yo, yo, yo! if you guys got poems, then post and coment on them here!

black memory

If you slowly let your mind race,
Just slip away without a trace,
then memorys will come to and fro,
even of people you barely know,

as memorys come to your head,
even of people that are dead,
they wont always be of pleasent times,
like hanging with friends or finding nickles or dimes,

there can always be that black memory,
of times of hatred or mad family,
just try to think of kinds of roses,
not of many different kinds of poses,

now its my time to slip away,
an end for a buitiful day,
so be good to your friends and family,
and dont let come, that black memory.

By:Me

Ghostly time

have you ever just sat,
and waited for later,
on a blanket or mat,
time like an esculator,

are you just sitting at home,
with nothing to do,
mabey reading a tome,
or taking off your shoe,

is the clock stopped,
or is it your imagination,
like that dancing mop,
or familys imigration,

the numbers arnt changing,
theyre staying the same,
and your just laying,
staring at the clocks frame,

and just when your thinking,
the door slowly comes ajar,
and you start freaking,
but its just your mom, and your sibling.
By:Me

The word is spelt "Beautiful" for the first poem.
Oh, i dislike those poems, they seem too.. Crappy. For my liking.
Take no offense by that, i have unusual likings.
They don't seem to have that much meaning, in my opinion.

Oh and, is this just for poems you've wrote? (Not you personally, but can it be from other people?)

Quote from body_in_the_lake

The word is spelt "Beautiful" for the first poem.
Oh, i dislike those poems, they seem too.. Crappy. For my liking.
Take no offense by that, i have unusual likings.
They don't seem to have that much meaning, in my opinion.

Oh and, is this just for poems you've wrote? (Not you personally, but can it be from other people?)

ya man, but at the end you have to say who its by.

Wrote by; Wilfred Owen Bent double, like old beggars under sacks,
Knock-kneed, coughing like hags, we cursed through sludge,
Till on the haunting flares we turned our backs
And towards our distant rest began to trudge.
Men marched asleep. Many had lost their boots
But limped on, blood-shod. All went lame; all blind;
Drunk with fatigue; deaf even to the hoots
Of tired, outstripped Five-Nines that dropped behind.

Gas! Gas! Quick, boys! – An ecstasy of fumbling,
Fitting the clumsy helmets just in time;
But someone still was yelling out and stumbling,
And flound'ring like a man in fire or lime . . .
Dim, through the misty panes and thick green light,
As under a green sea, I saw him drowning.
In all my dreams, before my helpless sight,
He plunges at me, guttering, choking, drowning.

If in some smothering dreams you too could pace
Behind the wagon that we flung him in,
And watch the white eyes writhing in his face,
His hanging face, like a devil's sick of sin;
If you could hear, at every jolt, the blood
[SIZE="3"]Come gargling from the froth-corrupted lungs,
Obscene as cancer[/SIZE], bitter as the cud
Of vile, incurable sores on innocent tongues,
My friend, you would not tell with such high zest
To children arden for some desperate glory,
The old Lie; Dulce et Decorum est
Pro patria mori.

Bolded the interesting parts. What i find to be quite strong and what make the poem. The last phrase; "DUlce Et Decorum Est pro patria mori." in other words means; "it is a wonderful and great honour to fight and die for your country"
But yeah, this poem interests me.

im guessing you mean poem central?

What a literary man this is.

Now if you'll please put your second and third posts into your first?

Blood

as he narrowly crawls through,
with thoughts of witchcraft and voo-doo,
then he can only think of one thing,
the day of torcher and bloody rain,

everything to him was mean,
even of those colored saint patricks day green,
but for him that was very grand,
colors in photos that are very bland,

then he cuts himself,
puts the blood in a jar on the shelf,
not worrying about spys,
just telling himself more and more lies,

a man notices the emo child,
and throws his skateboard in a dirt pile,
the man wipes his eyes"is this today",
and the emo child slowly pases away.
By:Me

It seems to me like 99.1% of the poetry written by people on this forum is vapid and meaningless, only written to express teenage angst.

Which just happens to be really ****ing boring.

Quote from Smashdood

It seems to me like 99.1% of the poetry written by people on this forum is vapid and meaningless, only written to express teenage angst.

Which just happens to be really ****ing boring.

Don't forget that they lack some any sort of rhythmic meter. They'll put, like, 20 words in the next line in order to get it to rhyme with the last one. For example:

"my life is filed with dread
theres no use living i mite as well end it rite here im going to bo buy a gun and put a bulet in my head"

Spazz and Smashdood are right, all I have to say is:

Today I've decided that life is unfair
'Cause I don't have cool clothes like the in-crowd kids wear.
And my mother won't let me put gel in my hair!
For my tragic existence, does nobody care?
Today I've decided that life is unfair.

My favourite T-shirt was all dirty and wrinkled
My sis took the last Pop-Tart, with icing and sprinkles.
My folks said I'm too selfish, they're so unaware
That today I've decided that life is unfair.

Got an F on a test, 'cause I'm too cool to study
Got dissed 'cause I'd gossipped about my best buddy,
A car splashed my leg, now my pants are all muddy!
I'm feeling so hopeless, I want to despair,
'Cause today I've decided that life is unfair.

I'll go get some piercings, I'll dress in all black,
Get a skull and a serpent tattooed on my back!
Hey world, I'm depressed, can't you cut me some slack?!?!
I know that my classmates will whisper and stare,
But today I've decided that life is unfair.

As I walked home from school, whilst I wallowed in gloom,
I saw in a gutter, unwashed and ill-groomed,
A man who had nothing. Until now, I'd assumed
That I had it the worst, that nobody cared,
After all, I'd decided that life was unfair!

As I looked at this man, and he slowly gazed up,
And jingled the change in his worn paper cup,
His clothes were unruly, and so was his hair,
Yet he spoke quite politely, (though his looks caused a scare),
"Kid, why do you think that life's so unfair?"

As I pondered his question, put myself in his shoes,
I realized contentment is something we choose.
For this man had so little, and I had it all,
Had a house, food, and water, which may appear small,
Had a family who loved me, and would always be there,
While he slept on cold pavement, 'neath streetlights' harsh glare,
This sobering lesson made me wholly aware,
That it's to MY advantage that life is unfair.

Man against a wooden door
pulling, from the concrete floor
he pulls the door towards his chest
so that the door may cease it's rest!

The man with anger filled atop
the door just never makes a hop!
He pulls it with all force he's got
but the wood won't change it's spot.

Suddenly, out from the bush
he decides to give a push
stunning and in slight dolor
open swings the wooden door!

Yank the chain, flush the bullshit down the drain. let the water be clean again.

my best poem.

Yeah, and it's total shit so it fits the image I have of you.

Rose was a merry girl
one of natures flawless pearls,
who, one fateful day,
played ball near the motorway.

She kicked it high,
she threw it far.
Too far indeed,
she hit a car.

Mr Jones, in quite a rush,
was reduced to human slush,
After meeting head-on the ball,
he met, doing ninety, head on the wall.

Had Rose been,
not only three
she'd face murder, first degree
and spend her days in misery.

The moral of the story is,
don't give balls to little kids.

by yours truly, hrhr.

@ st. jimmy's first poem

I actually thought it was really good, write more.