a whisper.
And silently, the figure replies;
“I know your favorite color.”
Mar 4, 2014
Mar 4, 2014 at 8:04 PM UTC
Everyone talks about depression as if they know it.
But what they don’t know
is that depression is a hooded figure standing just outside of a wooden doorway,
it’s feeling the blood dripping down your skin and having the sick thought of
“Oh, look how beautiful the red is”
Depression is lying on your bed for hours on end,
salt tracks lining your face like the scars on your ankles,
staring at your ceiling
tracing patterns in the paint and accepting death in life with this hole in your chest
because death is a reward,
an escape from this pain you deserve to feel.
Depression is writing sick poetry on skin and publishing it with scars,
cutting on ankles,
not wrists
because you’re scared you’ll get in trouble
but you so desperately need to be seen,
and never are.
Depression is writing the word “alone”
and seeing the word
“home”,
accepting the pain like a gift because you deserve it.
Depression is admitting suicidal thoughts to paper and not to people,
and loving the broken things,
hoping to tie them together,
thinking maybe things will get better,
but knowing that’s just wishful thinking.
Depression is hearing your mother call you monster and disgusting
through the too-thin walls of your door
when she thinks you can’t hear,
and then telling you to your face that you have no right to cry,
as if sadness is a privilege and you’re so pathetic that you don’t deserve it.
Depression is shutting yourself up in your room
and hearing your family laughing downstairs
because you feel like you can’t be a part of them
and learning at a young age to love family always
but that family isn’t always love
Depression is wanting to take
love and your heart
and break them into tiny little pieces and throw them into waves,
to throw them away
Depression is a foot when the shoe hasn’t been broken in yet,
is when you haven’t broken life in,
is seeing happy people and thinking they all look the same,
like the front covers of magazines
with smiles reaching their eyes when yours can’t.
Depression is wishing you could package your smiles
into tiny little piles and hand them to people more deserving of them
because you know you’re wasting them with half-assed lines of
“I’m fine.”
Depression is having to view your past
as if it wasn’t yours.
Depression is a hooded figure standing just outside
of a wooden doorway
and when you close the door out of fear
it keeps pounding,
possessive,
******
and when you open the door out of anger you shout,
“I’M SCARED”
to thin air
but your voice comes out as a whisper.
Dec 4, 2014
Dec 4, 2014 at 11:01 PM UTC
slave is someone who does not have authority over their own lives slave is someone subservient controlled dominated by somebody something slave works very hard for little or no pay slave is property of somebody something slave is someone forced to obey
sycophant is someone servile who overly flatters more powerful individual for personal gain sycophant is bootlicker brown-noser fawner flunkey doormat lackey lap-dog yes-men parasite toad-eater (pause reposition) somebody possessed of excessive vanity may cultivate sycophant swarms
side by side they stand clothed in black not quite similar the one slightly taller possibly because the other suffers poor posture perhaps they are related because in odd way they appear alike or of same ilk yet upon closer scrutiny it becomes apparent they have very little or nothing in common the taller one with troubled sad eyes the other smiling obsequiously the taller one more muscular ***** from working menial labor the other with curved spine slumped shoulders because of undue bowing and crouching while blowing smoke up other people’s *****
sadist is someone who attains ****** gratification by inflicting physical pain shame to other people sadist is someone who delights in excessive cruelty degradation to others
********* is someone who achieves ****** pleasure from being hurt humiliated abused dominated punished often self-inflicted ********* is someone who enjoys being harmed misused mistreated ignored by others
sadomasochist is someone who gets ****** gratification by alternately or simultaneously enduring hurt causing pain to somebody else sadomasochist is combination of sadistic masochistic tendencies in someone who obtains ****** pleasure from inflicting submitting to pain cruelty
sycophant slave snakes up leg of movie actress dictator who gains pain through pleasure 2000 miles from equator IED cell phone detonator sycophant dilettante ***** up to sadistic art critic or publishing editor on escalator while below on main floor of shopping mall ice rink figure skater pirouettes bows to nominator surreptitiously bribed by infiltrator mutilator
Feb 27, 2011
Feb 27, 2011 at 4:38 AM UTC
I know of just too many Cyclopes,
Let me describe one of them better,
The one who preys on values of men.
So miniature he is - mere few inches,
So often in our pockets he is found,
So crooked he is with a single eye.
