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Phytoplankton

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please vote for Molly for biggest Chris Martin fan

To me he is a sexy , talented awesome man

Together in my head we are the Lovers In Japan

My poetry isn't good so I'm very apologetic

But Chris, he is like, my very own anaesthetic

 

 

VOTE MOLLY FOR BIGGEST CHRIS FAN

 

 

and I am very sorry for my bad poetry!!!

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"Trying to do anything is the death of creativity" ~ Jeff Mangum.

I have this on the front page of my notebook. It's, like, the only rule that exists in art.

 

I don't come on here anymore, but I was having a look at everyone's poetry (which is great by the way), and I saw this quotation, which I'd like to respectfully disagree with.

 

As someone who studies Creative Writing at university (with English), I used to believe this, but it's simply not true. I've had to work through a deadline a week, every week, for two and a half years, and "writer's block" simply does not wash with my tutors, who are all published novelists, poets and writers. I've had to write a publishable collection of poems based on life inside abstract paintings. And believe me, there is nothing I'd have liked more than to have handed in the front page of your notebook :P

 

I believe the only way to get over a mental block is to work through it. Keep a journal. Force yourself to write poetry in strict forms. Keep reading, and being inspired. One thing that helps me actually is going through Tumblr, weirdly. Gives me inspiration. Maybe that makes me a hipster(?)

 

Of course, this is just my experience. If there is a second rule of art, it's that everything is different for everybody.

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  • 2 weeks later...

I just had to share this one with you guys, it's inspired by the Coldplay Movie.

 

I haven't had chills

in a long, long time,

but those little thrills

were brought by Coldplay's rhyme.

When the lights go down

and their music fills the air

all I want to do is drown

in the sea of flare

sent out from the beams

adorning every hand,

It is real, but it seems

like in a dream I stand.

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"In Reality"

 

I haven't been forewarned on what was to come.

I couldn't blame him.

I couldn't blame you.

Can life get anymore surprising?

You and I both know that nothing can be undone.

Nothing that you did.

Nothing that I did.

Do you now know what's missing?

 

Faithful I could be to you, but I think it'd annoy you.

Devoted I could be to you, but I doubt your kindness is true.

I'd love to keep my options open, but there's only one for me.

You're the one, but should I just let go of you and set you free?

 

In my thoughts and dreams, you appear.

In your thoughts and dreams, I fear.

Am I there in your head like you are in mine

or do you just forget about me and think that I'm a waste of time?

In reality, you appear.

In reality, I fear.

It's like you jumped out of my imagination

only to give me mixed signals that always appear to be ration.

 

As a reader I feel very excluded from this poem. Obviously poems don't necessarily need to be available to all audiences, but I can't see how any one could fathom what/who you are talking about.

That aside, some tense/rhyme issues: The first line, and last 2 lines are my most immediate examples.

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I had to do this for my degree. I don't really show my "poetry", but why not.

 

...

 

 

Granddad can’t remember things

that just happened.

His memory’s short-sighted.

 

I start by talking of Grandma,

war-time, watching the Arsenal.

I break off pieces of trust

and hand them to him

like bread to a duck.

 

We trade recollections.

 

We arrived home to find next door

parked in our driveway,

“just on his break.”

We snookered his car,

took the dogs on the longest

of walks.

 

The trees arched over the road,

tried to the tap on the windows

of the flats opposite;

like a rebel throwing pebbles above,

beckoning you out

to enjoy the evening.

 

That road that reminded him of Bournemouth;

the leaves bristling in the breeze

and the ratio of streetlamp to dusk,

shifting like scales, as you walk

from one end of the cracked slabs

to the next.

 

“I remember,” he smiles,

“I’m trapped in that thought.”

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  • 2 weeks later...
As a reader I feel very excluded from this poem. Obviously poems don't necessarily need to be available to all audiences, but I can't see how any one could fathom what/who you are talking about.

I'm sorry for leaving readers feel excluded. :P

 

I had to do this for my degree. I don't really show my "poetry", but why not.

 

...

 

 

Granddad can’t remember things

that just happened.

His memory’s short-sighted.

 

I start by talking of Grandma,

war-time, watching the Arsenal.

I break off pieces of trust

and hand them to him

like bread to a duck.

 

We trade recollections.

 

We arrived home to find next door

parked in our driveway,

“just on his break.”

We snookered his car,

took the dogs on the longest

of walks.

 

The trees arched over the road,

tried to the tap on the windows

of the flats opposite;

like a rebel throwing pebbles above,

beckoning you out

to enjoy the evening.

 

That road that reminded him of Bournemouth;

the leaves bristling in the breeze

and the ratio of streetlamp to dusk,

shifting like scales, as you walk

from one end of the cracked slabs

to the next.

 

“I remember,” he smiles,

“I’m trapped in that thought.”

