As far as car going cargo goes
we're all relatives relatively speaking,
as the speaker would say (or speak.)
while the jive man horns in on his
B.Beat Beat Boxing B.B.King jazzaphone

I'm falling dizzy as I'm falling for her
lovecraft love, crafting away at a bookshelf
shelving a chefs shelling of selling to-
BAM, kicking it up to a kickboxing Beat Boxing
B.B.Swinging jazzaphone

for a fine family
of foxing out foxes. tame by name and named
by nature, nurturing the ones who need "nurting" as
a nursery nursing a nurse to be, B.Beats away
with her Build Bricking B.B.Thing jazzaphone.

Now stop for the welcoming committee to denounce
your decaffeinated welcome, coming to the end of it's
grind, slow roasting the boasting that we're
roasting you for, four times now as you're
jazzasized sizing up the B.Big Mac attacking B.B.
Burger King jazzaphone

that can flame broil a
B.Buck to a boil with a telemundo T.V. dinner digesting
advertising you need as you feed on
sponge bob barker spaying and neutering pet peeves services
that ask jeeves to google for an exclamation with
ten thousand results for "yahoo" that U2
could utilize to give a green day to your
deep purple haze that could only graze your happy
days that this MTV generation lays for the D-Days
for my B.E.T. B.Beating B.B.Bling jazzaphone.

Stop making ****ty poetry everyday.

Seriously. Put some thought, effort, some soul into it. Don't just make it because you feel obligated and someone told you a couple of your poems were good once. Poetry is about feelings about passion, condensed into an eloquent passage. Not about every little thing that goes through your head.

I don't write unless I'm feeling passionate about something. I've gone months without writing at all just because I wasn't feeling it. Poetry is all about emotion and feelings, and that's exactly what I pour into all of my work. This piece has very particular pin point ideas that are written in a format I usually don't write. This piece was written for a slam poetry event my school is having, and I don't see how this is "sh*tty poetry" It's just a style of poetry that you don't like. Boo-Hoo.

Poetry is a passion of mine, and the critisism of it being too obvious or being too hidden in mystery is insane. Poetry is personal, and if you cater to the needs of a reader than your poetry is going to be fake. The only time I write is when I'm 100% in the mood to write, and I have to have a solid idea and an outline of my poetry already in my head. I don't try to fake poems, I don't try to write on uninspired days. I write when I feel it, so if you see it or not, it's very personal.

Perhaps these poems are more your style? Comical? Satirical? Serious? Depressing? Rhymes? No Rhymes? Repetition? Detail? Lack of Detail?

Silky Milk

An exigent need for the silky milk
To be taken from ship to sea
Has goaded me to the plank
On a mile long walk
only three feet away

The breeze is such a tease
And the sun reflects my design
Waving me down, passing me by
Telling me exactly where to go
As if only one so dim could not control

But I stand fast, and I trod short
I close my eyes and sing
To step! To step! To step the plank!
I jump, I wish, I breathe.
As the rocks beneath redress

Silky milky would step, would step
And be taken by the sea
But instead of jumping
With time to spare
The rocks had to spare me



See Dee

See Dee skipping across the mulch
Her velcro shoes kicking up the dirt
Marching with the grace of a tank
She trips

See Dee tripping across the mulch
Her velcro shoes kicking in the air
Falling with the grace of a swan
She cries

See Dee crying across the mulch
Her velcro shoes kicking in shame
Weeping with the grace of a child
She dies

See Dee dying across the mulch
Her velcro shoes silent in the blood
Traveling with the grace of a god
She was



Peas

The two green peas were meant to be.
Togetherness insured by the harness of a pod.
Flesh, softer than a whisper, concrete as a promise
The peas sit, and wait for what seems to be a lifetime.
Absorbing the energies necessary to sustain-
Just enough
for them to get by.
Eventually they

fall,
and as the pod collapses in the warm unstable heat,
the peas stare at each other for-
ever.

The air is dry.
Time is on hiatus,

and as the pod sloths it's way to nothing,
the peas within are closer than ever.

Wrinkled and weary.
Wrinkled and weary.
Wrinkled and weary.

Like a closing fist, the pod backs up it's statement,
and nothing can stop it now.
Not even the
wrinkled and weary
peas
can ignore their impending judgement.

Until they once again become one with
life
and sprout new
...
as strong as their own.

If only vegetables could
love.



The J.O.Y.

As you lay in bed
Your arms around her hip
The sweat from your brow sheds
Upon her face to provide
The wanting the giving taste of passion

You catch her eye, and as your breath
Forgets it's place, your heart goes off
The edge.

