Forum members POETRY!

[Guttorm]

After seeing Maine Finns GREAT poem "The stapler", and seeing all the talent that hides deep down inside all of you, I decided maybe some of you could let more of it out here!
And no need to count tha cylabwhatnots. :D

Since I am no poet, I'll just post the best poem in the world, it's kinda long though.



THE RAVEN



Once, upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak and weary,

Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore-

While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping,

As of some one gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door.

“’Tis some visitor,” I muttered, “tapping at my chamber door-

Only this and nothing more.”

*

*

*

Ah, distinctly I remember it was in the bleak December,

And each separate dying ember wrought its ghost upon the floor.

Eagerly I wished the morrow;- vainly I had sought to borrow

From my books surcease of sorrow -sorrow for the lost Lenore-

For the rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore-

Nameless here forevermore.

*

*

*

And the silken, sad, uncertain rustling of each purple curtain

Thrilled me, filled me with fantastic terrors never felt before;

So that now, to still the beating of my heart, I stood repeating

“’Tis some visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door-

Some late visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door;-

This it is and nothing more.”

*

*

*

Presently my soul grew stronger. Hesitating, then, no longer,

"Sir", said I, or Madam, truly your forgiveness I implore;

But the fact is I was napping, and so gently you came rapping,

And so faintly you came tapping, tapping at my chamber door

That I scarce was sure I heard you"- here I opened wide the door;-

Darkness there and nothing more.

*

*

*

Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there, wondering, fearing,
Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortal ever dared to dream before;

But the silence was unbroken, and the stillness gave no token,

And the only word there spoken was the whispered word, "Lenore?"

This I whispered, and an echo murmured back the word "Lenore!"-

Merely this and nothing more.

*

*

*

Back into the chamber turning, all my soul within me burning,
Soon again I heard a tapping somewhat louder than before.

"Surely", said I, "Surely that is something at my window lattice;

Let me see, then, what thereat is and this mystery explore;-

Let my heart be still a moment and this mystery explore;-

Tis the wind and nothing more.

*

*

*

Open here I flung the shutter; when, with many a flirt and flutter,
In there stepped a stately Raven of the saintly days of yore.

Not the least obeisance made he; not a minute stopped or stayed he;

But, with mien of lord or lady, perched above my chamber door-

Perched upon a bust of Pallas just above my chamber door-

Perched and sat and nothing more.

*

*

*

Then this ebony bird beguiling my sad fancy into smiling,
By the grave and stern decorum of the countenance it wore,

"Though thy crest be shorn and shaven, thou," I said "art sure no craven,

Ghastly, grim and ancient Raven, wandering from the Nightly shore-

Tell me what thy lordly name is on the Nights' Plutonian shore!"

Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore."

*

*

*

Much I marvelled this ungainly fowl to hear discourse so plainly,
Though it's answer little meaning- little relevancy bore;

For we cannot help agreeing that no living human being

Ever yet was blessed with seeing bird above his chamber door-

Bird or beast upon the sculptured bust above his chamber door,

With such name as "Nevermore".

*

*

*

But the Raven, sitting lonely on that placid bust, spoke only
That one word, as if his soul in that one word he did outpour.

Nothing farther then he uttered; not a feather then he fluttered-

Till I scarcely more than muttered- "Other friends have flown before-

On the morrow he will leave me, as my Hopes have flowen before."

Then the bird said "Nevermore".

*

*

*

Startle by the stillness broken by reply so aptly spoken,
"Doubtless", said I, "What it utters is it's only stock and store,

Caught from some unhappy master whom unmerciful Disaster

Followed fast and followed faster, till his songs one burdon bore-

Till the dirges of his Hope that meloncholy burdon bore

Of 'Never-nevermore'."

*

*

*

But the Raven still beguiling all my sad soul into smiling,
Straight I wheeled a cushioned seat in front of bird and bust and door;

Then, upon the velvet sinking, I betook myself to linking

Fancy onto fancy, thinking what this ominous bird of yore-

What this grim, ungainly, ghastly, gaunt and ominous bird of yore

Meant in croaking "Nevermore".

*

*

*

This I sat engaged in guessing, but no syllable expressing
To the fowl whose fiery eyes now burned into my bosom's core;

This and more I sat divining, with my head at ease reclining

On the cushon's velvet lining that the lamp-light gloated o'er,

But whose velvet, violet lining with the lampl-ight gloating o'er

She shall press, ah, nevermore!

*

*

*

Then, methought, the air grew denser, prefumed from an unseen censer
Swung by Seraphim whose foot-falls tinkled on the tufted floor.

"Wretch", I cried, "Thy God hath lent thee-by these angels he hath sent thee

Respite-respite and repenthe from thy memories of Lenore!

Quaff, oh quaff this kind repenth and forget this lost Lenore!"

Quoth the Raven "Nevermore".

*

*

*

"Prophet!" said I, "Thing of evil!-Prophet still, if bird or devil!-
Wether Tempter sent or wether tempest tossed thee here ashore,

Desolate yet all undaunted, on this desert land enchanted-

On this home by horror haunted-tell me truly, I implore-

Is there-is there balm and Gilead?- tell me, I implore!"

Quoth the Raven "Nevermore".

*

*

*

"Prophet!" said I, "thing of evil! - Prophet still, if bird or devil!
By that Heaven that bends above us-by that God we both adore-

Tell this soul with sorrow laden if, within the distant Aidenn,

It shall clasp a sainted maiden whom the angels name Lenore-

Clasp a rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore."

Quoth the Raven "Nevermore".

*

*

*

Be that word our sign of parting, bird or fiend!" I shrieked, upstarting-
"Get thee back into the tempest and the Night's Plutonian shore!

Leave no black plume as a token of that lie thy soul hath spoken!

Leave my lonliness unbroken!-Quit the bust above my door!

Take thy beak from out my heart and take thy form from off thy door!"

Quoth the Raven "Nevermore".

*

*

*

And the Raven, never flitting, still is sitting-still is sitting
On the pallid bust of Pallas just above my chamber door;

And his eyes have all the seeming of a demon's that is dreaming,

And the lamp-light o'er him streaming throws his shadow on the floor;

And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the floor

Shall be lifted--nevermor

woot


Farmgirl makes a samich for who ever get the author right.
It's an easy one.

