Poetry #too.

Man With Hat wrote: I locked myself in a room Because there were no doors The heater was on, the sun was a moped I drank water found underneath a stoop Waiting for more water Wanting for more water A sweet songbird waits for me Playing a crumhorn from a distance I sit in my room Drawing a door on the floor Opening it Revealing another room The same room collaspes Into itself And creates The same room I am in.

Reminds me of a part of There Is No Year by Blake Butler. Very nice work.

Well, I consider this an accomplishment, since I am 15 year old foreigner and it's a little hard to write poems in English, but it's rewarding. And yeah, most won't get it without reading this sentence, but "helpless sea monster" is a reference to VdGG (particularly song My Room (Waiting for Wonderland)).

smartpatrol wrote:   Then, when you go down to the river You'll see all the people And the trees And the birds And the water You'll see all the things You'll see all the things that you will see at the river And you'll see all the children And you'll see all the dogs And you'll see all the flowers and the grass And you'll see everything At the river That you will see At the river And you'll see everything In it's place Right where it's supposed to be Down by the river

A No tribute? 

I descided to take a walk outside
But I got bored so I went back in
I sat down and got bored again
So I had something to eat and got bored again
So I started to think and then I got sad
I went to sleep at four and woke up and felt okay again

There was always an apple on Mrs.MacCulloch's deask. But they
never dare mentioned it, never dare speak it's name. So, in the
market, there's lots of fish, and they all smell, well, like fish!
And so the boys went into the market and the fish started talking
to them, which made the boys quite mad, as the fish talking to
them made them insane, and they didn't want to go insane, so they
started beating the fish with thier baseball bats and switch-
blades.

Sometimes I like to wonder if all those people are really staring at me, or if it’s just my imagination. Do people have better things to do than judge me? I certainly don’t.

Standing still 'neath tree of yew,
Drawing drops of dormant dew.
See a phosphorescent loom
Flow in nighttime's deadly gloom.
Waiting for my breath to stop
On this graveyard mound's top.

I drank enough from sorrow chalice,
I've gained enough of mindless malice.
All I've got was my grim doom,
All my life I sniffed perfume
Of the reaper at the mow,
Who's taking every life He sow.

Reap the harvest at the ruins
Judging not by deeds or doings.
Foredoom me on endless shame,
Tell me there's no-one to blame.
All I know's that soon I'll die,
Only death will stop my cry.

Dig a tomb for me that's narrow,
Aspirated as an arrow.
Then you'll find not any force
To raise me 'till one rides pale horse.
Feel the weakness-growing fever,
Now I slowly slide to wither
Here in under ground below.
In the night there's afterglow,
It blinds with light my final sight,
In dying eyes it feels so bright,
It fills the havoc of my heart,
My desolated soul's depart.

Feel so heavy all my bones,
Soon hear not you endless moans.
Soon the worms my flesh would take,
Eat my heart to end the ache.
For every being in delusion
This is the logical conclusion.

So this is it. There's only silence
Awaits me on my deadly islands
Shrouded with the mist that white,
In the end I've lost my fight.
After all the tears and pains
Nothing but the yew remains.

Deep in the heart, inside every soul,
There stands an illusion, an illusion of control.
An illusion that lies and gives self a purpose
Beats every body and chants all the curses
 
It comes in your home and cries like an child
Weeping for you heart and the ones you defiled
It says that your special when in fact your dirt
That He's not the only way to soften the hurt

When you stand on the earth there is blood on your hand
A price on your head and all it demands
Is a change of sight, but it won't work
Just hammering the chisel, yanking the hook

Plastered on the walls
Written on our trains
Wrapped around our TV set
Imprinted in our brains
It's all good intentions
It builds up your pride
It won't save us from the broken inside

Deep in the Heart, inside every soul
There stands an illusion, an illusion of control
Spits out the lies, and paints a purpose
Screams at the infant, chanting the curses

All my poetry seems really f**king pretentious to me:

And inside that boy's tired eyes he saw his room which was empty, except for all of the things in his room
All his possessions
And outside the window he saw the setting sun's beams granting the leaves on the ground a bit of light to be in
It looked like spring, but it was winter
Some would look at this scene and think how pretty
He did not
He hated it. It looked disgusting and slimy and stupid
But he couldn't escape this vision for it was real life and you can't escape real life because that's real life and you should man up and deal with it and not mope around like some stupid f**king loser who just wallows in his own imaginary filth
Well, some of it was imaginary
His whole atmosphere was a big mess
A big, dirty, humid, mess
All of this to be interpreted through his tired eyes and his hyper mind.
It seemed like everyday, but really some days were great,m it's just hard to remember them because it seems that the mind remembers negative things better
And even sleeping in didn't help, intact it worsened the whole thing, but so would waking up early, so why even wake up?
Because, your body naturally wakes it's self up, that's why
Or at least it did today
And hopefully tomorrow, and the next day, and the next day, etc.
Of course he knew it wouldn't last
Or if it did, who gives a sh*t? You still have to do it