Poetry [MGTD]

Post count farming is making a thread where you can add the number of your posts in forums (the numbers in the side of your username in forums). Sometimes the more posts you have the more people may think that you are an experience person or something like that....

 

Ignorance can make this thread locked. Don't look at it as a simple thing, it's in the rules of kaw and you can't change it the way it was just because this is your own thread. Remember, this is your thread that was just posted in kaw's forums. bye then, I think I should go ahead than fighting with someone who would just ignore every word and repeating her rule as "simple".

 

If this is Make a Good Thread Day, why is this thread here?

 

For WillFerral's post on page 3

 

Lmao. The ignoramus telling people to google how to make a haiku on wordwaster a thread is calling people ignorant.

 

Thank you for the support. Lol 

 

There are cemeteries that are lonely,
graves full of bones that do not make a sound,
the heart moving through a tunnel,
in it darkness, darkness, darkness,
like a shipwreck we die going into ourselves,
as though we were drowning inside our hearts,
as though we lived falling out of the skin into the soul.

And there are corpses,
feet made of cold and sticky clay,
death is inside the bones,
like a barking where there are no dogs,
coming out from bells somewhere, from graves somewhere,
growing in the damp air like tears of rain.

Sometimes I see alone
coffins under sail,
embarking with the pale dead, with women that have dead hair,
with bakers who are as white as angels,
and pensive young girls married to notary publics,
caskets sailing up the vertical river of the dead,
the river of dark purple,
moving upstream with sails filled out by the sound of death,
filled by the sound of death which is silence.

Death arrives among all that sound
like a shoe with no foot in it, like a suit with no man in it,
comes and knocks, using a ring with no stone in it, with no
finger in it,
comes and shouts with no mouth, with no tongue, with no
throat.
Nevertheless its steps can be heard
and its clothing makes a hushed sound, like a tree.

I'm not sure, I understand only a little, I can hardly see,
but it seems to me that its singing has the color of damp violets,
of violets that are at home in the earth,
because the face of death is green,
and the look death gives is green,
with the penetrating dampness of a violet leaf
and the somber color of embittered winter.

But death also goes through the world dressed as a broom,
lapping the floor, looking for dead bodies,
death is inside the broom,
the broom is the tongue of death looking for corpses,
it is the needle of death looking for thread.

Death is inside the folding cots:
it spends its life sleeping on the slow mattresses,
in the black blankets, and suddenly breathes out:
it blows out a mournful sound that swells the sheets,
and the beds go sailing toward a port
where death is waiting, dressed like an admiral.

 

You taught me some things as far as the hard and soft words go. And I love your poem. I love any poem that starts one way and changes by the end. I used to write a little bit of poetry but that is kind of personal. But anyway, nice job.

 

Bump with some amateur work

I'm trapped.
Trapped in a cage you can't see
Bars only I can feel pressing in on me
Taking my breath,
Bleeding me of my life.
I'm trapped.
And the only key I can see,
Is shaped like a blade.
-Anonymous
Or me, depending on if you're one of those who quotes to see the hidden text. Congrats! You caught me writing.

 

From childhood's hour I have not been
As others were; I have not seen
As others saw; I could not bring
My passions from a common spring.
From the same source I have not taken
My sorrow; I could not awaken
My heart to joy at the same tone;
And all I loved, I loved alone.
Then- in my childhood, in the dawn
Of a most stormy life- was drawn
From every depth of good and ill
The mystery which binds me still:
From the torrent, or the fountain,
From the red cliff of the mountain,
From the sun that round me rolled
In its autumn tint of gold,
From the lightning in the sky
As it passed me flying by,
From the thunder and the storm,
And the cloud that took the form
(When the rest of Heaven was blue)
Of a demon in my view.

~By Edgar Ellen Poe

I don't know why but this poem just got me. I found it in a book one day and I just loved it. Every line is just perfect for me.

Once someone told me that he doesn't know why I like that poem. He said this poem is bad. Apart from the fact that I disagreed with him in that point I also asked my delve how to judge poetry. How the judge art in general but especially poetry. Is it even possible to judge poems. Are there good and are there bad poems. I don't think k that you can really judge a poem. In my opinion you can like a poem or you can dislike it. But I don't think that we can say that there is a bad or a good poem. Cause to do that we would have to be subjective. But that is just not good. When looking at poetry you have to be objective and if you are objective you can't judge something.

So I got to the opinion that you can't judge poems but I would love to hear your guys opinion about that.



"There is something about poetry beyond prose logic, there is a mystery in it, not to be explained but admired" ~Edward Young

 

Apherium is red,
Apherium is blue ,
How much you spend ,
Decides which is for you.




Live, Laugh, Love, Led ✌️

 

I agree Deni, but knife seemed like the wrong word to use. It was too... Trivial... For the meaning behind the writing.
That's what I thought anyway.
I'm definitely no pro writer, I could be wrong.

 

By changing the line placement though you change the whole meaning of the poem. I feel the original poem is about suicide being the only way out. When you change the placement of knife/blade it changes that to something else.

 

The Beast
In my heart
Has no love
Has no fear
I tears at my chest
Trying to get out
I fight it everyday
Putting on a smile
To show I'm fine
But inside
I'm being torn to shreds
Pills will not work
Nothing calms
The beast
Nothing kills
The beast

-Self Written