[Maine Finn]

YAY for Poe!!

By the way, I've already made a thread for poetry, we can use this one to post poets we like.

woot

No "samich" for me, thanks.
:D

[California Joe]

I draw, I don't write poetry. Shut it and write a haiku

[Operation Ivy]

I live near Baltimore :D (thats where Poe lived ;) )

[mocking_loudly_died]

Ever felt her way (in deep), the loveliness - an ineptness of social deceit.
Whisper sweet nothing; cradle the moon and side with the lighthearted maiden.
I have shot the ceiling and tomorrows poet is another spent round – dial 999.

Rogue moments, devilish interruptions, black sun empire and another beat is laid down.
Crashing fantastic, monuments ecstatic, epileptic intentional domineering infanticide.
Nothing shocks more than when everything is incomplete and the significant other f*cks.

Gothic pretensions super deity complex an over incompetent and over indulged line.
Insert a new system, download the machine, build up perpetual control and lie to her.
I have shot the ceiling and I’m ready to implode – nothing again and again with nothing.

Let it rain, woe to the victor (the ultimate victim) – self deceit a facet of the glorious incoherent.
Tonight as lips part and forever known I beg of you – the last, the one, the beginning and above all the end.
I am nothing but everything as time is bull**** and flesh is nature that will mock my soul loudly.

The foolish gratitude is infallible even though the line is exceeding and winter is her name.
Cradle her, break her, beat her and kill her until all is silent and never more……

[California Joe]

I'd do you even if you are a chick.

[farmgirl]

I'd do you even if you are a chick.


Whaaaaaaaaaaaaaat? :roll:


Very nice MLD.... how about some Haiku for our friend Joe?

[Ichhabe]

Be true to the angel inside.

It knows if you ever have lied,

it knows if you ever have cried.

Be true to the angel inside.

It'll be there after you died.


(first ever try on poetry a là Kamikaze style in English. :oops: )

[mocking_loudly_died]

I lost a Haiku competition last year, I'm to traumatized to commit to the art-form for awhile.

[farmgirl]

I lost a Haiku competition last year, I'm to traumatized to commit to the art-form for awhile.


awwwww and I bet yours were the best!!!! :hug:

[Guttorm]

Be true to the angel inside.

It knows if you ever have lied,

it knows if you ever have cried.

Be true to the angel inside.

It'll be there after you died.


(first ever try on poetry a là Kamikaze style in English. :oops: )

VERY nice!

[Ichhabe]

Well, it is not easy doing poetry. And in a foreign language it is,...like hard. Hehe.
Cause I'm not used to the "flow of the language."

But thanks Guttorm. Kamikaze poetry is fun!!! :D

[Haiw]

too much time they have
people writing poetry
thats just what I think

I think I will just
stick to my easy haiku
it takes much less time

[Wilco]

My good ones.


A Marine

We sleep so warm, in our bed we lie
While a Marine is out there, ready to die
To die for his country, to keep it alive
A Marine is there, to take the dive
Christmas comes, here we are
While a Marine sits in his foxhole way a far
We open presents, in the Christmas tree light
While a Marine on the front, pushes on the fight
Here we sit, eating a Christmas feast
While a Marine dies fighting the beast
Here we are, not having to hide
All because of that Marine, who had fallen in pride
I thank you Marine, Semper Fi

-------------------------------------------------------------

Blackhawk down


As blackhawks fly, over their heads
As this mission would end, 18 would be dead
Delta moves in capturing their target
A blackhawks down, hit by a rocket
A cry comes from the men on the ground
"Delta one, we have a blackhawk down!!!"
Another blackhawk flying by
Gets hit too, one pilot dies
The other is stuck inside the cockpit
But the courage of two snipers help out "abit"
They gave their lives
To leave no man behind
But the delta's attack swift and silent
to kill the enemy, the mogadishan tirent
The morning comes swift and fast
The soldiers are moving out at last
Where their friends await
These men challenged their own fate.

----------------------------------------------------------------

New York's Finest

The rubble left by the great towers
Never knew planes had so much power
Some rubble hill were twenty feet high
Many people wondered how this could happen or why
Shattered glass, broken beams
A bit of hope for survivors gleams
New York's bravest went ahead
Two towers fell, 343 dead
New York's finest, went in with each other
23 gone, many lonely, sad mothers
The rubble is more then 100,00 tons
The final deathtoll comes to 3,801
The very next day, some survivors
Most of them are New York City Firefighters
There in the rubble, a firefighter stands
Looking down at a brothers bloody limp hand
Candle light visuals all over town
New Yorkers walk with a smile, not a frown
Although new rookies fill the dead's spaces
New York's finest will remember their faces

----------------------------------------------------------


I have others, but I don't have access to them right now...

[Ichhabe]

Helmet on, face shield down.

A stick in the left hand, the shield in the next.

All faces gives away the seriousness that is required in this moment.

Lining up, the protestor in the first front row

is five years old.


(Based on my first anti-riot duty. It was quite a shock.)

[farmgirl]

This is a favorite of mine....
I had it put on the back of John's stone....




by Anne Bradstreet (1678)

TO MY DEAR & LOVING HUSBAND -

If ever two were one, then surely we;

If ever man were loved by wife, then thee;

If ever wife was happy in a man,

Compare with me, ye women, if you can.

I prize thy love more than whole mines of gold,

Or all the riches that the East doth hold.

My love is such that rivers cannot quench,

Nor aught but love from thee give recompense.

Thy love is such I can no way repay;

The heavens reward thee manifold, I pray.

Then while we live in love let's so persevere

That when we live no move we may live ever. - -

[Maine Finn]

Empty Walls

These empty walls,
once bearing a sense of life,
now stand for a fall
from grace and a hard landing.
No, the landing is yet to come,
for the soul still falls, still
flails for support of some
steady hand that watches, withdrawn.
These empty walls,
laugh in mockery of what once was,
a pure feeling of occupation’s halls,
no longer standing save for ruins.

[SOG]

mmmmm. much enjoyed mockings, wilco, farmgirlz, maineand ichabe's. ive never liked poetry per sei cuz it makes me feel gei when i play with it. i do have some, most of this is unreleased, some of it i released on the internet on me website, so ere we go ere we go!

