Living With You

I’m trying to get your likes
I put a brick in a garbage disposal
Just to watch it break down
I put your face on the back of my mirror
I just like knowing that it’s there
This is living with you
I was living my truth
Lip service but the spit is just glue
And you pity me too but don’t speak on it
And the peak is a pit we can’t broach
And we leak out on helium chokes
This is living with you
It’s wrongest when you look me right in the eyes
You look like the Sonic franchise
Sometimes
Our talks have the depth of a five dollar Taco Bell box
I feel like the Antichrist fox
Living with you
I was living for you
And I hope you knew

Michael Caine also

My favourite already

Rumi really doing numbers out here?

When one reads poetry, are you basically making up the cadence as you see fit? Or do different styles have different 'rules' when it comes to it

Tina Chang is my favorite living poet from New York. A number of films I made in film school were inspired by her poetry. Check her out.

poets.org/poem/fury

nytimes.com/2010/03/21/nyregion/21poet-light.html

be like my father, might f*** around
& disappear
little do they know, bigger that they grow
I've been missing them dearly
genuinely so, smile empty soul
Phoenix had this unique brightness in his eyes
I wish he could hear me
I would go back a hundred times
watching the butterflies flutter by
I still feel your presence
it's really depressing
it's killing me, feeling this helpless
like salad, no dressing

lā ilāha illā allāh

my drawer's been coming up
empty, miscounting my blessings
without them I'm stressing
how could this happen?
climbing is pointless
while this mountain's collapsing
I'm sorry Ms Jackson, your daughter's
a crack head, I saw it in action
I was in awe, I recall my reaction
then called up my best friend Free
I guess this is destiny
where is the ecstacy
I bottle my problems
you swallow excessively
don't call & stop texting me
I know exactly what the
cause of my death will be
she offered me mezzanine
dog food & meth, how in the f***
did I get myself involved with this mess
hit pause & eject
cause & effect
better call Saul, b**** don't call me collect
you're missing the queen of hearts in your deck
I still call my momma my mommy
I solemnly acknowledge all of my flaws & regrets
my palms are sweaty, we are not copesthetic
so frenetic, from calm to upset
broken promises are hard to forget
I was all in my feelings, I don't follow directions
i feel hollow & empty like the bottom of a bottle
got a dollar I can borrow?
if I make it to tomorrow
all the thanks go up to Allah
I am blessed
there's this black cloud that loves
to follow me, is this how things will always be?
got a lot of problems to address
& a lot is on my chest
it'd probably be best if I just let this s*** go
I've gotta get some rest
constantly upset
god is giving tests
common without sense
I'm honestly convinced
a lot of baby momma's are demonic & obsessed
with making their children's father's life
a M E S S

On the ant bearing the grain bring no strife
He is alive and joyous is sweet life

Ferdowsi - 1000 AD

Imagine being a poetess a thousand years ago,
you would be the number one celebrity

That's why Asma bint Marwan got Fatwa'd 1400 years ago just like Salman Rushdie today.

Put this in OP

We have like 3 different poetry threads which one are we actually using?