When among beautiful babes & gals,
He is active getting used in clicking,
Also used up is he sometimes by fishy men for fishier purposes.
This Cyclops was filming one such similar affair with a lady unaware,
Stripped naked was her body exposed to that bare,
Trick or truth, clothed or naked, she thought not about this cyborg Cyclops filming her **** ever in her wildest of fears.
The young lady is then blackmailed by the Cyclops's master,
"Be quiet about it and serve us in our industry,"
Threatened with publishing publicly of the moments - she gives in to this blackmail.
Feb 28, 2015
Feb 28, 2015 at 12:54 AM UTC
I will tell you what he told me
in the years just after the war
as we then called
the second world war
don't lose your arrogance yet he said
you can do that when you're older
lose it too soon and you may
merely replace it with vanity
just one time he suggested
changing the usual order
of the same words in a line of verse
why point out a thing twice
he suggested I pray to the Muse
get down on my knees and pray
right there in the corner and he
said he meant it literally
it was in the days before the beard
and the drink but he was deep
in tides of his own through which he sailed
chin sideways and head tilted like a tacking sloop
he was far older than the dates allowed for
much older than I was he was in his thirties
he snapped down his nose with an accent
I think he had affected in England
as for publishing he advised me
to paper my wall with rejection slips
his lips and the bones of his long fingers trembled
with the vehemence of his views about poetry
he said the great presence
that permitted everything and transmuted it
in poetry was passion
passion was genius and he praised movement and invention
I had hardly begun to read
I asked how can you ever be sure
that what you write is really
any good at all and he said you can't
you can't you can never be sure
you die without knowing
whether anything you wrote was any good
if you have to be sure don't write
4.7k
Out of boredom,
I open up an old novel I was writing at the age of 13.
I remember thinking I was a brilliant writer,
This book is publishing material.
I read it today and
Cringe
At
Every
Word.
Filled with teenage angst, raging hormones and everything in between.
Why did I think this passed,
For writing?!
Well at least I improved.
But I don't like the fact that,
In few years,
I will cringe at writing I did today.
Hell,
I was reading a poem I wrote last year,
It became trending,
And I think "how?"
Is this even worthy for a like?
Well, I can say I grew.
Oct 3, 2014
Oct 3, 2014 at 11:17 PM UTC
Within each and every one of us
is a unique culture:
Ethnocentrism
reaches just as far inward
as it does outward:
Just because
academia
has imposed it's own
fascist, totalitarian, absolute
definitions
does not mean
that it has final say:
i postulate
such adacemic-fetishism
is merely a byproduct of
propaganda
pushed by Big Money
rather than
a genuine insitution
of respectable edification:
that is
i see it as
a mere appeal
to authority;
a well-known logical fallacy
to those who are in the know.
Tread lightly.
Modern Academics
seems to be
yet another
corrupt branch
of Business;
little more.
Academic achievement
is not equivocal
to intellectual worth:
a graduate's degree
is moreso
a status symbol
than it is
a credential
anymore.
'T'is vile idolatry
in lieu of
an individual's personal philosophy;
that's not to say it's
absolutely worthless,
but it may as well be
in today's job market
(unless it's a business degree!)
Then again,
that's just my opinion.
i guess i oughtta shut up
before Edu-nazis shut me down.
Oops, did i type that out loud?
I'm so sorry, you see,
vhat i meant to say vas:
Heil Stanford!
Heil Harvord!
Heil Berkley!
Heil vhat i am told zu heil!
Heil zhe publishing companies!
Heil zhe holders of student loans!
Heil egredious student debt
in lieu of philosophical discourse,
let alone progress!
Heil vhat i see on TV!
Heil *******
Heil alkohol!
Heil gasoline!
Do not qvestion zhe dogma;
go back zu sleep, you sheep!
Feb 25, 2016
Feb 25, 2016 at 4:33 PM UTC
Two men, one poem.
This day, on this site.
Two men wrote to me.
One called me brother.
The other, an arrogant *****
Called me little.
One shared his life,
With humility and gratitude,
Then, I lost it.
Wept. Baby like.
Honored me with trust.
Swapped spit stories
That bled into my brain,
And a tattoo appeared on my
Writing arm, one word,
Humility.
One boasted of his beans.
His bean counting reads.
Analyzed his trends,
Predicting by Christmas (!),
He would have this many.
His **** poems he informed,
Would be published.
