From jericho at attrition.org Thu Jan 13 06:09:14 2005 From: jericho at attrition.org (security curmudgeon) Date: Thu Jan 13 06:09:22 2005 Subject: [fuckpoem] PV 62 Message-ID: F U C K E D U P C O L L E G E K I D S ------------------------------------------------------- - t h e p o e t r y v e n t u r e - ------------------------------------------------------- As we start the New Year in, i will call for more poetry. I am on a roll, so lets keep the poetry flowing. ------------------------------------------------------- This isn't a poem... This isn't a poem of sadness A lost soul I shouldn't be cast. My emotions aren't all that obsessive On times which have already passed This isn't a poem of elation Or rose colored glasses I wear I promise I won't try to bore you So please don't get out of your chair This isn't a poem of anger You won't hear from me about rage If this some how disappoints you There may be one on the next page This isn't a poem of redemption You don't have to forgive my sins For my soul the fates may be fighting But I couldn't care less of who wins This isn't a poem of contentment If it was, would it matter at all? While the form of these words may be pretty there is really no content at all Of all the things a poet can poe or even the things an all knower can know This isn't a poem about any of that Whats it about then? My cat! VxD sometimes i wish my heart would mutate out of control just as you walk near. in this mode (your hairless form oblivious to words' true meaning) i can communicate raw, red emotion dripping from silent lips to spell out just for you the true shape of my soul fen Oberon Rushing down *Boom-boom, Boom-boom, Boom-boom* The sound of the heart from a newborn brought into the world. A newborn brought into a world full of promise and hope. The child will grow up in a life full of expectations, sheltered from the outside world. This child makes its way up the ladder. It begins the climb at the lowest rung, painstakingly working to strive and achieve. Working to please the loved ones around it. Achieving the love and affection it so deserves. The climb begins to slow. Progress diminishes, the drive to succeed ceases to exist. The love it once received from family and friends turns into dishonor, regret and sympathy. It's too much to bare, too much to live up to. Too many expectations, too many promises, too many wishes to fulfill. Drive turns to depression. The climb begins to descend. The older child now beings to withdraw from progress, stooping in the shadows of earlier success. It's cold, it's dark, a place where many come to face reality. The letdown, the regret, the mistakes, the shame, the depression, the hate, the confusion, the tears, the fear, the sweat, the hoplessness of visualising different outcomes, the unescapeable result. *Crack* The sound of a bullet ripping through the soul of everything that's pure. Everything the child consisted of, shatered, broken, corrupted, simply because a few "loved ones" failed to accept the child's "less than promising" results. As the body rushes down, life rushes away, an innocent child subdued to the struggles of everyday life. Now, it is time for the ones who doubted, shamed, and put down, to suffer. *In Memory of Brian Bergermann* -damasa "A Soul To Pine For" --- Were aught that could relume this candle, privy to the dark Dare say I'd tour a million hells to be gifted that spark And would that I could beg of fate say "Prithee, changes this course." Yet sorrow hath my voice, thus made, to be so terr'bly hoarse If naught that could rewind this river wending on its way I'd swim, within't, a million miles so long as it should stay If there exists a lamp on which three wishes can be made One for me -and two for you- once "Bring her back" I've bade And if there be no spark or lamp or fate that I have wist Forever shall I pine the million smiles of yours I've missed --- Mors And in the Distance a faint prattling could be heard... "absurd" said the slurred, gaffer. "It sounded like the laughter was rattling all thrue muh bones, to hear her here in muh home. Aftuh all tha yearz uh being alone." The crone sits and sighs (tears welled up in his eyes). "and still the fondness" heard beyond this, Madness! Bliss! Savageness! "she ain't withus" heart sore, and torn, Forlorn. "and still the fondness" the bloody heart thorn, himself forsworn to love until death, lying under his breath sweating with one to the next, vexxed, over why sex back then would win while his devotion took a demotion. His emotions set in motion this parodox. "turn back tha clocks" He thunders at the Maker. Mind in Hell's half acre. Finding no takers to proposition and opposition to his choices... the voice repeats: "and still the fondness" thoughts retreat to memories of deciet, bairly discreat, yet despite her sweet adoration, flirtations where his damnation. Her his arrangement slash wife for LIFE, "Twas unfair!" her pair of flaxen haired braids, made his lip tremble, "how simple, was I" Finally the cry, as dammed water breaks its restraints, quaint, dainty, fingers of elfish maiden, laiden with head saddled with indignities, of impropriety. "And still the fondness" as his actions stilled her breath. Soul crushed by sight of lovers in candlelight. TheMo-Man Beginning of time what do we find cold and darkness i must confess lonliness, boredom and all the rest Like a plot of land with nothing to bare no birds, no trees, not anything to hear yet the soil is rich we have nothing to sow not a chance in hell, anything will grow A flitter of wind, a storm is abrew carried in on something new so small it is, you cannot see something in the air, floating free landing unnoticed, it will germinate changing the land and its fate time will see the changes begin in time we hear the birds sing Blaise ------------------------------------------------------------ E D I T O R: geekgrl@attrition.org ------------------------------------------------------------ to receive new issues via e-mail, send mail to fuckpoem-request@attrition.org with "subscribe" in the subject. --------------------------------------------------------------- A V A I L A B I L I T Y: WWW: http://www.attrition.org/~poetry ---------------------------------------------------------------- S U B M I S S I O N S: e-mail geekgrl@attrition.org with the subject: Poetry submission all e-mails that are not in a ascii text format will be rejected. ----------------------------------------------------------------- (c) Copyright. 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