............................................................

Viper

vent the candle
taste the flame
burnt my tongue
on that damn thing

............................................................

Granted

ere to caution
ere to the wind
what we take for granted
haunts us time and again

............................................................

Giants

When they breath we shiver,
when they stir we quake,
we wake in thier shadows and die in their wake,
we live off their might yet try as we might,
to follow their footprints with a narrower sight,
these giants of old, these giants of bold,
these giants are rare.
Giants, thats right.

............................................................

Sick One Night

I asked God with fevered blight,
Why don't people choose you? I answered myself.
Why give up my life of nothing but me? Myself....
Why give up where I stand, what I do, what I see, all that encompases me?
If I have but one life to live, one soul to give, me living my life, this priceless self trip.
So God made Satan or did Satan make God? Why sacrifice your only begotten for a misbegotten?

I can't see what you want me to see,
I can't see why the creator cant wave his hand and leave me be,
Your sacrifice unto us, my sacrifice to be given?
Every waking thought, dream, prayer, moment, for you, all to you, in this life, why?
All my laughter, all my pain, given unto you, I am not the same.
I don't see the need to hand over the deed, to my very soul, the essence of life I bleed.
Why can't I just die for the life of me, finally! Into the ground those I loved buried me.
Why don't I have the choice to live, die, and let be?

Good nor evil I see the dead sea,
Black and or white, the pallete of life, now sullied with gray.
Conscience be damned, lungs burn with sand, my reckoning at hand.
Blackened my life with a flick of that knife, is there no other way?
I seek you, there is a thousand ways! I am left alone, confused, dazed.
One path, two path, three path no more! Which destiny was mine to explore?

If I am but willing to love the life I live, when I pass to the hereafter, this answer shall I give,
Why cant, could'nt, I live free?
Why cant, could'nt, I cry! Be the real me!
If I am truly born, begat, begotten free, why the life of servitude staring back at me?
Why the promise, then the chain, the bit bites deep, I reel in pain!
Why couldnt you raise against him, cast the dark one down, he who was ridden with sin, did I let you down?
Instead you let him bid on me? A pawn on a simple board, part of this game must I be?
I cast my life lot from the altar run red, I have prepared but a answer,
This answer I give.........

............................................................

The Seventh Plane

Behold the dimensions of life and death! He comes to free all! He came at last!
In the neverseas across a storm torn path, the earth trembled, my heart did not last!
A blast of a horn! My dying last breath, a shadow flew over, my soul free at last!
I awoke startled, cold, flying this way and that. The shadow pointed, I froze, must I see that?
The sea turned red, the sky bled black,, the earth gave way splintered, yet what was that?
Nail, cross, veil, a light shone through that. Then came a rider, was I alive, did I witness that?
Force below gathered, the might of all men, spite were there names, trodden with sin.
They vengefully met him, he spake but a word. Heads were a flyin! Thats what I heard.
All around was calm, a river of dead? Books were then opened. Another was read.
The judgement began, of all who were dead. Great or small, every name was read.
I was placed in a line, my mind now a wreck, the man in front called. My name he had read.
I was guided by hand, a seemingly short way, to the throne of gold, trembling I swayed!
I fell on my face, I cried in his hand! He held me up high this god of all men.
My prodical son, you are not dead! For I am your shepherd, of my pasture you fed!
He set me back down, sending me on my way. After all, I think he had more meetings that day,
As I made to go out, to wander about he turned his head quick and let out a shout!
Hey there son! Dinners at eight! Watch out for Samson! He'll eat off your plate!
............................................................

You There

To the little fish that got away, you will be mine again someday.

............................................................

Slug

Where sluggards lie society dies a bit n bit each day, where sluggards multiply we cry! Our end is hear today!

............................................................



Encountering The Knight

The baron shook his fist with reasonable doubt, his best soldiers defeated, next him? No doubt.
A challenge was issued, a mark made that day. For whom? For anyone, this decree did say:
There is a cloaked knight who travels about, on a deep dark steed, iron hooves, snarling mouth.
Find but this knight, lay him to waste, tarry not a second, or your own blood will ye taste.
Bring forth his head, his mystical sword, place them fore' the baron, reap your rich rewards.


Many a nobleman did saddle that day, his finely groomed steed, sally forth as he may.
Hither the hunters, baying dogs of war, a howl in the wind none could ignore.
Whence came the entourage, the warriors of strong? Six, seven, eight deep, their numbers were long.
A mighty ensemble had gathered this day, to lay rest this knight, and receive riches they prayed.


Deep in the woods, a bird rustled about, making a nest, for the coming winter no doubt.
In the pit of that oak did a single knight lay, his sword by his side, his horse graze as he may.
Came forth a slight sound, a tinge in the wind, the knight clasp up his weapon, his killer of men.
He stood without sound, smelling the din, he knew thence they came, again, solely for him.
He turned but his head and a shadow came forth, a thick massive steed, his best friend of course.


The air dreamt of winter, the sun showing its share, a lit gleaming valley, a river branched here.
The knight bade thee horse trod, forthwith he came near, to the lip of the ford, with a sudden halt he was here.


He moved not a muscle, that steed of iron clay, as arrows reigned upon them, taking the rider I did pray.
Volley after volley was heard in the air, the thump of my crossbow, I let loose my fair share.
Alas the knight stood, never a single flinch, as the might of our arms, reached out and bit thin.


Our commander nudged his war horse forth, in front of his men he doth shouted the ford:
Damned knight, dead in this bed you shall lay! A shallow wet grave, I will bring you today!
You are a bastard knight, in our kingdom right here! Our baron hath ordered forth, it is your head I must bear!
To which the dark knight threw his cloak to the fore, revealing his armor, a slight show of candor.
His arm raised high he then drew abreast, the biggest mankiller, as wide as my chest!


The leaves thrust forward, the grass kicked up, the knight let out a cry to which his mount reared up!
We swept towards each other in furious haste, blood in ours eyes, our reward we could taste.
Our commander spearheaded the furious fray, cut right in half our commander fell this day.
Our spears drank deep of the dark horses skin, heads rolled clean of most of those men.
We seized upon, the slowed horses motions, a ocean of metal arms swung about with dark notions.
Just as we thought we might have succeeded, the knight cursed all our mothers, with a leap he did leave us.
He swept round our side, right quick up our backs, four men fell silent, in the blood river bath.