What need did he have
For punk-u-ation,
His rants, his **** stream of words.
Better than mine,
Just cause his stuff I said,
Not my cup of tea.
What a crazy place this place.
Holy and ******** sided.
Humble humble, always humble.
He invoked, this arrogant one,
God's name.
Not knowing I talk to Him.
So I rang Him up and said,
How did a little peenus-genius
Find his way onto this
Holy Place, HP, of kindness.
He smiled in brevity.
Did I not create both,
Angels and devils?
I love God's brevity.
His commas, his question marks,
His pointed punctuation.
I love that He could create
A man whose sight of
Me, unseen, but found capacity
To love me in ways
Undreamed.
Because I peered in to the man's reveal,
Saw quality, value,
Saw humility.
So of arrogance, I said,
I would write.
But it is of humility
I will sing,
Of loving human kindness extraordinaire.
Of weeping endless.
At the joy afforded me
To read so many lovely poems,
Here.
If my poems never see the
Imprimatur of a publishing house,
It matters not,
For I have seen a human being
Weep real tears reading mine.
I have shed rivers of my own
Upon discovering yours.
Humble, humble.
If it is glory you seek,
You will find it,
All alone. ************
Me, I live here, in the midst of a
Good Company.
Sept. 7th, 2013
Sep 7, 2013
Sep 7, 2013 at 4:49 AM UTC
nothing flights these skies tonite
nothing burns above our heads
or crackles in the air
or glows in the houses about us
as we pace the cool and empty
the alleys and the meatless streets
and the clean scaleless cobbles
carry our patternless birch-bare feet
a sail less nite
but a kite to the imagination
a bringer of new
lighter beings
osmosis
through our faultless immigration
Previously published [Show Thieves 2010 : An Anthology Of Contemporary Montreal Poetry - 8TH HOUSE PUBLISHING]
Nov 6, 2015
Nov 6, 2015 at 10:05 PM UTC
I'm currently attempting to publish my first poetry novel, Mom and Dad Had The Doctors Sew Our Third Eyes Shut. If any of you have the time and money to donate, I humbly ask you to please donate anything you can, even just a dollar helps! I am self publishing, so I need funds for copyright, printing/binding, processing orders and shipping. if you do donate you can get a free copy of the novel :)
thanks guys! the link is found below:
https://fundly.com/mom-and-dad-had-the-doctor-sew-our-third-eyes-shut#_
Jan 12, 2014
Jan 12, 2014 at 1:35 PM UTC
Is a million memories ...
Like your favourite Beatles track,
Like breakfast coffee in a Turin bar,
Like the old friends that never grow old,
Like your favourite Italian pasta in Rome,
Like summer swims in warm sea with cold rain,
Like the aria which sends shivers down your spine,
Like the magical taste of Gaja Barberesco for lunch,
Like coming home to a smiling face after a long trip,
Like your child buying you dinner for the first time,
Like how beautiful she was on your wedding day,
Like your first date movie being on TV again,
Like capturing a moment in a photograph,
Like rereading your favourite book,
Like watching Casablanca again,
Like publishing your first book,
Like living every moment...
... And a million more to come.
Nov 25, 2012
Nov 25, 2012 at 8:35 AM UTC
A broken down Chevy-
Doesn’t that sound like a country song?
My broken down Chevy
Is where my life started and I began to belong.
That little pickup stayed true to its name.
It could pick up and take me anywhere,
Or we could park in a field and I could write,
To me it was all the same.
Being behind its leather wheel
Was a freedom I’ll forever cherish.
Eighteen with nowhere to be
Except driving my Chevy, every joy I could feel.
When I lost my job
I gained an eviction.
But I still had my Chevy
And I had its bed to sleep in.
There was no work in my small town.
I knew I had to leave,
Just my Chevy and me.
We traveled for days to the biggest city we found.
By the time we arrived
My Chevy had begun to sputter,
It shook, it moaned, it stopped.
And there on the highway, my Chevy died.
I knew this day would come-
My Chevy was a ’57.
But it carried me hundreds of miles
To the city in which my new life had begun.
A broken down Chevy-
Doesn’t that sound like a country song?
My broken down Chevy
Is where my life started and I began to belong.
I left it there on the highway.
With no job and only pocket change
I couldn’t keep my beloved Chevy
By towing it anyway.
Now I’m twenty-five
And the head of a publishing company.
