Poetry writing

For poetry that isn't haiku or limericks

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Re: Poetry writing

#401  Postby Mac_Guffin » Mar 30, 2016 5:41 am

I'm an amateur. I rarely write it, so I'm probably making rookie mistakes. Not sure what to call this, but here it is:

Shadows of yesterday's presence give more warmth than fifty summers
Tattered leftover threads glow like a thousand suns
The one from another day runs from paradise
The zealous hunter trails too close to the flame
The pink nymph turns cold at twilight
And the worm of the inside grows old
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Re: Poetry writing

#402  Postby MattHunX » Nov 21, 2017 5:56 pm

I wrote a thing, at work. Took me twenty fucking minutes. A little long.

Self-proclaimed salvation merchants selling supposedly sanctified scraps of scrawls

Slithering soothsayers scaring the simple into sampling snake-oil, slaving the self and soul away.

Singing soap-soaked songs, sans the slaughter, ceremoniously speaking seldom sane sentiments saluting servility.
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Re: Poetry writing

#403  Postby MattHunX » Mar 14, 2018 9:11 pm

Title: Red Haze (Fade To Crimson)

[Verse 1]

The pack descends, here to prey on innocents

Terror their tool, tear-drops on the jewel.

One brave of a fool, tried to end their rule.

Died in light of lime, one more to their crime.

[Verse 2]

Can't see a pearly gate, so filled with hate,

Eyes open wide, nowhere in fear to hide.

Rise from the flame, a hunter in the game,

The prey no more, kicked open Hell's door.


The beast within, for years starved thin,

When it's fight or flight, do or die,

Awaken now, it's time to sin.


Let angels cry, the Heavens tremble high,

A soul's reborn under the falling sky.

Heels dug in the ground, its calling found,

Rage out of reins, it's now blood-bound.

[Verse 3]

Revenant beating heart, new author of dark art,

The artist formerly known, tears it all apart.

Every canvas hunted, prey most wanted,

True colors spread across, pale from blood-loss.

[Verse 4]

Pray it will soon end, welcome the reaping hand,

Crawl on the floor, to the threshold of death's door.

Reach out and beg, dragged back by the leg,

Look for one last time, see the reason in the rhyme.

[2nd Bridge]

End the masquerade, to crimson it will fade,

It's the curtain call, there was no act,

Wide awake, the piper has been paid.

[2nd Chorus]

Heat in the eyes, telling itself no more lies,

Its cage undone, nature had finally won.

With strength never known, take their thrown,

In a fading-crimson hall, it will stand tall.
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Re: Poetry writing

#404  Postby MattHunX » Mar 28, 2018 8:13 am

Day-Dreamer Dhampir

Faces in the crowd, heads in a cloud, 9

An ever-lasting play, dreams here to stay, 10

Theater of the mind, where you can unwind. 11

Step inside from the rain, don't stress about film-grain, 12

Hop aboard the train, it will turn into an airplane, 13

Frequent-flying miles to gain, just avoid Memory Lane. 14

The castles in the sky are real-estates that can never die, 15

They tell you construction is always going, your fangs are showing, 16

The count does not take too kindly to peasants and their reality. 17

Below you an ocean with shiny yachts, their boring beach blonds and their cheques, 18

Pull all the damn curtains shut, all of you still think there won't be a final cut, 19

The sun hurts your eyes, don't take a dip, 'cause the water's too cold, that's how you'll grow old. 20

A hypocritical critique of a person in their imaginary world, whether it's in their own mind or vicariously through entertainment they watch. Try to forget the past and bad memories and the real world and get angry when someone tells them to live in it. Then throw in the wealthy, who also sail far from normal society, an eyesore on the water, thinking they're any better or any different, when they're essentially doing the same and are disconnected and out of touch. One doesn't even go out into the sun, stays within four walls. The other has nature (and everything else they might want) at their finger and toe-tips, yet, they don't care about immersing themselves (literally or not), because showing off their status and just lying around makes them perfectly content (even if it's not genuine happiness or as much as money can buy. All hypocritical, of course. Because, if I wasn't guilty of it and conscious of it, I wouldn't have written this.
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