Dancing nerves, rushing blood, and rising
Tides collide as your palm gently
Caresses her thigh

The eyes of a lover close in
Acceptance and the teeth indulge
To the point of a bleeding bottom lip

And as you clutch her body and
Prepare to shatter the boundaries of
Emotion and time, you feel a sudden pain
In your side and realize
She has a bigger dick than you



The Reddest Rose

For two decades I walked through my garden
Slowly passing by to admire the beauty of it's gifts
Stopping under the mighty oak tree to rest my eyes
Or napping on the soft and comforting earth beneath me

But of all the beautiful creatures in my garden
The rose had stolen my heart with it's warmth and beauty
Every day that I traveled I made an effort to visit my rose
Even if for a second, the glimpse of it would make me smile

But even after visiting my rose an uncountable amount of times
I still refused to heed the warning that it displayed clear as day
It's thorns, sharp and unforgiving, and myself, void and dull
I eventually dove head first into temptation and was struck

And I bled.

The dripping petals from my own had left a stain on the grass
A stain such that one could argue was the result of a battle or war
Was a simple prick of the finger, from the beautiful and innocent rose
Who still lay starch and unfazed by the act that it had just committed

And then for the first time in twenty years, I left my garden
Closing it's gates behind me and throwing away the key
Until the day arose that I spotted you admiring my garden
Inspecting all of it's gifts, and awaiting a red ribboned prize

Day after day, your pattern had mirrored my own foolish way
Stopping by, if only for a second, to get a glimpse....a fix
It was then that I realized, I could not conceal my rose any more
For one as beautiful as it, could never be contained

And so I offered you the reddest rose, but it wasn't red enough
Instead, you refused my offer and pilfered my beautiful prize
Leaving me nothing but a stained patch of grass
That to this day remains redder than any rose could ever hope to be



St. Patty's Day

The vampiric nourishing of Irish blood
Has thrown you aside.
While Murphy fights the O'Men of Ireland
Your feeding the stone
On this, St. Patty's Day

O'blood will flow and stones will fly
The passing of a fibbers tale,
And to think such a small O'thought
could have stopped this massive O'F***
On this, St. Patty's Day

I encourage you to drink a pint
Of that O'virgin blood
For tomorrow's regret could be tonight's luck
From the luck of the O'Men
On this, St. Patty's Day

Oh, okay, so now art schools tell you your stuff isn't "****ty" it's just a different style.

Is that some New Age way of saying "****ing sucks"?

But whatever, obviously me and pretty much everyone else on the forums know a lot less than you. I'm sure you don't do it to seem "deep and emotional and artsy" at all.

People like you give real artists a bad name.

Art schools? I go to a state college. And 'Poetry slams' aren't uncommon. Maybe you should read up on it and it's history before you comment.

People enjoy my poetry. I've read poetry at many many places, and I've posted poetry at many other places. And people seem to seriously respond to it in a positive manner. It isn't to be artistic and 'deep'. People like YOU give poetry a bad name. You expect perfection from a form that's evolved from emotion. If you want the absoloute truth about a subject, you should be able to find it in a poem. That's how I view it. When I write poetry I've no reason to lie, or to enhance anything. It's all one big stream of thought. It isn't to be artsy, it's how I deal with stress at times, and at other times, it's how I relax. I write because I enjoy it, I don't write for you or for massassi. I share my poems with you because there are a few of you who enjoy it. I don't expect everyone to like everyone of my poems. But when someone can relate to a poem, and when someone understands a situation the same way that I do, it clicks.

1) I never said you went to an art school. It was a metaphor of sorts.
2) I know what poetry slams are. I listen to a lot of rappers who started out in them (Sage Francis and Eyedea come to mind). I never even commented on the poetry slam bit. But just some FYI--from what I've seen they're mostly big circlejerks since they became a big thing. Especially in the Northeast.

Give poetry a bad name haha.

I don't expect perfection, I just don't expect people to make everything they encounter a random poem with no rhyme, rhythm, style, or meaning. It ruins the idea and the experience. Also, poetry is about perfection--at least expression-wise. Delivery is also really important. I find it insanely hilarious you comment about how you do poetry slams but your poems are (mostly) either "cat hat fat" rhyme scheme or poor meter or unable to be delivered by Mos Def much less you.

Note, also, I said artists, not poets.

Poetry died when the internet was invented.

Sadly, I almost agree.

I think it's horrible how 4/5 of this forum is poetry, and 1/100th of that is good. And 1/1000th of that last bit is SAJNs. And he's posted 4/7ths of the poetry.

i just think its sad how 4/10 of all necromice go 2/3 of their lives without ever reading that 1/1000 of SAJNs poetry... poor poor necromice... :saddowns:

me lolz @ dat.

You mean 2/5 of necromice