I married an artist who always supported me.
Today he waited at home with a surprise.
My broken down Chevy,
Fully restored and brought back to life,
Was in the driveway
With a note taped to the window with the key.
“I believe this is yours
And may I say she’s beautiful!
I found your Chevy on the side of the highway.
Gosh I think it’s been six or seven years!”
“My father was always handy with cars
And he taught me his trade.
I towed your Chevy and meant to sell it
Once I had fixed it up to shine like stars.”
“As I was cleaning the compartments out
I found your old journal
Full of letters you wrote to yourself
And bible verses, all about perseverance, no doubt.”
“Your story inspired me.
It honestly rocked me to my core.
I had lost all hope in myself and the world.
I was fighting cancer, you see.”
“I read your journal every day, every page.
And the more I read, the more I believed
In those verses you treasured so.
I continued restoring your truck, and last year I got saved.”
“My cancer was gone, seemingly overnight.
The doctors couldn’t believe it!
And honestly
Neither could I!”
“I thank God every day
For the story He gave you,
And I thank Him
Because you broke down on that highway.”
“Now I’m returning this Chevy to you.
She shines like a diamond and runs like a river.
I hope you can forgive me but I am keeping your journal-
My granddaughter is fighting cancer now too.”
“Please pray for her and I’ll keep you in my prayers always.
Thank you for being the person you are.
Goodbye and thank you again, my friend.
Like your broken down Chevy,
We’ve been made new; we’re eternally saved!”
Jul 14, 2016
Jul 14, 2016 at 11:47 AM UTC
Corina Junghiatu is a bilingual poet/writer hailing from Romania. She holds a Master Degree in Philology and Phychopedagogy and likewise she graduated from The Faculty of Letters and Philosophy in Bucharest. She speaks five foreign languages.
Corina has written and publishing two books of poetry: „Exile in the light” and „The ritual of a Sunrise”. She is Administrator and Publication Coordinator of Motivational Strips, editor of "Bharath Vision" website, and Chief Advisor of World Nations Writers' Union Kazakhstan. Corina has won many awards from international institutions of repute, for poetry.
Recently, Corina Junghiatu, together with 350 poets and writers from 80 countries, received a certificate of appreciation for her entire literary activity, on the occasion of the 74th anniversary of the Independence Day of the Republic of India. This certificate was was handed by the famous writer Shiju H. Pallithazheth the Founder of Motivational Strips, World's Most Active Writers Forum and Padma Shree Dr. Vishnu Pandya, President of Gujarat Sahitya Akademy, a government institution of the state of Gujarat (India).
Aug 31, 2020
Aug 31, 2020 at 10:45 AM UTC
The lads
Are streaming ****
Don't be too quick
To scorn;
To understand my monologue
Know Sears stopped publishing
Catalogues
Of women in their ******
And Geographic
No longer shoots
******* Amazons.
I don't claim it's right,
But boys are boys,
Night follows night.
Dec 5, 2014
Dec 5, 2014 at 12:42 PM UTC
Starry, starry night
Paint your palette blue and gray
Look out on a summer's day
With eyes that know the darkness in my soul
Shadows on the hills
Sketch the trees and the daffodils
Catch the breeze and the winter chills
In colors on the snowy linen land
Now I understand
What you tried to say to me
And how you suffered for your sanity
And how you tried to set them free
They would not listen, they did not know how
Perhaps they'll listen now
Starry, starry night
Flaming flowers that brightly blaze
Swirling clouds in violet haze
Reflect in Vincent's eyes of china blue
Colors changing hue
Morning fields of amber grain
Weathered faces lined in pain
Are soothed beneath the artist's loving hand
Now I understand
What you tried to say to me
And how you suffered for your sanity
And how you tried to set them free
They would not listen, they did not know how
Perhaps they'll listen now
For they could not love you
But still your love was true
And when no hope was left in sight
On that starry, starry night
You took your life, as lovers often do
But I could've told you Vincent
This world was never meant for
One as beautiful as you
Starry, starry night
Portraits hung in empty halls
Frame-less heads on nameless walls
With eyes that watch the world and can't forget
Like the strangers that you've met
The ragged men in ragged clothes
The silver thorn of ****** rose
Lie crushed and broken on the ****** snow
Now I think I know
What you tried to say to me
And how you suffered for your sanity
And how you tried to set them free
They would not listen, they're not listening still
Perhaps they never will
Written by Don Mclean • Copyright © Universal Music Publishing Group
Sep 25, 2016
Sep 25, 2016 at 1:47 AM UTC
wieso es nicht gelang
wieso es gelang
als sie mich suchten zum liebemachen
als sie mich fanden zum liebemachen
wer von ihnen sang
wer von ihnen sang
sie kamen in scharen
mit freunden verwandten
all jene damen
all jene herren
ich weiß nicht wann
ich weiß nicht wo
doch ich weiß wie
ich weiß es wie
mir ist bewusst:
dichter und autoren werden
keine liebe füreinander hegen
(poet's note: my opinion on
the last three verses above has
fundamentally changed since i been
publishing here.)
