Put something you wrote up.

neither of these are poetry, but meh...

one:

The rain came like a whisper upon the city, a warm and gentle blanket of mist embracing the tired streets and sleeping buildings. Even the dogs and winos seemed to respect the sacred solemnity of that pre-dawn hour. I heard not a sound as my legs, usually deemed akwardly long, carried me with an uncharacteristic grace through the alley behind the long row of taverns and cafes; not a sound except the righteous shushing of the rain. It seemed to me as I walked with my head bowed, the soft precipitation massaging my neck and subduing my restless mind, that the world was composed solely of that silent corridor of shimmering asphalt and brick, and that world was infinite; a minute sort of endlessness, like the space between zero and one.

The changing hue of the sky told me the sun was taking its first steps; from all directions I could hear the first murmurs of the newborn day. And with that, my world collapsed, as all worlds must do. No longer was I one with the tranquility of the exclusive all, but alone in the center of a small, anonymous cut in the vast and bustling cityscape. Once again, the alley was an alley and nothing more; the home of rusted dumpsters, the forum for incomprehensible stories sung in the malicious languages of the kitchen boys, the false refuge for the broken beggars' dreams. As I made my way out of the alley, the rain began to quicken its pace, striking the pavement like the half-hearted rapping of a snare drum. I stood for a moment at the cusp of the alley, examining the avenue. I studied the dutiful workers as they quickly shuffled along the sidewalk on their way to any one of the concrete and glass mausoleums that choked the skyline, their eyes forward underneath their umbrellas like mourning widows in black veils, straining to avoid a chance recognition of anyone else's existence. In a cruel moment, this would all be illuminated by the sun as it cowered behind the clouds. I hated the sun for rising. I hated it for so shamelessly exposing me unto the world and the world unto itself.

two:

"The trouble with dying," he mumbled as the smoke seeped from between his cracked lips, "is that there's no trouble except dying. There's no diversion. All you can think about is the dying. Little crises pop up here and there, but what are those compared to death? People rely on those little problems...you scream at the guy who cut you off on the highway and you pound your steering wheel...because they take our minds off the bigger problems...the real problems. You get mad at your neighbor when his dog shits on your lawn, and that diverts your attention from the fact that you're oppressed by a game in which your cards show on both sides and whatever chips you manage to win crumble between your fingers. But the dying...that even trumps the oppression. Death is the tyrrant of tyrrants; it doesn't just revoke the rights of life, but to life. And it oppresses us all. You can't escape it, not even in your own mind. Everything gets tinted and blurred as that shroud closes over your eyes."

I just stared at him for a while as he sat next to me gazing into and beyond the glass in front of him. I imagined what he must have seen, how death must look as half a glass of cheap whiskey on a dusty bar. It was clear he knew what he was talking about; the greyness of his eyes, the hunch of his shoulders, the bends of his yellowed fingers, that face etched deep by the cruel whips of hard years and broken faith. He knew what it was like to die. Finally I just nodded a simple nod, bringing my glass to my lips and finishing the last drink I could afford. I took the crumpled bills from my pocket, tossed them on the bar, and headed for the door. I didn't bother with goodbyes; what was a goodbye worth?

Stepping onto the sidewalk, I pulled my tattered wool blazer tightly around me, wrapping my arms across my thin frame, the bitter wind pulling tears from my eyes. As I made the walk home, the soles of my shoes crunched and tore the leaves that the trees were too preoccupied to grasp.

The flame had been kindled, they said, a thousand thousand years ago, in China, some said, in Egypt, said others, and there were even those that claimed it had first been lit in the heart of Africa. All agreed that it was the first fire, the primal fire.

They told a story of many thousand years ago, when the fire had a temple and a place of worship, when it was fed on pure oils and fragrant woods and the guards of the king marched round the grounds day after night after day. In those days an army came out of the lands beyond the King’s reach, and they smashed the temple and killed the king and the tenders of the fire took a bit of it and hid it in a pot of oil and fled. When the king’s son had crushed the invaders the tenders came back and found that the son did not worship the fire. He worshiped the sun, and he had forgotten the time when only the fire kept man safe, when the sun had fled beyond the hills and night was on the world.

There are few, now, who worship the fire. Fire can be made without flint and steel, without the old drill, without providence or miracle. Every child makes fire and his parents tell him not to, that it is dangerous and fickle and not to be trusted. Man keeps his fires far away and out of sight, hidden in sheaths of metal and concrete, away safe and forgotten. But they do not worship it. They do not love it. They do not think of the nights when it has kept mankind from cold and beasts and lost paths.

These days the fire has a new temple. The tenders come here by shifts. In the dim light of this temple they sip coffee and the semidarkness is studded by dozens of tiny red pinpoints. Curls of smoke leave their lips as they give their sacrifice to the primal flame. The flame is fed now on rich tobaccos and fragrant oils. As each cigarette burns low the next is lit from it’s stub, endlessly, over and over and over again. The tenders sacrifice their youth and their health to the flame, and willingly. It is mankind’s first friend.

