Insani writes poetry??? Oh dear.


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Orange Star (100 Posts) Legacy User (Silver)
Sup. I've gotten a bit of an interest with poetry, perhaps stemming from my terrible interest in rapping a few years back. Anyway, I'm going to dump some old poetry I wrote here, and perhaps more if I get around to writing it.


This is sort of an attempt, I guess, at one of those long poem narratives. (See That Mulga Bill poem, and the Cremation of Sam McGee)

The sky is black when he climbs out-
With thunderous step he begins to emerge
And without raving gaze or shout;
But rather in his upright pout-
He displays his foothold on insanity's verge

Many a man has pondered his reality;
With little or less to show for their time-
Besides,perhaps, acceptance of the futility
To try and uncover one such as he-
Who beds at dawn and wakes up at nine!

He raises an arm, a mighty limb-
With cleaver in it's monstrous hand!
And the jungle recognizes Teddy Tim-
Falling from his rock through air dim-
As he drops into his wonderland!

His steady step falls on the ground
He follows the trail of his chosen prey-
Being solely by his wits bound-
Bound only not to make a sound.
And in the midst of trees is grey-
The grey that is his very prey.

The beast is massive, maybe more-
But the same can be said of Teddy Tim.
Both of them beasts of ancient lore;
Belonging in an era much before!
The beast knows not of him-
Nor of his poised and ready limb!

A slice through air - he hits it's bone
The beast howls and throws Teddy away,
And his terrible strength, the terrible tone
Nearly makes Teddy wish he weren't alone!
But Teddy has come a very long way-
And the least he can do is stop to play.

The beast lunges at him with burning fear-
And Teddy identifies the same's putrid scent
And as the beast comes drawing near-
He strikes, he misses! His cleaver's bent!
Yet Teddy surely shan't repent-
Shan't give up the battle here-
But rather, with a cunning leer-
He retreats and runs as the noblest deer.

The beast, enraged, runs in fury
And Teddy, grinning, blazes forward
Even as in his shoulder a tusk does bury
And yet Teddy races faster onward
The beast unaware of what they fly toward-
The final stop for Teddy's quarry!

Yet the best of plans are prone to fail-
As certainly Teddy now has been taught-
For the beast, with a mighty wail
Jumped and screamed and, with a flail-
Threw Teddy high up in a single shot-
So high he thought he'd die for naught!

With frantic grip he grabs a vine-
His arm jerks back with shattering force!
His grip holds tight, his arm his lifeline-
And then he drops, and lands all-fine!
Teddy turns and screams a curse
And starts to run, none the worse!

He halts! Rolls into a ball, He grabs onto a tree-
As his beast flies off the ledge-
And thunders down into history!
Yet Teddy, more pleased could surely be-
For climbing down the jagged edge
Greatly devalues his victory.

The wolf pack trembles at his gaze-
The vultures retreat with many a squeal-
And the dreaded beast lies in a daze-
By it's fall driven from it's craze.
Teddy with his hungered zeal-
Swiftly kills his hard-earned meal!

The beast is cold as stone-
And once more Teddy is alone;
For once with life this monster shone
Yet now his shattered cranial bone
Shall make for Teddy's pristine throne
One of shattered bone, yet still his own.


The sky is black when he climbs in-
After his hunger his feasting did purge-
And without raving gaze or shout;
But rather in his upright pout-
He displays his foothold on insanity's verge


This one is perhaps one of my best, if not THE best. It was one of many poems written after I had gotten frustrated with my lack of inspiration and began writing about that - this one was more an experiment in 'emotional' poetry, as much of mine is more monotone.

Inspiration, Dear old Friend
Inspiration! Dear old friend;
Shall you come back in the end?
Shall you some great riches send -
And will you these riches lend?

Inspiration! Your I miss!
You've saved me from the great abyss
Wherein lie things that growl and hiss.

Inspiration! Treasured thing!
You built me up to make me king!
Yet on my throne you make me thin;
And give me for a plate a wastebin!

Inspiration! You I lack!
Do forever return back -
Alone, for poems, I have no knack!

Inspiration! Dear old friend!
Do stay with me 'till the end -
And do great riches to me send -
And do, please do, these riches lend!


Hello the wrinkled sea,
My last and only friend.
Little more is left to me-
On the shore of world's end.