liebe mich freund
liebe mich freundin
gib mir
schenk mir
suche mich
finde mich
ich habe mich auf der suche nämlich
versucht
kennst du, bruder, den weg?
den zugfahrplan?
die bedeutung der stahlstreben?
ich brauche eine antwort von
den damen
den herren
finde mich
suche mich
verschenke mich
vergib mir denn
ich schrieb über zivilisationen
von witterung und gier
witterung und gier
freunde sind zwischen dem glitzern
auf dem fluss versteckt wie perlen
sie aufzuspüren zwischen dem wittern
zwischen dem wittern
während des witterns
ich weiß nicht ob du weißt wovon
ich rede
ich rede
aber das ist in ordnung freund
aber das ist ok freundin
wir müssen bloß bruder
wir müssen bloß schwester
fragen
sie sitzen am gleis bei den zügen
sie sind immer da
wie der
“ICH-BIN-DA” aus der kinderbibel
meines sohnes
verstehst du das?
begreifst du das?
fühlst du mich?
viele afro-amerikaner fragen
“you feel me?” wenn sie
etwas ausdrücken und teilen wollen
ich liebe
diesen ausdruck
er zeugt von
etwas gutem, das manchen
menschen fehlt
auf der brust trage ich das tattoo
welches du abschriebst
in einer stunde aus
schatten
witterung
gier
ich wollte das
ich wollte dass
du zu mir kamst
zwischen den schatten
unter der gier
über der witterung
in einem augenblick des
“you feel me”
wie unsere häute glänzten
wie unsere augen glitzerten
wie unsere hände zitterten
wie wir…
ach komm!
was sage ich dir, freund
was sage ich dir, freundin
du weißt es doch dir
ist es bewusst denn du schriebst
mein tattoo ab in
ein buch mit perlweißen seiten
ein buch mit onyxschwarzen seiten
du bist perlweiß freund
du bist onyxschwarz freundin
du bist perlweiß freundin
du bist onyxschwarz freund
ich liebe habeshas
ich liebe äthiopien
ich liebe meine frau
ich liebe meinen sohn
ich liebe meine tochter
you feel me?
Dec 28, 2019
Dec 28, 2019 at 5:27 PM UTC
Anything can
look like a poem
and sound philosophical
simply by moving
the words on
different lines.
Am I doing it right?
Is this
really
talent?
Art?
Effort?
I think I am trying.
Really, I am
I go back and change the order
and I break lines
where it sounds right
But it does not take me long.
Not at all.
I try to be
intentional
and call it natural rhythm.
Instinct and style taking over
I alternate between
agonizing every detail
like When to Capitalize
and publishing free form poems without looking over them twice.
How is writing supposed to feel?
Should I labor?
or should it flow?
Or do I get to decide?
I think the things I talk of
mean something
at least.
But am I just
pretentious?
fooling myself into thinking that
using common poetry formats
somehow makes my work worthwhile?
Aug 20, 2018
Aug 20, 2018 at 7:49 PM UTC
the other day
seated in his office
I asked my stubborn, mean-looking
bushy-eyebrows editor
if he’d consider two books:
“Short Stories for Real Short People”
and “Truly Tall Tales for Tall People”
and he sat back with that air
(actually, made you think he wanted to release air)
and he said:
*“You’ll get shot for titles like that…
'Short Stories for Real Short People'
will directly offend people
who are vertically challenged
And the same people would shoot you
for excluding them by implication
in the epithet 'Tall' –
They’ll sure shoot you for that…
They’re both just politically incorrect”*
And I leaned forward
(releasing air myself –
anything he can do, I can do better!)
and I said:
*“Sure, it’s not politically correct – but it sure
ain’t psychologically correct, given our times,
to speak of shooting while we are in an office”*
I hear the Editor no longer works there
and is now in some publishing house
who are specialists in books on Accounting
and Engineering
where he knows, for sure, I’m never likely to go
Feb 13, 2014
Feb 13, 2014 at 4:49 PM UTC
what does the man behind his desk
at the publishing company deem
worthy of publishing and
how much are his shoes?