God i hate esoteric writing:

Careening, cleverly bought miles of snow,
Sweet nature, slowly cleared by man's ego,
Percussive sliding door of moonglow,
Walking alone the sea floor, i felt a murmur,
Turning back i noticed the sun rising,
The well intented wall of silence wouldn't budge,
Finally I went home, to carress that bit of Rome,
Pieces of history, i did not learn
Crush my ego, and an ivory urn,
The sweltering heat slipped through my fingers,
Like the friendships built in my high school years,
Bitterness, why should he not enjoy crying,
The cathartic wind swept up years dying,
Forgetting his curious nature, he ignored the news,
His brazen cloture, sat atop that yellowing ruse,
"You can't fool my ego," he said,
"I keep it in a metallic infatuation,"
"Well respected, and well fed."


[Edited on Mar 01, 2006 by mst3kfan]

DESCENT
-----------
As I walk the Hallowed paths of Hell
I see my life stray past.
Often, Demons I will tell
it went by oh so fast.

They follow and I listen near
to hear their evil tones.
The prices I will pay, I fear,
are too great for these bones.

And what may I, one graceless still,
do to reprieve my soul?
Yes I, who did in conscience kill
He who loved us all.

A crime to outlast any crime,
a feat of passioned death.
My soul will burn throughout all the time
til eternity's final breath.

"He's gone." they whisper in great glee.
"The almighty one is dead."
and pain my punishment will be
for his nemesis I will wed.

His cold and cruel inhuman heart
has tortured many souls
and thrown their broke, mis-happen parts
deep down the blackest holes.

I wander through my memory's eye
and see my crime stray past.
I made the Devil weep and cry,
His soul burned to the last.

"Twas sorrow that hath done Him in,
A feeling He'd never known.
A battle He could never win
for a heart He'd never own.

I killed Him while He wept and flailed
in misery's sweet embrace.
He turned His face from me and wailed,
He'd lost their vicious race.

And now I've passed through Heaven's Gate
amid the sun drenched sky,
and Hell will ever more await
where only Angels fly.

I'm ushered toward His throne of gold
His bride to be in white.
His face is neither young nor old
withing His blinding light.

The God we're always told is kind
was never what we learned.
We look into His face and find
our love He never earned.

and death and grief are His rewards
for a life spent helping others.
We flindly follow unwittingly towards
a dream He gladly smothers.

I move patiently through the darkness, confident and without fear.
For I know that I'm the only evil thing here.


Or somehting like that, I wrote this in high school so I don't really remember.

Last semester I wrote some poems for fun mostly during boring lectures, here are two!
1)
Twitching in his seat
Back and forth; childish
We Say: "Like an Egyptian."
Our attention is shot,
Grins not ours take over.
A stifled laugh, begging
Begging to explode
In a roaring snigger
And to echo out
Over the words of the lecturer:
"Semantic Tableau Method..."
I want to defile the hall
Set my students free,
From their silence of
Polite coughing, sniffing, rustling.
And still he rocks back and forth.
Asking me to do the unthinkable,
The uncooth and unashamed.
But I cannot help myself,
Even with hands on ears,
Eyes closed, the rocking shouts to me:
"Laugh, exclaim, bite not on your fist!"
My friend's glances: painfully
Suppressed and I nudge in anger.
As I can take no more of him.
In the corner of my eye,
Rocking.

2)
In a warm bathroom,
A naked torso shines,
Pulling on trousers.
Suddenly a tingle,
Running on many legs.
Sensations produce:
Revulsion and reaction,
A hand as hammer,
Chest the anvil.
Echoing screams soundtrack
The primitive encounter.
Fast it falls,
Flailing on the tiles,
Legs torn assunder,
Struggling with it's demise,
In pools of orange blood.

Backed up by the toilet,
I am still shaking.
And guilt comes fast,
As the body is still,
Of my poor spider,
Bludgeoned for your surprise.

My Neighbors Chainsaw

The wind is blowing through my door,
As the sounds of the chainsaw breaches the sanctity of my room.
The sound bores it's place into my head,
As I sit here numb and apathetic unable to move.
Silly, it seems to take such a verbal beating,
from a machine that can't even touch me.
But I want to rest,
my bed feels so comfy,
I will just lay here,
with my chainsaw symphony,
playing in the background..
like a lullaby,
for my bad dreams.

~>

I wrote these:

Most of my stuff is unfinished, so here's two:

Cut yourself to ribbons and tie them to the cliché that you live
Bind yourself to the lies and deceit you continue to give
Hold your head above all others while remaining a part of the crowd
Hands at your side, tears in your eyes, stand up and scream out aloud

I refuse to be complacent, or a clone of what you want me to be
I’ve learned from my experiences, look in my eyes and you’ll see
I stay true in mind and action to the words that escape from my tongue
And I won’t stop this crusade of mine ‘til I know my song won’t stay unsung
--
Hold it down like a pill you regret having taken
Keep your face in a pleasant, approachable pose
Look deep in the eyes of the one standing before you
And be happy, or at least make sure that it shows
And when tragedy strikes and you are left wounded
Keep your scars covered and obscured to other’s eyes
Appear to be composed and left unaffected
And you will have a bright future of illuminated lies.