Truly raging was the sea;
It tossed me far into the wild.
Yet, today, the sea and me
Have joyfully been reconciled.
================================================================== (man these are random each time theyll probably look so weird)

The Winds of Wit
(I'm basically making these titles up as I go along. I didn't really plan them out before. :V)

Inspiration comes and goes-
It roams as freely as a bird-
When it leaves, there come my woes,
That, perhaps, I'll live unheard!


Mother Nature's Wondrous Love

Gently do the eagles fly,
Softly do the great winds sing;
Yet down below, great men die,
Slain in service of their king.

The meadows dance down below,
And nature doesn't seem to mind
That from men's veins rivers flow,
But she smiles with a smile kind.

As surely as the breeze blows;
As nobly as the sun shines;
So do men fall by the rows,
Yet this doesn't disturb the pines.

Nature's heart runs truly cold,
Caring not for human blood;
But rather smiles as men bold
Fall forever into mud.

She oversees great sacrifice;
And doesn't shed a single tear.
For to her, these are but mice
And their deaths were always near.


Regarding the unseemly array of imagery upon my wall-

Considering the content all;
Is it an honor or a fall
To be displayed upon my wall?

On a whim and little more,
Better much than those before;
I put up sweet old Edinburgh.

Men dream to break a picture's shroud
Yet  cannons cannot break his cloud;
Is Edinburgh ashamed or proud?

Far from him, geometric bore,
Cereal bowls, a little closer more;
Such is the company of Dear Edinburgh.

Despite unworthy being crowned,
And though the breakfast does abound,
Surely still can be honor found.
Okay so I've been sorta slacking in poetry but w/e here's two more I made recently. Kind of weird but w/e.

Who is me? Not me, for sure.

If I'm not me, who can I be?
But I'm not me, I'm nobody.
If you knew me, you would see;
I'm not me - I've abandoned me.

Show me who you are, and who is me;
Show me yourself, that you I may be;
Because yourself - a better man is he;
Because yourself - yourself can see.
But as to me; who is me?

Who are you, and how do you do?
What you do, I will do too.
And maybe someday, I'll be like you.

Change my core

Change my face.
Wreck the base.
I will change my core.

Once myself.
Now yourself.
I will warp the core.

Give yourself.
Be myself.
Be me at my core.

Build my base.
Fix my face.
Now you've changed my core.

they're sort of weird I guess. Idk I guess I wasn't really sticking to any normal sort of flow. :U
whoop whoop inspiration's come again

Versus Nature

What's natural is strong;
Consider the breeze -
For though you strike till dawn -
The breeze never flees.

To fight against nature;
Is a lifetime's work -
You'll fight 'till you're mature -
Made white as a stork.

Yet you may just prevail;
And defeat it whole;
But what will you unveil;
In your reformed soul?

Inspiration's Beck and Call

Inspiration's beck and call
Must be your revered master
If ignored, you'll lose it all
And end up a disaster

Shades of Glory
i feel kind of dumb putting my titles in bold. i don't know. it just makes me think that i'm taking these poems too seriously and it embarrasses me beyond measure.

Reason is unfashionable;
Wisdom is unfathomable.
The wise man's glory fades -
My glory's in my shades.

I live in our hipster herd -
Fearing the sight or sound of 'Nerd'.
The wise man's glory fades -
My glory's in my shades.

I live on every word they say-
This is my course, my sacred way.
The wise man's glory fades -
My glory's in my shades.

I need neither your love nor pity.
I am a scribe of stupidity.
The wise man's glory fades -
My glory's in my shades.

Does it hurt when I hurt you,
Or is that just part of the game?
The things which I now do...
...Do you have no shame?

I'd like to hear you shreak in pain;
But you might just be too smart for me.
I'd hate to sprout my dreams in vain -
But your terror I'd kill to see.

But you might just be too smart for me.
You might even win our game.
Perhaps it's a streak of jealousy;
But I want to be like you, the same.

You might just be too smart for me;
Even now, as my helpless prey.
You cause me such great agony,
But you I cannot slay;
Because in death you'll've beaten me.
Always gaining victory.
A Disaster in Eight or Eight Verses (I'm Sorry)

Well, not really.

What minor journeys have I had!
Minor poems of length most sad;
An epic poet I am not -
Yet I shall yet take my best shot.
But shall I write of knight or 'bot?