I like the imagery in this piece!

 

Anyways, here's something...

 

"Empty Comfort"

I'll give you peace of mind.

I'll give you some time.

Just imagine if I were in his shoes.

I'll be understandable as always.

Give me something else to do, please.

Something that will drive me away.

 

I want to try to comfort you without only comforting myself.

All I can do now is just wish him well.

Until then, I'll just give you peaceful silence.

Feel the comforting ghosts from your past in your presence.

You might really need me when I think you don't.

Now I'm wondering if I shouldn't leave you alone.

It's getting more fucking confusing than ever before.

When I asked what was wrong with you, that wasn't the answer I was looking for.

 

Just what am I doing exactly?

I don't even know anymore.

I can't think straight anymore.

I feel so selfish in times like these.

Maybe I should follow him, and so the same.

It'll help me stop playing this stupid game.

http://allpoetry.com/poem/10186799-Empty_Comfort-by-shredder2

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  • 2 weeks later...

I could walk the streets for years with you

 

“I could walk the streets for years with you.

We could wind up where we started;

we could wander through the market

when it’s silent and deserted.

Watch our breath pirouette, and flourish in the air,

smoke halos hovering like hot air balloons

or flame-hearted lanterns drifting

to the moon.”

 

Paths and maps and trails and tracks

that overlapped and intersected

lead to them to a scaffold ribcage;

cheap tarpaulin, still used for a roof.

 

And under cover from the same rain

and those featherless trees,

their hands met:

in the same moment as that the clock’s did.

Just like in 1958.

 

He dropped his words

like a scientist,

pipette perched over test tubes;

weighed each breath, each pulse of each vowel

for the ripples that throwing that pebble

would create.

 

But all those years later,

it still meant the same

to her.

 

It didn’t to him.

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  • 2 weeks later...

The Random Poetry Thread

 

Here is a place where you can post random poetry or rhymes you create. Write a whole song if you want. It can be funny,sad, joyful, or even creepy. :D Just let your creative juices flow. I'll start:

 

Dark Humor:

 

I wrote these words in a song for you

But I guess you'll never hear them cause that's how you do

You always say you will but you never do

It's sad that this statement is very true

I saw you make mistakes and say some things

Wait a minute where are your wedding rings

You were my idol

You were my mentor

The pain you caused is too much to endure

I can't finish my sentence

I'm all choked up

It's not my fault that you messed up

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Here is a place where you can post random poetry or rhymes you create. Write a whole song if you want. It can be funny,sad, joyful, or even creepy. :D Just let your creative juices flow. I'll start:

 

Dark Humor:

 

I wrote these words in a song for you

But I guess you'll never hear them cause that's how you do

You always say you will but you never do

It's sad that this statement is very true

I saw you make mistakes and say some things

Wait a minute where are your wedding rings

You were my idol

You were my mentor

The pain you caused is too much to endure

I can't finish my sentence

I'm all choked up

It's not my fault that you messed up

 

Threads merged

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here's a poem...i'm writing as i'm thinking..

 

I sit down on a couch and I wonder

I remember the days when we used to be younger

I remember when simple gestures were enough

And words weren't need

I still ponder...

 

I sit on my bed and I still wonder

Wonder and look out my window

Wonder if you still remember me

Wonder if you still think of me

But I'm here and you're there

I'm sitting and still wondering

 

I sit on my chair in front of the computer

Looking at your picture

Trying to get over you

Trying to forget

That I once cared for you

 

 

hope it sounds nice

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  • 2 weeks later...

It's hard to say what you really think about a poem, because a lot of people think poetry is personal. But it doesn't have to be a way to throw your thoughts onto a page and call it art, that's what Twitter's for.

 

I write poetry at uni because it's the misbehaviour of language. You can say things in poetry like "He never picked for himself the pear of her heart, or lifted her hand to where his own heart, was a small, dark, terrified bird, in her grip. Where it hurt." It flows and it's like all watching a montage of a story. It's not random ideas scrawled down, for people to interpret as deep or astounding. Poetry is to dancing what writing is to walking, and that's the key to a good poem.

 

This is from my final uni project. I'm doing a collection of poems centred on the idea of memory, loss and family.

____

 

Submarines

 

Do you remember that crunching, gravelly path,

the river following, like a dog off the lead?

You told me that beneath the blue –

among the beams that stream

through skylights of rooms –

lived submarines;

 

I guess I believed you.

We’d wander by the water in the evening;

the surface would glitter

like the frosty crystals

of an ice cream tub lid.

Like a rickety bridge;

 

I thought the surface would sway,

shapeshift; accommodate my weight,

if I were to swim to the other side.

But when I fell in, just a splash.

A crash and the flashes of crystal were gone,

and I cried;

 

I looked for submarines and found none.

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