First off, let me say that I take poetry with a deadly seriousness. Despite my young age, I am full aware of the weight that the world utilizes in bearing down on the souls of those artistically inclined (such as myself), and I won’t tolerate any foolishness in this thread. Those of you who cannot spell the word “you” properly are well-advised to stay clear of this topic, as it is only for those who take poetry as a serious life-style.

That said, I welcome everyone else to what is going to be, I’m sure, a fascinating and enthralling thread, filled with delightfully soul-wrenching verse. Long have I wanted an outlet with which to share my deepest desires and thoughts, and truly I hope that there might be those here who also wish to loosen their inhibitions and enlighten us to their soul.

For the first part, a poem that I wrote one year ago last month, on the occasion of my birthday. It was a troubling time for me, and I believe the poetry reflects that in it’s darker tones. This poem is titled:

Cake Knife

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Glinting against one starlight kitchen blue, antiseptic

gleam, fluorescent and ever-radiant. Your delicate hand pierced through

the cream and soft, moist food. Sweet. Sustenance. Icing mixing downward, pushing past the

center

and I wondered how your fingers could hold the handle so gently, caressing, never faltering

in their appointed task.

Duty brought the blade to it’s job, one smooth motion slicing through the middle, exposing it to

the warm autumn air. The cake was red.

The cake became brown.

Your wedding ring slipped asunder, clattering to the tired/tiled floor with all the chiming of

bells

and I felt the pain of the unknown.

Older.

Not wiser.

No more.

The knife is mine.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

I hope you enjoyed my work, as I remain very proud of it to this day. Those feelings, which I’m sure you all know quite well, never truly fade.

And now, share! Show your inner-most feelings, bare them to the world. Come and enthrall with how you view the world. For it is your world to view…

roses are red

a fabulous person is you

Phlegmatic Posted:

Correnth Posted:

^insert my original art here^

what i saw

Correnth Posted:

BAWWWWW!

what i read

And:

BeavisSaves Posted:

roses are red

a fabulous person is you

^heavy, dramatic sigh^ And so the philistines already appear from their diseased, rotten woodwork. As though they had nothing better to do than simply discover new ways to “ruin” other people’s entertainment. Please. As though you could even begin to understand what I have created here. I understand that my use of larger words may confuse you at times, but please – Do feel free to find a dictionary and return once you have a basic grasp of the english language. Or perhaps, to do myself and the other budding artists of this forum a favour, I should simply clarify using less verbose vernacular.

You are idiots. Leave now.

There, was that comprehensible enough? (“comprehensible” means “understandable”, by the way)

there once was a post on a forum

it contained a fabulous persony poem

which a poet has read

and of it he said

“my god have you no decorum”

PANTY MAYHEM Posted:

i wrote this up a while back but never finished it, take hence these scraps of brilliance and further literature by parodying rime of the ancient mariner

It is an ancient WoW gamer

And he stoppeth one of three

“By thy long grey beard and glittering eye,

now wherefore stopp’st thou me?

The nerdling’s doors are opened wide

And I am next to play

The LAN is set, the Cheetos are get:

May’st hear the shouts of ‘gay’.”

He holds him with his skinny hand,

“There was a game,” quoth he.

“Hold off! unhand me, greybeard loon~”

Eftstoons his hand dropt he.

He holds him with his glittering eye –

The Nerdling’s Guest stood still,

And listens like a three year’s child

The WoW gamer hath his will.

The Nerdling’s Guest sat on the floor

He cannot choose but hear;

And thus spake on that ancient man,

The bright-eyed WoW gamer.

“The game was cheered, the shelves cleared,

Merrily we did play

From Org to Ironforge, on we went

In the game t’would make us gay

The Sun came out upon the left

Though know it I did not

Safely in my basement I

Played on until I’d rot

More and more every day

Til sixty I did reach – ”

The nerdling’s guest here beat his breast

For he heard a triumphant screech.

hope this helps

read some award-winning poetry today and it was subpar oversimplifying fake indignation pretentious highschool ****

Correnth Posted:

im a huge fabulous person

tl;dr

SEOCND PAGE SNYPA

Log in to see images!

sorry lemme try this again

we tell you you suck

and yet you post more

get of the web

your mothers a whoer

SouleXtinction Posted:

Poems are such an archaic form of expression. Log in to see images!

My entire life is a performance.

A tale of woe in three acts.

Act 1: Expectation

Act 2: Disappointment

Act 3: Erasure

The second intermission is done.

Now all that is left… is all that is left…

That in and of itself is poetic enough. Afterall, life is simply a cycle – From birth to the inevitable death we all experience, both in the grander scale and every single day. Death is a part of us as much as it is anything else, and our poetry reflects this fascination with the black, the unknown, the eternal entrapment of suffering.

I pontificated on the subject for quite some time today, and found myself writing during my lunch break at The Oppression (what I oh-so-lovingly refer to my “school” as. as if they could truly teach anything of consequence.) That said, I wish to share my latest creation with those of you so included beyond the blackened veil.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

There Is No Title For This Poem.

I see, before me, a lid. Red plastic. Primary colours. Signifying, signaling, spiraling. Red means go.

Green means stop.

Stop.

Against the flurry of septic waste.

Against the masters of disease.

Plastic slicing bone and flesh, three-ninety-nine please, your receipt is in the bag.

Some money, some change, exchanged, brief glances of hands and contact, pale skin

sweat

tears running down

Black trails ensue.

How much did your soul cost?

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

I, of course, take all criticism seriously. Unless you have no idea what you are talking about, in which case you will be promptly ignored. Also, to address this before it becomes an issue, all poetry I post here is copyright myself (Correnth), and is not to be posted elsewhere without express written permission of the author. I know, I know – it is a shame I have to resort to such things, but there have been issues with people attempting to steal my works and pbum them off as their own. A shame the world we live in, is it not?

fine upstanding member of society i dont play nice

if u scurrd u gon’ get diced

im gonna fuk ur mom in da bum

then me and my homies gonna smoke some grbum

~****DaPoLiCe~