Our mage let thunder a furious clap, a lightning bolt fled, his gnarled staff like a bat.
The knight screamed into the sky with a unbridled vengeance, decapitating a foe, then turning his attention.
The mage had prepared yet another blast, but of fire this time, surely this knight could not last.
The fire rode forth with a crackling roar, to which the knight sang deep of forgotten dark lore.
He leveled his sword and with one swift motion, the mage and his fire disappeared in a molten ocean.


The knight sprang forth, his vigor renewed! He took us to task, we knew not what to do!
The grass stained red, the knight plunged forth, he took half our number, seconds more, three fourth's!
Quaking we stood in the now river run red, all our companions and horses bled dead.
A flick of his wrist and my two cohorts travelled, to join the others and the path they now unravelled.


I fell to my knees with blood on my face, let loose my sword and sealed my fate.
I lowered my visage toward that red murky depth and beseeched the gods a quick painless death.
Searing metal clamped tight round my skull, hefted me up, and held me bold.
My eyes drank deep of this bloody red knight, held up off my feet, bathed in sunlight.
He said not a word, yet I understood, my part in this tragedy was now to be heard.


Speak now! The baron clamored, hotly once more, as I collapsed of energy spread on the floor.
I stammered, stuttered, coughed blood on the floor, regained composure, and spoke faintly once more:
Of all your men to this mark have you sent, I come back alone, the others are spent.
Silence fell, doubt now reigned, about this dark knight and his message of pain.
The baron crept forth, grasped up my scarred face, a look of terror held him in place.
What now of the knight, faithful servant? He whispered.............

A reign brought short by this damned knight again, the barons strength all but neutered, by lack of armed men.
A story was told, a message sent that day, to men of all kingdoms, this message did say:
Alone in the glade but a single knight may pass, of him you may require, no allegiance or task.
Steady your army, withhold your hand, this knight is not worth, the lives of your men.
Yet, in some distant kingdom be, a fool of a mortal, conquering all they see.
When this lone knight, and his new horse passes, run quick away, run off ye asses!

He is The Red Knight, of war he is born, he hath lost all he loved and had his heart torn.
Sell short not your life, your future so grim, lest you end up just like him.
Ages may pass, as lifeblood prevails, explore your own loves, of this do not fail.
And if ye may traverse, a dark forest pass, the howl of the wind, attempt not to pass.
For in the evercircle of long forgotten sages, lays now The Red Knight, left to the ages.

The thunder of hooves! The clashing of might!
A sword drains thee skull, come morning, come light!
Fool of a mortal, you crossed The Red Knight!
......................................

© me myself and i.

[Trigger]

Be true to the angel inside.

It knows if you ever have lied,

it knows if you ever have cried.

Be true to the angel inside.

It'll be there after you died.


(first ever try on poetry a là Kamikaze style in English. :oops: )
Pretty fly for a first try! woot

[Flagg]

This is a favorite of mine....

Nice one Farm Girl :)

[scoone]

The original one is in spanish , so forgive me for the translation.

SADDEST POEM
I can write the saddest poem of all tonight.

Write, for instance: "The night is full of stars,
and the stars, blue, shiver in the distance."

The night wind whirls in the sky and sings.

I can write the saddest poem of all tonight.
I loved her, and sometimes she loved me too.

On nights like this, I held her in my arms.
I kissed her so many times under the infinite sky.

She loved me, sometimes I loved her.
How could I not have loved her large, still eyes?

I can write the saddest poem of all tonight.
To think I don't have her. To feel that I've lost her.

To hear the immense night, more immense without her.
And the poem falls to the soul as dew to grass.

What does it matter that my love couldn't keep her.
The night is full of stars and she is not with me.

That's all. Far away, someone sings. Far away.
My soul is lost without her.

As if to bring her near, my eyes search for her.
My heart searches for her and she is not with me.

The same night that whitens the same trees.
We, we who were, we are the same no longer.

I no longer love her, true, but how much I loved her.
My voice searched the wind to touch her ear.

Someone else's. She will be someone else's. As she once
belonged to my kisses.
Her voice, her light body. Her infinite eyes.

I no longer love her, true, but perhaps I love her.
Love is so short and oblivion so long.

Because on nights like this I held her in my arms,
my soul is lost without her.

Although this may be the last pain she causes me,
and this may be the last poem I write for her.

Pablo Neruda (1904-1973)

[farmgirl]

This is a favorite of mine....

Nice one Farm Girl :)

Thanks, Flagg....
I was thinking today that I probably should have left that one alone. It always makes me a little weepy.
Feeling better now though.... :)

[memphiz]

Here i sit...
broken hearted..

paid a dime,
and only farted...

yesterday i had my chance,
paid a nickle,
and **** my pants

[Flagg]

Thanks, Flagg....
I was thinking today that I probably should have left that one alone. It always makes me a little weepy.
Feeling better now though....

It's funny how that works, huh?

Although I probably read and write more than sleep, the written word doesn't affect me as much as hearing a song that can pick me up or tear me apart...

[farmgirl]

Thanks, Flagg....
I was thinking today that I probably should have left that one alone. It always makes me a little weepy.
Feeling better now though....

It's funny how that works, huh?

Although I probably read and write more than sleep, the written word doesn't affect me as much as hearing a song that can pick me up or tear me apart...

Absolutely.... there are songs that take me back to a certain time and place everytime I hear them. That can be cool, but it can be really emotionally draining as well. I wonder what it is about the music that makes it so different?

[Haiw]

a new thread I feel
is coming up about the
songs that move you much

[James]

"Dulce et Decorum Est" by Wilfred Owen, a British soldier who was KIA 4 November 1918, just a week before the end of the Great War.

If anyone can do Latin, please advise. My best effort is "As Sweet as Beauty, for father I died". Someone help me out.