The God of Nothingness, Mark Wunderlich

My father fell from the boat.
His balance had been poor for some time.
He had gone out in the boat with his dog
hunting ducks in a marsh near Trempealeau, Wisconsin.
No one else was near
save the wiry farmer scraping the gutters in the cow barn
who was deaf in one ear from years of machines—
and he was half a mile away.
My father fell from the boat
and the water pulled up around him, filled
his waders and this drew him down.
He descended into water the color of weak coffee.
The dog went into the water too,
thinking perhaps this was a game.
I must correct myself—dogs do not think as we do—
they react, and the dog reacted by swimming
around my father’s head. This is not a reassuring story
about a dog signaling for help by barking,
or, how by licking my father’s face, encouraged him
to hold on. The dog eventually tired and went ashore
to sniff through the grass, enjoy his new freedom
from the attentions of his master,
indifferent to my father’s plight.
The water was cold, I know that,
and my father has always chilled easily.
That he was cold is a certainty, though
I have never asked him about this event.
I do not know how he got out of the water.
I believe the farmer went looking for him
after my mother called in distress, and then drove
to the farm after my father did not return home.
My mother told me of this event in a hushed voice,
cupping her hand over the phone and interjecting
cheerful non sequiturs so as not to be overheard.
To admit my father’s infirmity
would bring down the wrath of the God of Nothingness
who listens for a tremulous voice and comes rushing in
to sweep away the weak with icy, unloving breath.
But that god was called years before
during which time he planted a kernel in my father’s brain
which grew, freezing his tongue,
robbing him of his equilibrium.
The god was there when he fell from the boat,
whispering from the warren of my father’s brain,
and it was there when my mother, noting the time,
knew that something was amiss. This god is a cold god,
a hungry god, selfish and with poor sight.
This god has the head of a dog.

too bad Kipling was a POS racist

Aubade - Philip Larkin

I work all day, and get half-drunk at night.
Waking at four to soundless dark, I stare.
In time the curtain-edges will grow light.
Till then I see what’s really always there:
Unresting death, a whole day nearer now,
Making all thought impossible but how
And where and when I shall myself die.
Arid interrogation: yet the dread
Of dying, and being dead,
Flashes afresh to hold and horrify.

The mind blanks at the glare. Not in remorse
—The good not done, the love not given, time
Torn off unused—nor wretchedly because
An only life can take so long to climb
Clear of its wrong beginnings, and may never;
But at the total emptiness for ever,
The sure extinction that we travel to
And shall be lost in always. Not to be here,
Not to be anywhere,
And soon; nothing more terrible, nothing more true.

This is a special way of being afraid
No trick dispels. Religion used to try,
That vast moth-eaten musical brocade
Created to pretend we never die,
And specious stuff that says No rational being
Can fear a thing it will not feel, not seeing
That this is what we fear—no sight, no sound,
No touch or taste or smell, nothing to think with,
Nothing to love or link with,
The anaesthetic from which none come round.

And so it stays just on the edge of vision,
A small unfocused blur, a standing chill
That slows each impulse down to indecision.
Most things may never happen: this one will,
And realisation of it rages out
In furnace-fear when we are caught without
People or drink. Courage is no good:
It means not scaring others. Being brave
Lets no one off the grave.
Death is no different whined at than withstood.

Slowly light strengthens, and the room takes shape.
It stands plain as a wardrobe, what we know,
Have always known, know that we can’t escape,
Yet can’t accept. One side will have to go.
Meanwhile telephones crouch, getting ready to ring
In locked-up offices, and all the uncaring
Intricate rented world begins to rouse.
The sky is white as clay, with no sun.
Work has to be done.
Postmen like doctors go from house to house.

please come back, darlin

I wanted a f***
You said you were only willing to suck
Broken hearted me thought this was just lust
But the way you sucked my soul out
In my heart I knew this was true love
But then you left, I wept
Those 60 second of me in your mouth, a memory that will be forever kept
Oh my love, I wish my size wasn’t an issue
Because it’s been months and I still miss you
Please come back darlin, I need you

The morning after I killed myself, I woke up.

I made myself breakfast in bed. I added salt and pepper to my eggs and used my toast for a cheese and bacon sandwich. I squeezed a grapefruit into a juice glass. I scraped the ashes from the frying pan and rinsed the butter off the counter. I washed the dishes and folded the towels.

The morning after I killed myself, I fell in love. Not with the boy down the street or the middle school principal. Not with the everyday jogger or the grocer who always left the avocados out of the bag. I fell in love with my mother and the way she sat on the floor of my room holding each rock from my collection in her palms until they grew dark with sweat. I fell in love with my father down at the river as he placed my note into a bottle and sent it into the current. With my brother who once believed in unicorns but who now sat in his desk at school trying desperately to believe I still existed.

