[fuckpoem] PV 62

[security curmudgeon]

 	       F U C K E D  U P  C O L L E G E  K I D S
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                 - t h e  p o e t r y  v e n t u r e -
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 	As we start the New Year in, i will call for more poetry.
 	I am on a roll, so lets keep the poetry flowing.

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 	 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


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