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 I 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
Come gargling from the froth-corrupted lungs,
Obscene as cancer, bitter as the cud
Of vile, incurable sores on innocent tongues, --
My friend, you would not tell with such high zest
To children ardent for some desperate glory,
The old lie: Dulce et decorum est
Pro patria mori.

[Trigger]

Wow James. That's heavy. I remember a song (this is gonna sound wierd) on the 'Miami Vice II' soundtrack called 'Dulce et Decorum Est'. It was kind of an eerie instrumental song with some spoken latin in the background, and I listened to it over and over...I always wondered what that meant.

Now I know.

Thanks

[California Joe]

"Dulce et Decorum Est" by Wilfred Owen, a British soldier who was KIA 4 November 1918, just a week before the end of the Great War.

If anyone can do Latin, please advise. My best effort is "As Sweet as Beauty, for father I died". Someone help me out.

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 I 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
Come gargling from the froth-corrupted lungs,
Obscene as cancer, bitter as the cud
Of vile, incurable sores on innocent tongues, --
My friend, you would not tell with such high zest
To children ardent for some desperate glory,
The old lie: Dulce et decorum est
Pro patria mori.

Learned that poem in Sophomore English class James. Always one of my favorites. "..an ecstasy of fumbling" Brilliant. Knew it all by heart at one time.

[Maine Finn]

I walked along the beach tonight,
to hear the soothing rhythm of waves
upon the shore, not caring whether wrong or right,
never-ending, a bless'd constant that saves.

O'er yonder, the faithful flash of lighthouse beam,
a beacon of hope in the dark of night,
calling sailors and shoremen to peace, it seems
all find comfort in that ever-present light.

The sand is cool under my feet,
the water surges quietly near,
as tideline creeps closer to meet
an invisible point remark'd each year.

All cares and fears are cleansed here,
where the sea loves the shore,
whether angry, sad, playful, there is no fear,
blue-green waters live for ever in lore.

I walked along the beach tonight,
the chilly waves splashing against my legs,
no pain or remorse, 'tis not the place for fright,
here, the most lost of souls need not for mercy beg.

[Fintin]

dont get me started again......

Father please





Dad can you teach me to fight the good fight;
Papa, will you be there to help me in the end;
Father when I fall, can you help me to my feet;
Dad, please help me see the way to win;
Daddy I forgot how to throw the ball;
Dad I really want to know how again;
Papa thanks for always being there;
Dad I want to see your face once more

[Fintin]

Dear friend,



I’m sorry I threw that brick, I got a messed up way of getting my kicks;
I took that road too often traveled and lost my next line in the mix;
Just an Irish boy with a big heart, I recognize that I am not that smart,
My words cut deep and my graceful end was to slash you apart;
I merely meant to spill my guts, but the tears always soon chase;
Each morning that I wake, I make me feel like a better basket case;
I lay in this room with is cold white pads, protecting me from me;
Do or die that’s the way it has to be, all I long to be is free;
I used my words to lick my wounds but in yours I poured salt;
I wish this was easy, that it could all be fixed over a chocolate malt;
I am sorry

[Jack Mehoff]

I didn't write this, but i thought it was good


War
Sitting here in the trench afraid to show my head,
Or else i might ending up dead.
I thought from the movies and games that war is great thats what i said,
well i sure was wrong I didnt know what lied ahead.
Blood and sweat and bruises all over my body,
Thats y i joined the army.
Nothing seems worth fighting for,
For millions will be dying soon who knows? maybe more.
Thru the chaos of war, shell after shell,
For this place is nothing but hell.
This isnt what i signed up for,
I guess i didnt know the true meaning of war.

[Fintin]

Miss/Love



I want to hold you close, feel your skin so soft, and smell your hair that has the sent of a rose. I say I love you, I miss you, you say the same. The pain of the day we had to part still fresh. I miss you, I love you. With the touch of a saint you have molded my soul, made me who I am now. I love you, I miss you. Even when there is pain and strife you make it all right. With out you I do not know what I would be, since we have met I have a new self, I miss you, I love you. If I could hold you now just for this short time my heart would be eased. If I could just hold you, be with you my heart would feel right but God put me in this spot for he also put me with you I miss you and love you. You make me who I am, I miss you and I love you.

[gaz]

"Dulce et Decorum Est" by Wilfred Owen, a British soldier who was KIA 4 November 1918, just a week before the end of the Great War.

If anyone can do Latin, please advise. My best effort is "As Sweet as Beauty, for father I died". Someone help me out.

I've never studied Latin but when I read that poem in school I was told that "Dulce et decorum est pro patria mori" translates as "It is sweet and glorious to die for ones country", whether that's correct or not I have no idea.

Personally I'm not much of a reader of poetry but the following is a favourite of mine. It's called "Invictus" and is by William Ernest Henley (1849–1903) -

OUT of the night that covers me,
Black as the Pit from pole to pole,
I thank whatever gods may be
For my unconquerable soul.

In the fell clutch of circumstance
I have not winced nor cried aloud.
Under the bludgeonings of chance
My head is bloody, but unbowed.

Beyond this place of wrath and tears
Looms but the Horror of the shade,
And yet the menace of the years
Finds and shall find me unafraid.

It matters not how strait the gate,
How charged with punishments the scroll
I am the master of my fate:
I am the captain of my soul.


I believe "Invictus" is latin for "unconquered", to me the poem says I will not be beaten, no matter what, but unfortunately it now has some negative connotations. This poem was issued as the last words of Timothy McVeigh before he was executed.

[Maine Finn]

Thought I'd give this thread a bump.

I stumbled across this when I was clearing the hard drive on my father's computer. It's an older piece and slightly dark, written while I was still in high school, when I was trying to figure out who I was.

Don't read if you don't like depressing poems.







I am a prisoner in my own mind.
Somewhere inside me, there is
a decent, sane person looking to
get out somehow.

I am searching for that person,
the person who doesn't exist.
Somewhere inside my head, there
is a reason.

I am searching for that reason,
the reason that doesn't exist.
Somewhere inside me, there is a
jar of courage.

I am searching for that jar,
the jar that doesn't exist.
Somewhere inside me, there is a
glimmer of hope.

I am searching for that hope,
the hope that doesn't exist.
I am a prisoner in my own mind.