The morning after I killed myself, I walked the dog. I watched the way her tail twitched when a bird flew by or how her pace quickened at the sight of a cat. I saw the empty space in her eyes when she reached a stick and turned around to greet me so we could play catch but saw nothing but sky in my place. I stood by as strangers stroked her muzzle and she wilted beneath their touch like she did once for mine.

The morning after I killed myself, I went back to the neighbors’ yard where I left my footprints in concrete as a two year old and examined how they were already fading. I picked a few daylilies and pulled a few weeds and watched the elderly woman through her window as she read the paper with the news of my death. I saw her husband spit tobacco into the kitchen sink and bring her her daily medication.

The morning after I killed myself, I watched the sun come up. Each orange tree opened like a hand and the kid down the street pointed out a single red cloud to his mother.

The morning after I killed myself, I went back to that body in the morgue and tried to talk some sense into her. I told her about the avocados and the stepping stones, the river and her parents. I told her about the sunsets and the dog and the beach.

The morning after I killed myself, I tried to unkill myself, but couldn’t finish what I started.

dark anima

weapon of my desire do you desire me so
dark anima o weapon please wake up and take control
beast of thirst what vengeance have you to wreak
you are only an anima a vision within a vision within a speck
please control your lust you dark beast of the night
possession without delusion you trust in me not to fight
god of all blackness master of all my desire
i want only the tightness to signal to me that i've ascended higher
powerful all consuming lust please take control
you are in the pilots seat my body is merely a drone
machine of the heavens flying like a god of the sky
bless the children with detonators may their eyes melt when they cry

mostly free association i guess

Blassic

Jesus f***ing Christ

Is this you?

No, but it's so beautiful.

The video that was made for the poem is also amazing.

My soul is broken and compartmentalized
Now wholly or fully recognized
I’m cosplaying cultures for the joy of fitting in
I try fitting into different coffins and they were all full
Of the masks I’ve worn to keep my self sane
The dissonant hitch is a psychotic kick
And the dress is unzipped and we can see the measles consuming the flesh of the back mercilessly
But call it wanton disidentification with reality… with the sanitized model of life I’ve been given
Then must I not have rage, disturbances, sickness and impulses that I can nurture into a beautiful broken art form
A poetry and grand-painting made of measles and heroin needles
I’m sorry I never just was
To me she could become through me
A painting spilled on the floor, abstract, grounded, found….

Is this your writing?

Really impressed if so

thanks. i was kinda high off ambien when i wrote that but my style is almost me trying to go off what comes into my mind. i don't even have a direct interpretation of it myself most of the time but i find that's when it sounds most creative

The matrix

Dark afternoon, warm p****, glow like a cottage
The noonday demon has come for me like a tantrum of melancholy
Old b****** with no farts left in him… oops I meant joy
The joyful old coot, the r word in cahoots with the spinster
Let fear spin the wheel of your eyes
You look like a bad person and yet we accept you
The definition of bad eyes
Make your mark on the jello trolls but we laugh
Like tridents in a trisection of hope
Loss, wonder and excitement set up to take the W
Will we lose or keep winning
Will we win for the 5th time or keep losing
A dinner date with a fraudster
Mausoleum of underuse, keep wretched thoughts out of my mind
And death roam like a caterpillar in a cave
Stealing daylight from its own cousins
We now have the steal point
Take off into the ever distant sinister lake basin
A trick of light
Bastions in charge of our doom
Waiting on it like the next holocaust
Like the next world war
And God will come down like Atlas
And strike the people with the hand of creation
Pissed off master, young unbent ass
Become the yin and Yang of our beautiful community
Terraform our dumb minds into your perfect cities
Daughters and fathers now connect as one
May life be the enchanting glow they once hoped it was
A trident of hope, adversity and peace
Become more like this