Vivers Registered User
Posts: 28
(5/20/01 11:31 am) Reply
poetry
the time has come. i got my anthology back, so i'll just type all my poems out for you.
Change
i forget the old days,
how i could look around at all that was wrong
And not care.
i forget the old days,
how everything was my way.
Now, i have grown.
I must care
I must accept what isn't my way.
The days i now call old
are not really that old.
It's just the change that makes thoses days
seem so ancient.
overwhelmed with change,
I almost forgot the past-
i almost let go
only by fighting back the change,
did i preserve a thread of my past,
but the past still seems to have left me
making my history a foreign world.
I an no longer my past,
i make the future.
i do not hold any of the old days.
the changing times forced me to recreate myself
so like a caterpillar, i hid
and becamse a butterfly.
Horizons
i can see visions of my past
something that is no longer there...
but yet i still have it.
i can sense my future
something that is not yet here...
but yet i still know it.
I have the past, i know the future
but i do not have the present
a haze is all i see when i look at where i an.
When i try to listen, i hear nohthing... the icy silence.
I can feel nothing.. not even the air.
my heart stays in the past,
my soul yearns for the future,
yet nothing occupies the present.
when i think of the future, i can see all.
when i think of the past, i can remember all.
but where is the present?
it is gone.
the future is already here, and the present is in the past.
Wings of Freedom
Over the sea
She could see
the animals below her.
all so carefree and joyous
singing with glee, they did not know
the world was fading.
Looking up, she know
there was something missing.
the wind blowing was enough to tell her
she was the only one.
where was her heart?
in the brood of the world, she found it,
holding in the worry of all creation
there was no room for happiness.
no room for everything the others had.
One Chance to live
I will live my life
taking my moves carefully
will i speak up?
will i remain silent?
a choice that will change my life,
as well as those around me.
every second is precious,
i only have one life,
one chance to do everything right
but what is right and what is wrong?
is a mistake a success?
must there be mistakes in order for a success to grow?
My life, My control.
Am i ready for thei life i must lead?
Yes.
there will be a time for everyting,
And when a life is over,
i will know
it was lived the right way.
Did i change your life?
I wonder what you remember most about me.
if i was yoru friend, would you still be as happy if you never knew me?
If i was your child, would you still be as proud if you never raised me?
If i was your student, would you still have as many experiences to share if you never taught me?
if i was your rival, would you still be as ambitious if you never beat me?
If i sang for you at a concert, would you still be a musci lover if you never heard me?
if i stopped to say good morning as i walked past you on the street, would you still be alive if i never said a word?
would you have had your life cut short?
Destiny's Stone
In a stone, a path has been marked.
A path to nowhere.
I can choose my path, but i cannot look back.
I cannot choose again.
One path leads to a waterfall, the other to a swamp
my path has already been drawn...
i cannot choose.
I must choose one, and not the other.
Everyone will choose, but their path has already been determined.
One way or the other
my mind has chosen.
my mind is the stone
All my life, my mind was chosen for me.
When it was time, my mind showed me the way.
I could not choose...
I set my own destiny in stone.
Forever.
Human
I remeber a time when many things facinated me
a time where i though dolls could be human
taht stuffed animals could understand.
i now know that no matter what a machine can do,
whatever commands a robot can follow,
however cute a stuffed creature may be,
Nohting will ever make it human
because to be human, one must feel.
We can make machines do the tasks a human does,
but how can we make a machine know
that deep inside,
we feel love.
hope
sadness
guilt
determination
all these things come not from a brain, but from the heart and soul-
something we cannot duplicate into a machine
the task of feeling is for humans.
others just can't do the same.
Land of my own
For years i have searched for the perfect land
one unlike the beaches offering a paradise of sand
wanting something else, i searched on
At times, i thought what i wanted was gone
But when i opened my eyes and looked around
i saw that what i wanted had already been found
the land of choice was my own
i was standing on it all alone.
Becoming
I can see the mountains
i can hear the ocean tide
i can taste the misty air
i can smell the salty water
i can touch the could, wet stones
but when all these are put together,
all sense combined
i cannot see
i cannot hear
i cannot taste
i cannot smell,
and i cannot touch.
not because my senses are dulled,
not because my senses are numbed,
but because when i experience everything together,
it is a whole experience more than just the five sense.
it is a moment of surrounding and becomehing
becoming a part of my surroundings.
The feeling of betrayal
Sadness seems to fill the eyes of a little girl,
as she looks at the place where the earth opened
and swallowed those whom she knew all her life.
but it is not sadness- it is something else.
she used to think life was forever
until she learned of death
no one told her life could end
but now she knows it can.
she felt like she was lied to by the world,
that she should have been told
but now, she feels empty.
how can she know if the rest of the world she has know is a lie too?
she doesn't.
adn it leaves her feeling all alone
like her world is a lie
and nothing can be trusted.
she has nothing to depend on.
a feeling of anger,
a feeling of unworthiness,
the feeling of betrayal.
go ahead.. just because i posted 10 poems doesn't mean you can't post your own.
