The Poetry Thread

A knife I am it seems to me,
Fashioned by some unknown hand,
Not by my own I hope and pray,
Or if it be I'm damned.

I am sometimes a witness dumb,
And othertimes protest,
Each time that I am lifted up,
And plunged into a chest.

I twist and turn within their grip,
As I pierce through the bone,
But by far the worst thing is,
That the chest they pierce's their own.

If God made me then I know not why
He made of me this knife,
That even by another's hand,
I have taken life.

And if the fault is mine,
Through some failing or some flaw,
Then let me suffer for it,
I deserve it all the more.
 
@BedBath-Infinity & Beyond I think this is the thread for our own poetry. The one for poems we like is here .

I'm so happy that my life is great,
So glad I got the chance,
To be the things I want to be,
I'm so joyful I could dance!
I'm so happy that the world is good,
And our leaders are all honest,
I'm so happy how they spend my tax,
And deliver what they promised.
I'm so happy no-one ever said,
"I love you" as a lie,

And I say in total honesty,
I'm so happy I could die.
 
There once was a young knight from Neath,
Who from a maiden sought a certain relief,
She said 'Sir, you're bold,'
'But I beg you, please hold'
For your sword is too long for my sheath.
 
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Poem for a Cow

The worst part
About knowing you, without
Ever really
Knowing
You, is that your
Absence
Leaves far, far too much room for
Me to wonder, sometimes,
What you felt in those fleeting
Moments.

You know: the
Little moments where the world was
Once again uniquely
Yours, only yours;
The moments before you spoke,
Those breaths before you
Posted your persecuted perceptions of
Whatever it was that had most recently
Caught your vitriol: to me, caught as
A fox catches a rabbit, but to you, maybe,
Caught as a stray wire catches on skin; the
Moments where you
Looked in the mirror and you were not really a
Virgin,
At least, not in the
Colloquial, literal, coital sense:
But instead, sort of just,
Virginal; just a human, just
Like Mary, your mother, me.

Your absence leaves far,
Far too much room for me to ask
Absentmindedly of you:

"Did you wonder, even for
A second, a heartbeat,
If you were part of something
Greater
Than yourself?"

Far, far too much room to take such a
Weighty query, and to ask it of you: with
All the easiness of
Knowing
That I do not have to brace for an answer;

To ask it of you,
With all the heedless naivete
Of a stupid little child
Visiting a farm
And asking aloud of one dam
If she made for me the milk that I had poured over my cereal that very morning.


Super stream of consciousness wordvomit. Obviously about the farms, but I genuinely don't know what I was even trying to say with it. God cursed me by giving me an interest in poetry, and then making me too much of a sperg to understand it, even/especially when I'm the one fucking writing it:stress:
 
(Cross-posting from my contribution in the Lolcow v. LFJ thread)

There once was a guy named Elliot Fong,
He said that the Farms had done him wrong,
'Cause we document,
His 'consent accident',
And we'll do it all day long.

Now he calls himself, Liz Fong-Jones,
But his face is still rectangular like Nokia phones,
Yet despite it all,
He thinks he is a gal,
'Cause he now has no cojones.

He'll sue you for this, he'll sue you for that,
'Cause if you can't have a pussy, you can still be a twat,
He may smell funny,
But he's sure got money,
And a face that's is unnaturally flat.
 
There was a young lassie from Crewe,
Who'd the job of a handyman do,
She was crap with a hammer,
And no good with a spanner,
But people would hire her to screw.
 
I have a little problem,
One might even say a curse,
I always try to make things better,
And I always make them worse.

I've made everything around me
From the day I learned to crawl,
A blight, a pain, a nuisance,
Why was I born at all?

The saddest thing about my life,
Is the harder that I try,
The more I hurt those I want to help,
Why don't I just die?
 
Poem about how I was looking for a job and then I found a job and heaven knows I'm miserable now

Rigor Mortis
monday morning
in the rigor mortis
of the seven am air
i walk down to where
my car sits underneath
the powerline and there
is shit on the windows
because the galahs
like our bird bath and
there is no room for me
to park anywhere else
and i wipe the frost from
the driver side window
and when i look inside
i notice that there is already
a body there and it is
completely still but still
warm and it is covered
in flies even though it has
been too cold lately for flies
and i notice that it is my body
and that i have forgotten to put makeup on.
 
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