[usm2b]

There once was a bee
And he lived in an apple tree
he would go out to find honey
he wasn't a dummy
he knew he could sell it for money
or put it on his waffles,
however he also loved falafels
Mr. Bee worked very hard
until one day he came upon a yard...
and he was so happy, he wrote his mom a card
He said Hi Mommy
I finally found some honey!

[ViktorNavorski]

One of my favorite...

Ascension
by Colleen Corah Hitchcock

And if I go,
while you're still here...
Know that I live on,
vibrating to a different measure
-behind a thin veil you cannot see through.
You will not see me,
so you must have faith.
I wait for the time when we can soar together again,
-both aware of each other.
Until then, live your life to its fullest.
And when you need me,
Just whisper my name in your heart,
...I will be there.

[EvanL]

beans beans the magical fruit
the more you eat, the more you toot
-Jesus 18AD

[Opening Batsman]

Ah, you left the part out the Raven poem when it goes, "Quoth the Raven, EAT MY SHORTS! Bart! Stop it!"

[walford]

OK Cal Joe, after reading the brilliant poem on the first page of this thread, I fully concede that Mocking is a genius. Whatever insult that MLD may have lain upon me [whether deserved or not] was a great honor.

But I still think that the rest of you who have dumped on me are scum. ;)

The closest thing that I ever wrote approaching poetry is this sermon that I actually delivered in front of some other heathens: The One (http://utopia-unmasked.us/theonetext.html)

[ShotOver]

Helmet on, face shield down.

A stick in the left hand, the shield in the next.

All faces gives away the seriousness that is required in this moment.

Lining up, the protestor in the first front row

is five years old.


(Based on my first anti-riot duty. It was quite a shock.)
Nice one mate, Balkans i bet?

[Roldwin]

I used to writte poetry, but in spanish. I can't translate into english 'cos it would lose the sense and the "musicality" of the word combination.I don't know if you understand what I mean.

Anyway, If you know some spanish, you'll enjoy it


Quisiera perderme,
Bosque de hadas,
por el infinito sendero
de tus miradas...


another one:


Despiertan del almendro las flores dormidas,
del almendro despierta la blanca flor,
y en su aroma, respiro tu aroma.
Dime niña, ¿Eres tu la primavera?
¿Eres tu la blanca flor?

[§nake]

Don't read if you don't like depressing poems.

Good one, Finn, thanks

[Maine Finn]

Don't read if you don't like depressing poems.

Good one, Finn, thanks

Thanks, but I didn't particularly like that one. It's lame.

[Ichhabe]

Helmet on, face shield down.

A stick in the left hand, the shield in the next.

All faces gives away the seriousness that is required in this moment.

Lining up, the protestor in the first front row

is five years old.


(Based on my first anti-riot duty. It was quite a shock.)
Nice one mate, Balkans i bet?

Yeah. Kosovo. Crazy place.

[Maine Finn]

Bump.

Just wrote this.


Today, the sun dared not shine,
giving way to the darkening sky,
the warm heavy air a sign
of the tears clouds are ready to cry.

No evil comes on this slight breeze,
the bearer of well tidings, it seems,
washing clean the earth with ease,
falling from the heavens like dreams.

Fresh spring green on this rain relies,
the season’s colours need not fall to asking
for the bounty of the skies,
rather, in the storm’s gift of life, basking.

The cool rain is not without feeling,
blessed drops all, every one
falling, flowing, healing,
soothing the hungers created by the sun.

Today, the sun dared not shine,
turning tail before the clouds unfurled,
watching from afar the storm divine
this, the lifeblood of the world.

[Lexi]

Well see I was going to post mine.

But then I realised that mine are **** compared to all of yours...

There goes that idea. :|

[molly747]

One of my favorite poems...

Not Waving But Drowning

Nobody heard him, the dead man,
But still he lay moaning:
I was much further out than you thought
And not waving but drowning.

Poor chap, he always loved larking
And now he's dead
It must have been too cold for him his heart gave way,
They said.

Oh, no no no, it was too cold always
(Still the dead one lay moaning)
I was much too far out all my life
And not waving but drowning.

--Stevie Smith


And another one of my favorites, I just think it's really beautiful...

High Flight

Oh, I have slipped the surly bonds of earth
And danced the skies on laughter-silvered wings;
Sunward I've climbed, and joined the tumbling mirth
Of sun-split clouds -- and done a hundred things
You have not dreamed of -- wheeled and soared and swung
High in the sunlit silence. Hov'ring there,
I've chased the shouting wind along, and flung
My eager craft through footless halls of air.
Up, up the long, delirious burning blue,
I've topped the windswept heights with easy grace
Where never lark, or even eagle flew.
And, while with silent, lifting mind I've trod
The high untresspassed sanctity of space,
Put out my hand, and touched the face of God.

-- RCAF Flight-Lieutenant John Gillespie Magee Jr.
(1922-1941).

[usa320]

Here i sit all broken hearted...
Meant to **** but merely farted.
So still i sit in this cloud of vapour.
Because jimmy the ****head left no paper.
Ive got classes, no time to linger.
Look out butt, here comes my finger.

a classic indeed... right up there with:

beans beans, there good for your heart.
Beans beans, they make you fart.
The more you eat, the more you fart.
The more you fart, the better you feel.
So make sure to eat beans, at every meal.



personally, i think poetry sucks. lyrics can pull on my emotions better than poetry... **** like this:

Relax and stand in the warmth of the sand
the day is long
and here for us to take for granted.
We find ourselves to our knees
Water clear, a tender breeze upon our faces
as we bask in our good graces
Yeah, we all are golden here.

And summer, and summer,
where night belongs to lust and lovers.
And summer, and summer,
and I am here to win you over.
You will be mine this year. (this year that's right this is the one this year, this year)

The sun is set and the moon is high,
The night is long and here for you and I to capture (it's for us)
And flood ourselves to the gills with icey drinks
With bolstering wills and we are braver for the moment
Yeah, we all are golden here

And summer, and summer,
where all the girls bare olive shoulders,
and summer, and summer,
and I am here to win you over.
You will be mine this year. (this year)

The courtyard where the garden stands,
Behind the beach, in crystal and sands, we shed our clothes,
And felt romantic, tinted by the moon fantastic.
Bright and warm, and hours alone absolve us of the sins we own.
And from one year into another I think of you when I feel summer.