A wild man, young Gallahad -
No, not the best idea I've had...
The dragon and goblin, friendship tragic-
Or shall I write of friendship magic?
I am quite surely at a loss;
I may as well write of birds and moss.

But what, then, shall I write?
Shall I rant to ranting's height?
What other course could I pursue?
It's far too late to try and redo;
Unless, of course, I do redo.

We have arrived at the fourth verse;
And yet we have no decent course.
I begin to think we'll end like this;
And what, I ask, could rhyme with this?
Fish, and dish, but those don't fit;
And hiss won't match one bit!

This journey seems to be all void;
And you, surely, seem annoyed.
(What, should I have used android?)
But, I seem to have broken form-
Perhaps fitly out of norm.

This verse, and all the rest
Have surely failed the test.
I can see - solved is this case-
This poem has little but disgrace.

Before I end, I'm sorry truly-
This trip a failure proved to be.
I'll have to close soon, evidently-
I'd hate to keep along this course.
But please, stay here for one more verse.

We're at the close, and justly so.
This poem has been a circus show;
(though one to which noone would go.)
Do try to purge this from your mind;
For this cloud isn't silver lined.

Edit: Whups forgot this one

Standards are for power tools

Their standards are for power tools;
For human sheep and utter fools.

Do not be found among the herd;
Which follows ever sacred word.

You are all the one and only;
And as such, unique you should be.

You'll be your own, and your own king;
You'll be yourself in everything.

And another's word is not your own;
So if you must, you'll stand alone.

For those who always ride the flow;
Will never find much cause to grow.
Hate is the thing inside your veins

Hate is the thing inside your veins
That is your jailor and your chains;
Hate is the thing that makes you live
And hate is the gift that will always give.

Hate is the thing which powers life
Which hurts your children and your wife;
Hate is the thing that makes you cry
And makes you wish that you could die.

Hate is the thing which makes me see
That the monster is really me;
Hate is the thing that poisons souls -
And fills your enemies full of holes.

Hate is the thing you can't ever kill,
Hate is the force behind your will;
Hate is the thing that sets you free;
And makes you your enemy be.

Hate is the thing unstoppable;
The one emotion untoppable.
Hate is the thing in you and me;
The thing that's easiest to see.

I win, you lose.

Another day, another victory,
Another small conquest for me.
You do not know me, but I know you,
And soon, you will know me too.

You're a simple man, and so am I,
You live to live, I live to see you die.
But will I kill you? I think not.
I need only to own your thought.
I need to guide you, to have your mind.
And only then your soul I'll bind.

I am your one and only master -
And I shall bring you to disaster.
You are a man of great renown;
But this won't help you falling down.
Each step you take is one I see;
Each breath you take you get from me.

And as you learn that it's been me
You'll learn that you've never been free;
I've played you like a deck of cards;
And, as glass, you'll break to shards.

For though you may not know my name;
I still have, truly, won the game.
Which is to say,
You lose.
Better luck next time.
And have a nice day.

'Win' the game and lose your soul
It's very simple, as you see.
You have the blade; now kill me.
Or will you let me walk away,
And live to see another day?

No doubt you'll choose the latter;
Lest your dainty morals shatter;
Yet, I know, you have desire.
Desire burning, like a fire.
But you know, as well as I,
That you will lose if I will die.

You see my calm, you smell no fear;
And right so - there is none here.
Pain is no small thing to me;
But this, of course, is plain to see.
Kill me, coward. Right your wrongs.
And sing to me your tired songs;
Tell me of my 'great despair'
(Which you've conjured from thin air.)

I see the fire in your eyes;
And the eye quite rarely lies.
So stoke the fire, lest it may cool;
And burn me down, you silly fool.

Stoke the fire let it go;
Burn the sea and burn the snow.
Take your blade; paint it red-
Very soon I will be dead.

Sitting on a windowsill

Sitting on a windowsill;
A shattered fragment of my will -
It whispers it's strange songs to me-
It dances, and pretends to be
Something that I can never see.
And it will never let me free.

The clouds of doom roll gently by;
It sits and battles with a fly -
And I don't see it's tiny foe;
But get the thought that it's for show -
Perhaps an insight to my soul.
Perhaps a light inside the hole.

It sits atop my windowsill;
A shattered fragment of my will -
And it will never let me be -
Never try and set me free.
But maybe I should stay inside;
I've heard of men out there who've died;
And I don't think I'm ready yet -
Not bold enough to leave the set.

Help me