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We've Been Writing Poetry


John0
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I think the problem I have with poetry, both reading it and writing it, is that most amateur stuff is hopelessly inane. Poetry really needs passion behind it for it to be any cop. If you sit there thinking "Hey, I'll write a poem" then what you come up with is going to be awful. If you sit there thinking "Argh, I need to write this poem or I'm going to have to cut my eyes out" then you've got a chance.

I believe this is why Pam Ayres is shit.

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Here's mine, its an Ode to being on the dole. I wrote it when I was on the dole.

An Ode: Being Unemployed.

With Lazy arse, and empty

Wallet

I go to you, my office

restraining my account

So that the line

both takes forever

and no time at all

I bed myself waiting, in a seat

as in a bar, or supermarket

waiting to purchase

something i cant afford

Ithankyou.

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  • 3 weeks later...

We dare to dream

Through blurry lights and a bleary scene

Breathless

Weightless

In tangled webs of glances

And faintest touches

We take our chances

And with each skip we skip

A little closer to the stars

Who regard us with wise, withered hearts

And whisper

"The world is so small and so simple

And it's all yours

Take it

And dance, yes, dance"

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  • 4 months later...

All headphones

Useless phones

And bad backbones

We're packed in like clichéd sardines

This is the closest I've been to a girl

Since my teens

Not including in my dreams

Someone's staring

At my trainers, shirt, trousers and hoody

But I'm way past caring

Black snot backs up in my throat

Swallow it like i did my jobless pride

And hope i don't choke

My feet sweat as i stand

I cant wait to wash my hands

The seats smell like a thousand arseholes

But, still,

Better than being on the dole

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Great poem, john0. Really like that. Good idea for a poetry thread too - here's a more recent one of mine:

Mystery White Boy

A gift forever left unwrapped

Potential that was left untapped

Only sketches were left behind

For his sweetheart the drunk to find.

And when love songs start making sense

They start to make heartbreaking sense

The words he sings connect with you

He's trying to forget her too.

And by our grace, he still sings on

Inspiring minds and hearts through song

The girl you lost, he knew her too

By our grace, he sings on for you.

Is this about Jeff Buckley? I love it.

And since I'm here...

Your finger's touch upon my lips

A whispered word, a gentle kiss

A tender laugh, a smile, what bliss!

Oh sweet love, where are you now?

An empty bed, a lonely night

Tears I do not dare to fight

Your special world is out of sight

Oh sweet love, where are you now?

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  • 1 month later...

Hope

Through cloying fog that wraps my legs

my conscience walks alone.

Towards the bright ethereal bridge

that spans the void unknown.

My aching spirit walks toward

the bridge of hope renewed

I see the swirling mess it spans

of past hurts, raw and nude.

I see the guilt, the pain, the grief

with ever ebbing flow

A pulsing vein of life’s regrets,

beneath the bridge below.

I raise my eyes and see anew

the hope within this bond

That aids my soul to bridge the gap

from shame to love beyond

But as I stare my eyes adjust

and grandeur fades away.

The bridge grows dull with every step

and quickly it decays.

I place my hand upon the rail,

salvation of my days

It crumbles softly underneath

consumed by broiling waves

I’ve walked this far through misty mind

through times of sombre soul

I want to cross the rivers flow

and make my being whole

I take a step upon the planks

Wood wormed by my doubt

It creaks and cracks to make me stop

and turn myself about.

I slowly walk and as I do

my faith begins to wax

My heart recoups, my breathing stills

and muscles bunched, relax.

And every step that I express

reveals a hidden truth

The holes are filled, the woodworm gone

the hope-bridge blooms with youth.

And as I step on contra shore,

I turn my gaze behind.

The hope is gleaming, shining bright

an angel of my mind

For hope is not a perfect bridge

that lets you pass straight through.

It only springs in times of need

when nothing else will do.

Its grounding lies in pain and grief,

that can’t support its beams.

But if you hold the will to try

your hope will bloom and gleam.

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