And summer, and summer, where all the girls bear olive shoulders
And summer, and summer, where all you hope for is another
And summer, and summer, where night belongs to lust and lovers
And summer, and summer, and I am here to win you over
You will be mine this year. (This year)

[Aerosoul]

Ahh...all my poetry is rather personal and somewhat explicit.

I'll see if I can come up with something to post...

[Shiftyfive]

dont feel like going thru all the pages reading panzy ass poetry ;)

but I do like the one about the man from nantucket

[Morboute]

At every door-way,
ere one enters,
one should spy round,
one should pry round
for uncertain is the witting
that there be no foeman sitting,
within, before one on the floor

verse 1 from


Hávamál
The Words of Odin the High One
from the Elder or Poetic Edda
(Sæmund's Edda)


not sure about the translation tho

[Hadamar]

Hymn to Beauty
Charles Baudelaire
translated by Louis Simpson

Where do you come from, Beauty? From the skies
Or the abyss? Infernal and divine
We see both good and evil in your eyes,
And that is why you are compared to wine.

Your glance is sunset and the rising sun,
Your perfumes like a storm fill the night air.
Your kisses are magic. This love potion
Makes heroes tremble and boys bravely dare.

Do you rise out of the dark? Fall from the stars?
Destiny like a dog walks close behind you.
You sow your joys at random and disasters,
Govern and give no account of what you do.

You walk on the dead, Beauty, whom you scorn.
Horror is not your least prized jewelry,
And Murder dangles with the ornaments
In a love dance on your prideful belly.

The ephemeral, dazed, flies to you, candle,
Crackles, flames and "Bless this fire!" cries.
The one bent over his love is like a man who'll
Caress his gravestone, panting as he dies.

No matter where, Beauty, from hell or heaven,
Huge monster with appalling, innocent mien,
If only your eye, your smile, your foot would open
The Infinite I love and have never seen.

From Satan or from God, angel or siren,
What does it matter, fairy with velvet eyes,
Rhythm, perfume, light, if only, O my queen,
You lighten my days in a universe I despise.



Hymne à la beauté

Viens-tu du ciel profond ou sors-tu de l'abîme,
O Beauté? ton regard, infernal et divin,
Verse confusément le bienfait et le crime,
Et l'on peut pour cela te comparer au vin.

Tu contiens dan to oeil le couchant et l'aurore;
Tu répands des parfums comme un soir orageux;
Tes baisers sont un philtre et ta bouche une amphore
Qui font le héros lâche et l'enfant courageux.

Sors-tu du gouffre noir ou descends-tu des astres?
Le Destin charmé suit tes jupons comme un chien;
Tu sèmes au hasard la joie et les désastres,
Et tu gouvernes tout et ne réponds de rien.

Tu marches sur des morts, Beauté, dont tu tu moques;
De tes bijoux l'Horreur n'est pas le moins charmant,
Et le Meurtre, parmi tes plus chères breloques,

Sur ton ventre orgueilleux danse amoureusement.

L'éphémère ébloui vole vers toi, chandelle
Crépite, flambe et dit: Bénissons ce flambeau!
L'amoreux pantelant incliné sur sa belle
A l'air d'un moribund caressant son tombeau.

Que tu viennes du ciel ou de l'enfer, qu'importe,
O Beauté! monstre énorme, effrayant, ingénu!
Si ton oeil, ton souris, ton pied, m'ouvrent la porte
D'un Infini que j'aime et n'ai jamais connu?

De Satan ou de Dieu, qu'importe? Ange ou Sirène,
Qu'importe, si tu rends, --fée aux yeux de velours,

Rythme, parfum, lueur, ô mon unique reine! --
L'univers moins hideux et les instants moins lourds?



e. e. cummings

the boys i mean are not refined
they go with girls who buck and bite
they do not give a **** for luck
they hump them thirteen times a night

one hangs a hat upon her tit
one carves a cross in her behind
they do not give a **** for wit
the boys i mean are not refined

they come with girls who bite and buck
who cannot read and cannot write
who laugh like they would fall apart
and masturbate with dynamite

the boys i mean are not refined
they cannot chat of that and this
they do not give a fart for art
they kill like you would take a piss

they speak whatever's on their mind
they do whatever's in their pants
the boys i mean are not refined
they shake the mountains when they dance



Villanelle
William Empson

It is the pain, it is the pain, endures.
Your chemic beauty burned my muscles through.
Poise of my hands reminded me of yours.

What later purge from this deep toxin cures?
What kindness now could the old salve renew?
It is the pain, it is the pain, endures.

The infection slept (custom or change inures)
And when pain's secondary phase was due
Poise of my hands reminded me of yours.

How safe I felt, whom memory assures,
Rich that your grace safely by heart I knew.
It is the pain, it is the pain, endures.

My stare drank deep beauty that stills allures.
My heart pumps yet the poison draught of you.
Poise of my hands reminded me of yours.

You are still kind whom the same shape immures.
Kind and beyond adieu. We miss our cue.
It is the pain, it is the pain, endures.
Poise of my hands reminded me of yours.




William Logan

Macbeth in Venice

IV. The Porter's Song

True love is not discussed.
Anatomy's unjust:
a lady's seashell ear
will make a lover lust.
True love is close to fear--
Let's drink a little beer.

Though Cupid's barbed harpoon
cannot arrest the moon,
the octopus and whale
still swim our black lagoon.
True love was meant to fail--
Let's drink a little ale.

Law's not the place to start
the murder of the heart.
The law can't counterfeit her
lies served à la carte.
True love will not acquit her--
Let's drink a little bitter.

Climb the rose wall of state
if love has come too late.
If Hell keeps you in doubt,
love's just a twist of fate.
True love is not devout--
Let's drink a little stout.

The shepherd eats the sheep,
but true love makes him weep
from Lent to Michaelmas
or when he's fast asleep.
True love is middle-class--
Let's raise an empty glass.

A porter's what he thinks,
and porter's what he drinks.
The riddle of the Sphinx?
Love's made of noise and stinks.
As our fair city sinks,
true love is draped in minks.

