|Every point counts! Even one is fine!|
A Poet's Pride“I, alone, know poetry.”A Poet's Pride by scriptureofthescribe
What a foolish phrase.
For poetry is not about what you know.
It’s about what you think,
What you feel,
What you are.
But it should never be use as a higher ground.
So even if someone criticizes your best poem,
Do not ever say that they “just don’t understand it.”
Try to understand them and maybe, if you can,
Ask to help them write a poem so they can think,
And can feel,
And can be.
Another dayAnother day goes by with no accomplishments.Another day by scriptureofthescribe
Another night when you cry yourself to sleep.
Another week lacking love and compassion,
Another month where there’s nothing to keep.
Another season passes without a huge deal.
Another year, you decide not to fake it.
Another decade, and you don’t give a crap.
Another moment, but you’re not here to take it.
The EnemyI thought myself a hero.The Enemy by scriptureofthescribe
I hoped to save the world.
But in the end, I’ll still descend
Because I was so mad.
I only wanted justice.
I tried to bring out peace.
But never mind, I was so blind
To all the friends I had.
I couldn’t stop my anger
From overtaking me.
But anyway, I have to say
Straitjackets aren’t so bad.
Lucid LullabyShut the drapes of your mind.Lucid Lullaby by scriptureofthescribe
Begin to explore the world of your head.
Let your thoughts unwind
As you lie in your bed.
Close the door of your day
To unlock the night.
Let your troubles go away
As your dreams take flight.
When you start counting sheep,
And your sleep-self becomes awake,
Let your mind take a leap
Into a world that you can make.
It's something earned,
It's like an ember of my heart,
Placed inside yours
To hold and protect.
Extinguishing it or throwing it away
Will break our bond,
It may never be repaired.
Don't try to steal an ember,
For it's not rightfully yours
Until I personally place it in your chest.
Once it's there,
It grows and strengthens
Until it's a fire.
A fire of trust
That can't be extinguished
That can't be thrown out.
It will always be there,
Linking me to you.
Letter to a PoetDear Sir/Madam,Scarlettletters
It has come to our attention
this is the twenty-third rejection
of work you have submitted to our site.
We don't wish to be alarming
and we hope this sounds disarming,
but your use of metaphor is somewhat trite.
We somewhat like the concept
(the execution is inept)
besides, your work just does not meet our theme.
You need to have more adjectives
and words like gloam and mucilage,
and phrases that go along in kind.
Please keep the imagery obscure -
the reader never should be sure
just what it is the author has in mind.
Pick a structure we all can stand -
we find your rhythm rather bland
and no deep meaning can the reader find.
So in short, we will be leaving -
please consider basket weaving
or perhaps take up bowling as a sport.
Or perhaps try stamp collecting
for your work we are rejecting.
Poetry should be your last resort...
You're Not A PoetYou’re not a poet because of strung wordsW-Lupus
Together on row upon row again
Of blank verse or perhaps liberal rhyme.
‘Slam’ all you want, other poets wonder;
Your ignorance of couplets a blunder?
Yes! I speak harshly, but it’s no gross crime,
To point with honesty failed verse of thine.
No real poet discards upper case words;
Lets prose crawl on paper like listless worms.
You seek to free verse of those stern letters,
Sever away bleak capital fetters,
But it doesn’t sing of great speech sublime,
Rather, it sneaks of writing in spare time.
Wait! before you throw me in the icy Rhine;
It’s hard to put verse together in rhyme,
To make our dull words sound great all the time,
Hear them ring out loud, like a clear clock’s chime,
Heralding a poet’s summer prime.
Yet the sacred muses weep at your crime;
Your pentameter mangled thick like slime,
The subject not gilded in raiment fine;
Your bold ink font, crystal waters divine
Tastes bitter to the ton
Do you really want to know?Do you really want to know?Fameisdead
Know that I am fading.
Do you really want to know?
That I am slowly breaking.
I am not sure how much time,
I have until I'll pull this trigger.
I just want the night to be over.
But what's the difference,
When morning is no better?
When even the light,
Enough to chase away the dark.
I am locked inside a cageI am just an animal,Fameisdead
Locked up in a cage.
I have nothing but my rage,
And I feel myself slowly age.
I am getting older,
I need to be getting over,
Being scared of nightmares.
And the dark.
I need to be brave,
But I can feel my chest cave,
As I begin,
I am not sure how much longer I can stay alive,
Through the night I am not sure I'll sure I'll survive.
Let me out,
Don't let this be my end.
Destroy This PoemDestroy This Poemniedec
To the person grading this poem
To the kind, patient woman hovering over this with a pen
Waiting to say kind, patient words in response, do me a favor:
Dont Patronize me.
I did not slave over this with hammer and anvil
Shaping it into a masterpiece.
I didnt paint it onto the ceiling of some church,
Going blind from the pain and the stress.
I didnt even turn this in on time.
And while Im writing this in my fifth-period economy class,
You can bet Im not concerned with iambs and troches and Italian terza rima.
No, Im concerned with how much water is left in my water bottle.
This isnt a masterpiece.
Who are we kidding?
Youre not going to hurt it, and you most certainly arent going to hurt me.
Dont patronize me.
I want you to destroy my work.
I want you to rip it to shreds with sadistic dominatrix glee.
Tear it apart from margin to margin;
Laugh openly at its crippled, struggling body.