"quicko" poems - Hello Poetry

somber bomber i like ducks we dont love the gov it ***** (my friend erin said the **** i did arrands rode the truck the trip i flipped and made a sound i skipped a bit and saw a hound sorry pa he saw the mess the current system likes to test they see how fast and smart we are so we can crash and part a car there is no point to living now maybe cause' i was never taught how.

0

Sep 28, 2018

Sep 28, 2018 at 8:24 AM UTC

deNegrePoetry

quicko #3

somber bomber i like ducks we dont love the gov it ***** (my friend erin said the **** i did arrands rode the truck the trip i flipped and made a sound i skipped a bit and saw a hound sorry pa he saw the mess the current system likes to test they see how fast and smart we are so we can crash and part a car there is no point to living now maybe cause' i was never taught how.

15

perilous are those decisions you haven't yet made afraid of the seed the tree questions its own validity inconsequential are those thirty minutes before a decision the wind moves the branches without the tree's choice forgiving are those moments in bed asleep beyond not here the tree can't spot failed saplings without the daylight which lets them grow

0

Sep 27, 2018

Sep 27, 2018 at 5:18 PM UTC

deNegrePoetry

quicko #1

perilous are those decisions you haven't yet made afraid of the seed the tree questions its own validity inconsequential are those thirty minutes before a decision the wind moves the branches without the tree's choice forgiving are those moments in bed asleep beyond not here the tree can't spot failed saplings without the daylight which lets them grow

12

what are you(or what you always once were)other than the twirl in the string and the root under oak. the math in the pattern and the mirror beyond the reflection. i feel i know no other(beyond my sentiments of you, dearest)and the blanket of your soft touch. your warm breath melting the ice caps of my sorrows. you are the legs shared by men and table; the frame yet the paint; the brick and the roof( protecting me from myself);and the cloud of the rains. you are the flash before death, you(and only you)are birth, you are the reflection, you are the pen but most importantly you are you(and no one other).

0

Nov 1, 2018

Nov 1, 2018 at 8:55 PM UTC

deNegrePoetry

quicko #7

what are you(or what you always once were)other than the twirl in the string and the root under oak. the math in the pattern and the mirror beyond the reflection. i feel i know no other(beyond my sentiments of you, dearest)and the blanket of your soft touch. your warm breath melting the ice caps of my sorrows. you are the legs shared by men and table; the frame yet the paint; the brick and the roof( protecting me from myself);and the cloud of the rains. you are the flash before death, you(and only you)are birth, you are the reflection, you are the pen but most importantly you are you(and no one other).

12

once present, the shadows of the not-so-forgotten the shadow of me we'll be used as images to display suffering as two animals, (nearly the same seen from the outside) they are tied together arguing, like children about why such a thing such a painting of my shadow on the wall would happen the phones will know, they will chat speaking amongst each other talking about the new this and the new that i ask what is happening before i am next my shadow on the wall along with my peers the fellow pupils this reality is a chorus of voices shouting at each other saying the same things when none of them (if they knew the answer) can voice the truth as another will agree and the next diluting the first point in an idea known as disassociation. my shadow will be on the wall each square inch a blot, from each round which will enter me. the voice of mine is just another in a small chorus stuck in a small room all yelling amongst one another. at least i've accepted my reality.

0

Sep 27, 2018

Sep 27, 2018 at 5:31 PM UTC

deNegrePoetry

my shadow on the wall (quicko #2)

once present, the shadows of the not-so-forgotten the shadow of me we'll be used as images to display suffering as two animals, (nearly the same seen from the outside) they are tied together arguing, like children about why such a thing such a painting of my shadow on the wall would happen the phones will know, they will chat speaking amongst each other talking about the new this and the new that i ask what is happening before i am next my shadow on the wall along with my peers the fellow pupils this reality is a chorus of voices shouting at each other saying the same things when none of them (if they knew the answer) can voice the truth as another will agree and the next diluting the first point in an idea known as disassociation. my shadow will be on the wall each square inch a blot, from each round which will enter me. the voice of mine is just another in a small chorus stuck in a small room all yelling amongst one another. at least i've accepted my reality.

44

and i can't think of a more beautiful moment, than when we connected; as all moments that we shared before that second, were lost in the dust. the dust that rose from the road, as the car drove off. it sailed high and dissolved in the weight-less autumn air. the afternoon sun filling the spaces in between the low clouds. the dust which lay on his dresser, idle, except when the gusts came through the vents, and the cat pushed its head between the door and the wall. or maybe, whenever that car returns.

0

Nov 9, 2018

Nov 9, 2018 at 12:06 PM UTC

deNegrePoetry

quicko #9 [the beautiful moment].

and i can't think of a more beautiful moment, than when we connected; as all moments that we shared before that second, were lost in the dust. the dust that rose from the road, as the car drove off. it sailed high and dissolved in the weight-less autumn air. the afternoon sun filling the spaces in between the low clouds. the dust which lay on his dresser, idle, except when the gusts came through the vents, and the cat pushed its head between the door and the wall. or maybe, whenever that car returns.

12

does the tree really fall if no one saw the cliche intro into the poem where its self=awareness is not; new(s) to anyone except those who see the strange simbols and mispellyngs . did it really ;exists or swifts in this air that movement of my poem. ending the re! sentence right before the line ends.(viceversaaswell). does art just steal from the originality that life lacks? or do our questions stem from a false sense of identity in need ing to b e o h so deep.

0

Nov 4, 2018

Nov 4, 2018 at 5:09 PM UTC

deNegrePoetry

originality (quicko #8/;/ the sonnet)

does the tree really fall if no one saw the cliche intro into the poem where its self=awareness is not; new(s) to anyone except those who see the strange simbols and mispellyngs . did it really ;exists or swifts in this air that movement of my poem. ending the re! sentence right before the line ends.(viceversaaswell). does art just steal from the originality that life lacks? or do our questions stem from a false sense of identity in need ing to b e o h so deep.

19

i would like to (one awake in a valley day) so vast, its considered the Guinness World Record: Largest Armory™, with all its unsheathed blades of grass.

0

Oct 21, 2018

Oct 21, 2018 at 11:48 AM UTC

deNegrePoetry

quicko #5

i would like to (one awake in a valley day) so vast, its considered the Guinness World Record: Largest Armory™, with all its unsheathed blades of grass.

8

between each breath, these words hang floating like balloons in front of their eternal background. rising up and up until the pressure is too great. until the break in your words is too great and no phrase can pull them together. that place by the tip of the troposphere, or whenever you pause and lose track. sometimes i regret talking too much, and other times i wish i let go of the string.

0

Nov 12, 2018

Nov 12, 2018 at 12:00 PM UTC

deNegrePoetry

quicko #10

between each breath, these words hang floating like balloons in front of their eternal background. rising up and up until the pressure is too great. until the break in your words is too great and no phrase can pull them together. that place by the tip of the troposphere, or whenever you pause and lose track. sometimes i regret talking too much, and other times i wish i let go of the string.

12