Seeing as there are several different threads by individuals posting poems they have written, I figured there might as well be a thread for people to post poems in without having to start a whole new topic every time.

That way, you only have to start a new topic if you feel that your poem really really really needs the attention (which is a feeling that I can very much understand).

So, here's something I wrote, a little while back.  It lacks punctuation.  That is my prerogative, bitchnubs.

Adjectivity: an exercise in self-destruction

Spirals

Those things of perfect beauty and chaos
Rising to the heavens
Knitting themselves into the fabric of Nether-reality
Their own little daydream
That can only fly after the destruction

Violent whirlpools

Draining into a sea of improbability
Drowning a thousand evil spirits
[The good ones as well]
Too late into the evening to think
Too unreal to speak of

Dreams

Lost on the old
Broken for the young to grow callous from
Passing in a fleeting moment
Of non-consideration
Indiscretely fading out of life

Hope

Waiting to be awakened
Hiding in the shadows
Living in the frailties
Broken and endangered
Willing to press on

Night

Blacker than a nightmare
Waiting for the simple things to pass
Swallowing the brightest of days
Death itself embodied
Fallible, but only to the mind awakened in the chaos

When you say you love me
My heart hears first,
My ears go deaf,
My mind is numb,
I cannot speak.

Thought returns,
A will to respond,
But I remain in quiet.
Your voice is so sweet;
My words can never sound as good as yours.

I really like that.  It makes me think 'cult of reality' ... So much of it is too true not only of war (every war) but also of all of human history.  We see every time how it was wrong yet fall for it every time.  The leaders learn faster how to change the minds of the masses than the masses learn of the leaders' mistakes.

I like how you poeticized the horrors of history's cycles.  That, to me, is the most powerful type of poetry -- it inspires thought, and maybe someday enough strength will come from the poets and thinkers among us that the cycles can be broken and replaced with more appropriate courses of action (dare I say, 'peace and love'?)

Thanks to that sig I've had Allison Moorer's version stuck in my head all day. Still, as far as sings to have stuck in your head go, this is rather pleasant. :-)

I wrote this a long time ago, when I drank too much coffee and was deeply embedded in bitter, unrequited love.

In All The Right Places

Guttural screeching gouging, power tools making the sunny air thick
Ravenous, almonds lighting up our sinuses and the rest of you powder
A beauty that’s yours, plastic over the meat and shining in all the right places
Shifting through periods stained with different emotion-colors, ten a month
My blue period, your dead-white eyes glisten in all the right places
Power tools churning the street and dust into air-powder, heavy gold sunshine
Almonds grinding, ground
Coffee cup full, faces soggy empty dry, street go home
Dry street, I’ll go.  Home?
Mountains of coffee, oceans of cups
Long china vistas, a beauty that’s mine, your almond eyes
Bite down, wooden grainy, the whip-curves of those irises I’d like to take and flatten
I know their gold-brown better than you do
Drills slice, power tools, the workers are taking a break
Sandwiches spongy, soggy, all filled up with plastic
Curves in all the right places, all covered in almond powder
Eyes coated in sunny thick sunlight, yes, I forgot to blink
Gouged out by your beauty, a beauty that’s yours, guttural screeching
Almonds grinding, ground
Your dead-white eyes glisten in all the right places
Your dead-white eyes glisten in all the right places

Bright red ink flowing from
ballpoint fingertips
creates meaningless words
on pulped, dyed, and refined
backyard swing-holders.

Pausing pens stain paper,
liquid cigarette burns
mark seamlessly the senseless.
Emptying a vacant mind,
into an emptier paper prison.

Away the ever beckoning rays of light.
They call me down the path
towards the days I can remember.
But oh how I wish they would just let me rest.
No. It prods telling me remember, remember, never forget.
There is to much to learn from these things
lest you let time repeat it's mistakes and ills.
You can do it calls the voice.
The lessons learned today will be the legacy
you teach tommorrow.
And yet all I can think is make it stop.
Oh god please make it stop.
The ringing in my ears and flashes of
memories is finally to much.
Once again I lift the bottle to my lips
hoping for sweet, sweet relief.
I can hear the voice inside me say
this is not my child there is help
if you only give it time
I choke back tears and laugh as I
Bring the bottle to my lips again.
No one will care if I am gone
I say to myself,  finshing off the rest.
Now the dark is starting to fade in
and I like the light have faded out.

Since April is National Poetry Month (in the US, anyway), it seems appropriate to bump this thread and see if it can get some action.  So if you've got the inclination, try to pump out some poetry! 

It's All Fine
In streets filled with grime and slime
My morning bell's gonna chime
Cause I'm doing hard time
For my nickel and dime crimes.
But my prime is my rhyme
Which hits me anytime.
I climb through the sublime nighttime
Out to a day filled with sunshine.
IT'S ALL FINE!

I was mulling thoughts of what used to be and this popped into my head. A little rough perhaps.

A Lament.

I miss the things we had,
The fun we had,
I miss it all.
I wish we could have it all again.

But, of course, we can't.

Those days are gone,
The good times and the bad,
The happiness,
The fights and the making up.

I miss the things we had,
The fun we had.
But turning back the clock,
Going back to those times?

It isn't possible.

Would we even know ourselves if we could?
Has too much water passed under the bridge of our lives?
Would the good times we had seem so good now?
Could we act the way we did?

But still, I miss the things,
The fun,
The good times.

I miss being a child.

Someone was telling me my poetry is great so I figured I should toss some out to you folks to get critiques.

Summer breeze sensual caress of their skin
Lovers strolling shore of shim’ring pond
The evening’s mood inspiring
They lay embracing ‘neath Luna’s gaze
Hearts heated by desire, a breathless kiss
Passionate fingers seeking, finding
Blood quickens, murmured encouraging
Pleasure waxing, her bosom heaving
Sweat upon his brow, upon hers
With gentle care he enters her, she smiles
They sigh in unison, tender kisses
Rhythm of bodies steady, loving
Pulses racing, passion rising
Loins aching, breathing labored
Moment nearing, minds rushing
Time arrival, lovers trembling
Passion ebbing, tender whispers
Sated bodies, souls entwined

---

Moonlight on milky flesh, her eyes beckon
Flame tresses aglow, vision of reverie
His heart drums, her radiant smile calling him
A fleeting touch, heartfelt whispers
Her longing a mirror of his own
Leagues apart, hearts touching through the ether
A farewell kiss, before long will end
Sorrowful near rousing, slumber’s end
Sadness ceasing, tomorrow dream again.

---
Casualty

Broken, bleeding, dying.
Begging for the Reaper.
She can’t stand, barely can crawl.
Passersby ignore her.
The thugs had their way.
Resistance brought her grief.
Blood running down the street.
“It’s Ghetto life” they say.
Cosmopolitan: another word for callous.
Samaritan finally calls the medics.
An ER miracle, she lives.
But it isn’t life.
Her soul is torn.
Her heart is cold.
Eyes terror-wide.
World is lurking, menacing.
Trust is gone, paranoia reigns.
A Queen of Despair.