I wonder if my words
will entice him enough to begin smoking,
or quit smoking,
or have a drink,
maybe sign a contract
or rather have me one,
will he turn off his Bach
to understand or
turn up his Bach to understand?
will he analyze my grammar,
or the need of post secondary?
I wonder if he will bring forth
his obsession of
having a finger in his ***
to his wife after reading the erotics,
or will he put a finger in his ***
will I be read in a
reader’s digest in 25 years
while a man of elder
near ***** his pants,
or will I be dwelled as an elder,
and I bet you they’re over
200 bucks. MJB
Nov 27, 2016
Nov 27, 2016 at 8:49 PM UTC
I hope I don’t **** this one up
If I make a mistake it isn’t my fault
My credibility can be diminished by the way present things
I, the way I present things
I am afraid of publishing something someday and
******** up the end result
Someone will read it and laugh because I missed word
A word, I missed a word
****
If I am to ever mess up a final draft then
I will laugh because nothing is final except for maybe death
Maybe
Books scare me because when they are printed the work becomes permanent
And I’m not sure I want anything I create to last forever
I don’t know if anything I say will ever be kept for that long but if it is I want my mistakes to be as clear as what I am attempting to say
I am attempting to say I cannot be held accountable for everything I do wrong
People will look back and doubt that I can be trusted because I didn’t use the write form of right
Even so, I hope my errors are good enough to be remembered
I hope I can incite a cringe or two with my fallibility
I was not made to be perfectly correct in all that I do, my words can attest to that
So if I **** this up, if I make a typo,
Let’s just pretend it was on porpoise.
Mar 2, 2015
Mar 2, 2015 at 6:10 PM UTC
they said he should submit this
make submissions and do readings
this is the way it’s been done
for many years
but he didn’t really want to
a couple of rejections left him weary
and he’s a writer not a performer
the contests say “all styles and subjects”
but surely they have criteria
not this one
not this one
this one
the all inclusiveness is a lie
the judges know what they want
he wished they’d be up front and specific
but it’s all about the entry fee
they pretend to be seeders
offering everyone a chance
to grow and bloom
but they’re actually weeders
quickly quashing poems
rubber stamped with doom
they never really stood a chance
because it’s all about the entry fee
“Don’t self publish”, they said
“You’ll regret it”
he did the design and layout anyway
“Can ‘we’ make changes to the cover?”
who the hell is “we”?
this is his book?
sure he wanted sales
that’s what publishing is about
but sink or swim
he wanted his book, his way
especially his first book
and he’s a stubborn *******
the internet is accommodating
this IT age makes it easier
the process has been long
with glitches and obstacles
doubt and procrastination
but the would be destination was worthy
available at amazon
Mar 2, 2013
Mar 2, 2013 at 8:47 PM UTC
By: David John Clare
The bad ones are good
The good ones are bad
I've been had by Philippines girls
So easy to be with
So hard just to leave
Feels right to love them
But the *** ain't for free
She knows my desire tempestuously
Her slave I became for her sick hungry greed.
She's love starved tonight
For money she'll cry
I'm flying in clouds to that blue Asian sky...
Up for the taste of a Philippines girl
And for the love of a tropical whirl...
The bad ones are good
The good ones are bad
I've been had by Philippines girls
So easy to be with
So hard to leave
So wrong to love them
Her charms aren't for free
She's hungry tonight
For her love I will cry
I'm hungry right now for some sweet cherry pie...
She's all I desire tempestuously
Her slave I became for her sick hungry greed.
She was love starved that night
I was hungry for pie
I flew away from the clouds of that dark Asian sky...
Just for the taste of a Philippines girl
And for the love of a tropical world...
D. Clare
(c) 2016 in perpetuity all rights reserved by the author
(p) FilmNoirWorks publishing BMI
Las Vegas, USA
Oct 20, 2016
Oct 20, 2016 at 11:27 PM UTC