Poetry Thread

[Magrus]

I didn't notice these until just now. I really like those DZ. Sad, but I like them.

I got news this weekend and my last ex from Rome, and it truly sunk in just a few hours ago with me. This poem is junk IMHO, nothing on par with what I used to write. It helps a bit though, just to put something down, even if it's not at all what I intended to put down. It's been that way for years now though, nothing comes out right when I do try writing. Just figured I'd post it since it's the first thing I've had the nerve to finish in quite some time.

What is life?

I used to have ideal's,
I used to have dreams.
Hallowed idea's of the future,
have become hollow dreams of the past.

Life is the hollow dream of your past,
one just doesn't know it yet.
Everyone's seeking love in their life,
but what is it you do when you lose what is found?

I've found love twice,
and my love's found death twice as well.
Once in the south,
and once in Rome.

Dreams of love I once held onto for life,
have dissapeared in Death's clutches.
What is it you do,
when it seem's life has died in you?

When your dream's are broken,
and the endless words which have been spoken,
leave you feeling disenchanted,
and betrayed?

What is it you do,
when the illusion which is life is torn away.
When you realize everything done,
is just one more step towards a grave?

What is life to you,
when the lesson's your learning all end up with death?
Is it life,
or simply survival?

[Denethorn]

This is a remarkable thread, a nice little discovery to find it tucked away in this forum

The only poetry I've ever written was to a long-distance lover, broke up with her a long while ago. Still we used to write letters to each other and the like, and she used to write poems about me, so I wrote clumsy poetry to return to her. Nothing but soppy true love that never ends stuff... and ofcourse it did . Just had to pull out some of them now, the nostalgia has actually left me quite sad .

I like many of the poems written here , at a better time I would comment on them

[Magrus]

Yeah, I'm somewhat glad I can't find my old poem's. They were my one escape in a very dark, depressed, pain-filled time for me and rereading them would put me right back in that mindset.

[Darth Zenemij]

Some of my old peoms also were about love and my experiences, but most were about how I felt and were my own little way of getting revenge on the people whom have sought to make me this way. People always complain that I don't smile enough, almost at all. I don't really like smiling for some reason though, I have this one same calm/serious/angry look on my face most of the time. I can't really think of a good peom to write on my latest ex.

[Cuchulain82]

I posted this a while ago in Viscun's Art thread, but it seems like it fits here well too. It is a poem I found a few years back on a poetry website. It is written by someone named BJ Ward. I don't know anything about him/her, other than that I like this poem.

The Star-Ledger
by BJ Ward

287 was the long road to the newspaper plant
my black-handed father would ride beneath
the weight of a night sky.
A father who works the night shift
knows that weight, how it accumulates from within
when his mistakes and debt
begin to press on his children and wife.
And so went his life —

If the stars spelled something real,
they might spell the equation
that my father never mastered —
the news just ran through his hands
and what slid there left the black residue
of the world's doings, pressed knowledge
that read like misaligned tea leaves in his hardening palms,
and in his life line and heart line and other lines
that would normally speak a fortune,
the night just accumulated itself —
a little sky he would spread over us
when the world redelivered him in the morning.

[Magrus]

I like that poem. It has a profound sense of a humble message. Those two shouldn't mix together, but they do.

[Cuchulain82]

I really like it too. I like the idea of the father's palms covered in ink. That ink was supposed to be knowledge, opinion, entertainment... but it just ended up smeared and misaligned on his hands. An excellent metaphor.