Poetry: Too Damn LazyThis poem and others may be found at the following link:http://brodskales.deviantart.com/art/Poetry-Compilation-2013-413297577?ga_submit_new=10%253A1384318462Warning: Fuck itSo damn lazy I shouldn't be a poetOver here like damn I know itWriting this just to writeTeach me I only write well at nightIt's the fucking AMI can barely even beginPray to the Lord AmenScratch that let's start over againMonday isn't funOne day I might be doneSit back and watch Doctor WhoJust like the Doctor I know what to doI feel so lazyWake upAnd I feel hazySit upAnd I feel crazyAlright?Scratch my ass like a PokemonMy friend reading like "It's Tolkien Mahn"Lord of the Rings is my jamTreants tearing down that damI'm a pretty big fanI watched the movieLike The Mystery vanScooby and the gang got me feeling groovyGroovy Dubie snacksChilling and feeling laxScruffy's spraying the axeWatching Mad MaxMad cause it's filled with talentless hacks
The Poetry PotFirst we start with some words that rhyme,And add an amount of alliterations.Then we set the cooking time,Add ingredients of different rations.Now we personify,The pencil dances across the page.Bam! Onamonapia identified,Words of emotion like rage.And then the haiku,The first line, five syllables,And so is this one.Internal rhymes such as this are hard to miss,The skill to rhyme gracefully is added with bliss.Stir the words together with a wooden spoon,Then let the stew sit in the light of the moon.Imagery is added, so picture it now,The sweat gleaming on the chef's brow.Words, like ingredients for the mix,The poem is almost ready, one more stanza for kicks.Then that special something is added,What makes every poem unique.[Insert your own lines of ballad]The poetry stew is ready now, let's eat.
The BrokenThe beauty of the brokenWas what she lovedSeeing the fragmentsOf all that he wasShe glued them togetherHeld them close to her heartDid not see the edgesOf each individual shardSo they cut her open And tore her apartNow she too is broken'Cause fixing is hard.
I AmI care…but not enoughI bleed…but staunch the flowI cry…but dry my eyesI soldier on…weary from the fightI see…but turn a blind eyeI hear…but tune out with musicI talk…but it's all just lip serviceI carry on…the burden is my ownI feel…but bury it deepI linger…but I'm a shadow of nothingI want…but self-deprivation is my hostI go on…but there's no meaning leftI am…without you
of trees and poets.she is death and he is life but i, amsomewhere in between.Mother says I have a poet's heart and Father tells me that I have a swimmer's physiquebut I feelthat only poets understand poetry, swimmers were not meant to have a weight ofmore than 111 pounds, and irony is bitterlyjustified.I had always thought that class clowns weren't meant to be poets,but yesterday a boy saidThat he loved the pages in the science books that smelled likevanilla.you told me that there is shelter under the youngest of redwood saplings,beauty in he most rugged of olive trees,andThat there was a time when the world was blue and greenbut maybe that was a lie. my beloved books have betrayed me forfactory smoke and lung cancer.i used to believe that boys with the names of heroes wereworth more than bloody stubsof what-used-to-be-wings and tailbones, butmaybe I just won't be your evergreen.
Voodoo NightmaresShe walks through the quarter and is given a wide berth. A Voodoo priestess is what they call her and most of them are petrified of her wrath.The tourists consider her an attraction; a freakish side-show they must see. Some giggling, some hesitant as they clamor into her shop."Look but do not touch," she warns in a deep, foreign accent. They eye her warily and she eyes them right back with a grin all but one of them thinks is pure evil."We want to learn Voodoo," says a the boy in the back. Stepping forward he smirks and leans over, resting his elbow on her desk. He's the only one who does't think she's evil at all. He thinks she's just putting on a show with her gris gris bags and her shop filled with useless trinkets."I can not teach those who do not believe," she replies, her grin gone."Then make me believe."She represses a sigh at his challenge. She knows his type- a non-believer in the power of magic. She drags a finger across the skin of his arm and she sees in