[PeterRJG]

Elegy Written in a Country Churchyard - Sir Thomas Grey. Famous poem; many quotes (and a few misquotes) have been sourced from it

The curfew tolls the knell of parting day,
The lowing herd winds slowly o'er the lea,
The ploughman homeward plods his weary way,
And leaves the world to darkness and to me.

Now fades the glimmering landscape on the sight,
And all the air a solemn stillness holds,
Save where the beetle wheels his droning flight,
And drowsy tinklings lull the distant folds:

Save that from yonder ivy-mantled tower
The moping owl does to the moon complain
Of such as, wandering near her secret bower,
Molest her ancient solitary reign.

Beneath those rugged elms, that yew-tree's shade,
Where heaves the turf in many a mouldering heap,
Each in his narrow cell for ever laid,
The rude Forefathers of the hamlet sleep.

The breezy call of incense-breathing morn,
The swallow twittering from the straw-built shed,
The ****'s shrill clarion, or the echoing horn,
No more shall rouse them from their lowly bed.

For them no more the blazing hearth shall burn,
Or busy housewife ply her evening care:
No children run to lisp their sire's return,
Or climb his knees the envied kiss to share,

Oft did the harvest to their sickle yield,
Their furrow oft the stubborn glebe has broke;
How jocund did they drive their team afield!
How bow'd the woods beneath their sturdy stroke!

Let not Ambition mock their useful toil,
Their homely joys, and destiny obscure;
Nor Grandeur hear with a disdainful smile
The short and simple annals of the Poor.

The boast of heraldry, the pomp of power,
And all that beauty, all that wealth e'er gave,
Awaits alike th' inevitable hour:-
The paths of glory lead but to the grave.

Nor you, ye Proud, impute to these the fault
If Memory o'er their tomb no trophies raise,
Where through the long-drawn aisle and fretted vault
The pealing anthem swells the note of praise.

Can storied urn or animated bust
Back to its mansion call the fleeting breath?
Can Honour's voice provoke the silent dust,
Or Flattery soothe the dull cold ear of Death?

Perhaps in this neglected spot is laid
Some heart once pregnant with celestial fire;
Hands, that the rod of empire might have sway'd,
Or waked to ecstasy the living lyre:

But Knowledge to their eyes her ample page,
Rich with the spoils of time, did ne'er unroll;
Chill Penury repress'd their noble rage,
And froze the genial current of the soul.

Full many a gem of purest ray serene
The dark unfathom'd caves of ocean bear:
Full many a flower is born to blush unseen,
And waste its sweetness on the desert air.

Some village-Hampden, that with dauntless breast
The little tyrant of his fields withstood,
Some mute inglorious Milton here may rest,
Some Cromwell, guiltless of his country's blood.

Th' applause of list'ning senates to command,
The threats of pain and ruin to despise,
To scatter plenty o'er a smiling land,
And read their history in a nation's eyes,

Their lot forbad: nor circumscribed alone
Their growing virtues, but their crimes confined;
Forbad to wade through slaughter to a throne,
And shut the gates of mercy on mankind,

The struggling pangs of conscious truth to hide,
To quench the blushes of ingenuous shame,
Or heap the shrine of Luxury and Pride
With incense kindled at the Muse's flame.

Far from the madding crowd's ignoble strife,
Their sober wishes never learn'd to stray;
Along the cool sequester'd vale of life
They kept the noiseless tenour of their way.

Yet e'en these bones from insult to protect
Some frail memorial still erected nigh,
With uncouth rhymes and shapeless sculpture deck'd,
Implores the passing tribute of a sigh.

Their name, their years, spelt by th' unletter'd Muse,
The place of fame and elegy supply:
And many a holy text around she strews,
That teach the rustic moralist to die.

For who, to dumb forgetfulness a prey,
This pleasing anxious being e'er resign'd,
Left the warm precincts of the cheerful day,
Nor cast one longing lingering look behind?

On some fond breast the parting soul relies,
Some pious drops the closing eye requires;
E'en from the tomb the voice of Nature cries,
E'en in our ashes live their wonted fires.

For thee, who, mindful of th' unhonour'd dead,
Dost in these lines their artless tale relate;
If chance, by lonely contemplation led,
Some kindred spirit shall inquire thy fate, --

Haply some hoary-headed swain may say,
Oft have we seen him at the peep of dawn
Brushing with hasty steps the dews away,
To meet the sun upon the upland lawn;

'There at the foot of yonder nodding beech
That wreathes its old fantastic roots so high.
His listless length at noontide would he stretch,
And pore upon the brook that babbles by.

'Hard by yon wood, now smiling as in scorn,
Muttering his wayward fancies he would rove;
Now drooping, woeful wan, like one forlorn,
Or crazed with care, or cross'd in hopeless love.

'One morn I miss'd him on the custom'd hill,
Along the heath, and near his favourite tree;
Another came; nor yet beside the rill,
Nor up the lawn, nor at the wood was he;

'The next with dirges due in sad array
Slow through the church-way path we saw him borne,-
Approach and read (for thou canst read) the lay
Graved on the stone beneath yon aged thorn.'

The Epitaph

Here rests his head upon the lap of Earth
A youth to Fortune and to Fame unknown.
Fair Science frowned not on his humble birth,
And Melacholy marked him for her own.

Large was his bounty, and his soul sincere,
Heaven did a recompense as largely send:
He gave to Misery all he had, a tear,
He gained from Heaven ('twas all he wish'd) a friend.

No farther seek his merits to disclose,
Or draw his frailties from their dread abode
(There they alike in trembling hope repose),
The bosom of his Father and his God.

[punchinout]

well, i'll take a shot at this...one night back in october, was especially sad, my first love left for college about a month and a half before and lol i actually got a ton of poems out of my depression.

If you think you're over her,
Well you're not.
Because,
A little Jack Daniels,
And a whole lot of George Strait,
Are all the things you need,
To make your mended heart...bleed.
-jackdaniels&georgestrait 10/29/04

and one more...all i have to say is being really really depressed, alcohol and sad country music don't mix.

I'm sittin' here drinkin'
Spendin' way too much time thinkin'
Cryin' and dyin'
Obsessin' and sighin'
Over you...and him,
You...and him.
-youandhim 12/15/04