Within my sensitivity lies my strength -Lauren
jedijetboy Registered User
Posts: 55
(6/27/01 2:12 pm) Reply
good
I like those viewers, thanks. Here's a few of my own, because, eh, why not. (no, life's not as bad as these poems may suggest.)
Sadness in sails
blows me adrift
a plop in the pond
sends a ripple to shore
disturbes the glass reflections
distorts my image
I always feel
misplaced like that
like the ripples pass through me
while others catch waves
they surf on
I feel like
nature without beauty
or serenity
just bordness
emptyness
wind without a message
going nowhere
a plot of land no one's seen
(or worse yet, no one wants to see,
because garbage filled the dried up pond)
(I feel that way too sometimes)
That will burn one day soon
ashes to a heaven above
that driffted away long ago
and then my essence
will be mixed with
all the nothingness of life
(still there afterwards too)
which found me early on
and liked it too much inside
to want to leave.
---------------------
How horrible how
over time I developed
this expert way to
indulge in my self pitty
making misery like a fuel
I burn to keep alive.
Re: poetry
You know how suddenly
the right person makes
love a good word and
you wonder how the world
survived all this time
without you knowing her
and you suddenly like the
music she likes and she likes
the music you like and little
details like nail polish, lip gloss,
fire hydrants, street signs, mints in
ice-cream, orange cones on the steet,
cloud formations, artifical raspberry
flavor, Anartica and Ancient Egypt all
jump out and are somehow significant: them but not exclusivley--
(even silly dumb things like sunglasses and tank tops and rain and water-slides and the guy in the trench coat over there who's probably a pornogropher) are smiled at, and
lady's bugs wings are interesting and your
inner cavity feels like inside a stereo
with the base turned loud--
everything's suddenly tunned up, like
the images on your dads brand new high deffinition tv you don't even have time to watch it seems--a small box is too small for you to watch--because it's love out loud suddenly here outside, her, the sun, and not even bad traffic brings you down?
When you're in a bad cycle it's the opposite, lips dry like they've never been kissed, the world is blurry like you didn't know you need glasses, and it blends (or bleeeds maybe) into a bland haze where
nothing stands out, nothing is interesting, nothing matters, and you can't say or do anything but feel a part of what it is everything became--the gray nothingness, so hard to explain.
"Damn you dirty apes!"--Charelton Heston
Vivers Registered User
Posts: 33
(8/9/01 10:26 pm) Reply
Re: poetry
that's not poetry.
that's a grammatically improper run-on sentence that make absolutely no significant sense whatsoever.
Re: poetry
umm...vivers?...can you be just a little less supportive, please?
valid criticism requires a bit more than that, you know...
geez...i haven't read any of these yet because i'm on vacation right now and can only post (and read) in unpredictable spurts. i'll get around to it, though.
~fygmynt
"type slowly." ~ stephen malkmus
Vivers Registered User
Posts: 35
(8/10/01 11:17 am) Reply
Re: poetry
yeesh!!
i'm just kidding.
someone like you should know by now how sarcastic i am!
Re: poetry
sorry...my bad. i was looking for an emoticon...
and i know how sassy you can get at times .
~fygmynt
"type slowly." ~ stephen malkmus
jedijetboy Registered User
Posts: 62
(8/11/01 11:18 pm) Reply
Re: poetry
Actually fygmynt, I sort of cringe and turn red, because I realized, totally unintentially, that last poem there sort of, uh, took insperation from you. Totally unintentially! The "artificial raspberry" line and "Antartica" were inspired by the "Antartica" thread. I don't know if i should apologize or what, but there you go.
"Damn you dirty apes!"--Charelton Heston
pnina2 Registered User
Posts: 1
(4/27/03 11:44 pm) Reply
PoetryPoetry is...
Poetry is putting your cards on the table, but not revealing them all. It's the shadow of your mind, reflected on paper.
A good poem, is a pearl in an oyster;
I, the reader, have to crack this oyster, in order to be dazzaled by it's shining pearl. By doing that, the reader becomes an unseparated part of the creation, and therefore the joy, pleasure, increases (in my opinion). Once a poem is read by others, it's no longer the poet's "property": since it's a form of art, it can be interpreted in various ways, regardless of the creator's first intentions. That's to me, one of the most beautiful aspects of art: the mystery of it, the ability to find my own self in each creation.
There are many writings, but few of them are poems, are pearls to be found.
P.S
I LOVE poetry...I'm always caught in it's net.
.
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