5 minute poetry

[Dark Prophet]

Circles


Life is death, and death is infinite life
and all things are in circles, without any strife
we cannot escape, and cannot endure
all the things, I see and conjure
circles I see, and circles of life
nothing that I see, and nothing that I know
the darkness begins to show
all the things that are light, and all the things of death
of the life, and of my own death
things return to normal, as if i never existed
nothing exists without the cirles, and the dommed existance
life is death, and death is infinite life
all things revolve in the circles, and never end, the same as life


Darkness

The darkness within me, consumes my soul
all that hear the screams, I hear them call
the darkness consumes me, and I cannot feel
everything that is true, is still unrevealed
nothing is real, and everything is fake
The darkness consumes us all, and us all in its wake
When one becomes trapped, they do not see
how much of this, that i still decree
the darkness consumes, and also destroys
all of the things, that i still enjoy
my darkness consumes, and kills me now
for I cannot live, and cannot die
my life is hell, and now i cry
the death that is my body, now is whole
but all the things I hold dear, i cannot control
the darkness consumes, and burns with its fire
and all the things i hold, i die by my own desire
to live and to die, thats all that is left
or no one knows anything thats left...


BTW, i just copied these from some of my old poetry meshes of documents.....I have tons but lost most of em

[videogamerz2000]

Games....
Are they for fun?
Or are they for work?

I turn on my consoles,
sitting endlessly in front of a screen,
typing or hitting buttons,
feeling a sense of excitement,
or a sense of duty.

What is a real gamer?
Is it the one with the best score?
The one with most experience?
The beginner, trying for the first time?
The secret still remains a mystery to me...

I just threw something together here, trying to reflect on what's happened to me the past week.

[Funka Genocide]

I wrote this a while back, its a little "dark" as well.

Maimed ideals pave the way to violence
The road so often traveled by the disenfranchised
Of those who hunger for lost innocence
Yet seek to take the same from those still having it
A bitter soul may perpetrate the unthinkable
But will it ever truly enjoy such things?
Can a man find any satisfaction in this act?
The subjugation of persons weaker than himself
Or does he simply persist in hopes of finding an answer?
What question does the mad man ask of himself that provokes such atrocity?

The road to love may be long and winding
Its forks deceptive in their apparent synonymy
A decision half made and half fallen into
May leave the travelers stranded on paths unfamiliar
When people stand confused they grow angry
Anger creeps from purest amorousness, with a wry skill
Why do we seek to tear ourselves apart through our passion?

A serene ignorance blows the sweet wind of forgiveness
When justified in horror we are at our worst
A benevolent power beyond us has granted sanctuary
Who are we to deny such a thing?
We take up our arms for god, country and family
And so do the enemy with equal conviction and fervor
When will the man, the individual realize that responsibility can not be sold so easily?


Erick Diaz 28 March, 2004

it doesn't rhyme or anything, it just tries to find answers. I tried to think of the source of human suffering, but couldn't nail it down, then I thought of asking, and this poem came to me.

[RaiRai]

A lack of memories
(so incomplete)
another corner at which we meet
yet we just stand
eyes fixed into stare
awaiting the dream to catch us there
It won't fall into place
because we won't reach
gaze into eachothers empty faces
that nameless beach
of memories past and long forgot
those times we had
(or perhaps did not?)
the confusion of thoughts
that reside in this mind
enter and leave
split and divide
and then they subside
and we again say hello
I've met you before
but how could we know?

[Cat]

Welcome

Away with Winter chills,
And welcome all the thrills,
Of a thing called Spring,
Away with cold and dying trees,
Welcome the daffodils and hunny bees,
Away with the grass of a dying brown,
And welcome the grass that is green,
Oh welcome the birds,
And welcome the bears,
Welcome all the fruits and vegetables, there,
Away with the cold, the sad, dread and dying,
And welcome the warm, the happy, joyous, and living.

[Funka Genocide]

Its midnight in California, and I'm floating around the Pacific ocean. I'm awake because sleep and me aren't speaking anymore, we've had a bit of a falling out. My thoughts turn to the missing pieces in my life, as they often do, and the one spot seeming the most vital and absent is, not surprisingly, romance. I think of the woman I love, and how stupid I am for that. She has a life and a future, I have responsibilities I can't live up to. She has a gift for words in many languages, and I have trouble reading my own handwriting. She can't see how beautiful she really is, and I can't convince her. I hate not being the perfect man, but I hate the fact that no woman will ever love just me more. My thoughts keep tearing at me like this all night, it ok though, I'm used to it. I yearn for that missing piece, for my Sangreal, my Holy Grail, the part of me that resides in another. And so I write, as I always do, and this is it.

No One Left to Pay


It is the stone that bends and not the man
A hallowed sight with wounded hands
The stains are deeper than the truth
And no one left to pay

It is will that breaks before the wall
A hollow shell still held in thrall
Forced to persist without hope
Thoughts sincere but wrong

It is love that blooms like a rose
Sublime union meant for those
Without balance and still worthy
To save the others soul

It is pain that bleeds and not my veins
I only feel this when it rains
God is here between my fears
She wants me just as you

It is truth I say that is wrong
If lies they were all along
The greatest story ever sold
And no one left to pay

Erick Diaz 27 May, 2004

this poem has two very significant meanings for me, and they are tied to its two subjects. My love and my world. I won't explain the whole thing, but I will thank everyone for reading it. There is a small portion of my soul in this thing, so take it with you and do what you will with it.

Oh man, I really must be tired, I am soooo melodramatic tonight.

[Lycanthrope]

Midnight, holy crap!
The hour of sleep is here
without my notice.

[Funka Genocide]

heh, thats true. Whenever I feel bad about something, ie: depressed, insulted, angered, pressured etc. I tend to start thinking either poetically or cinematically. I guess I've been exposed to too many romantic heroes. Thanks for reading it though. I just got to California by the way, and I'll only be here for a few months, then its back to Japan, where people understand me even less! (angst is so much fun you know, its addicting)

[RaiRai]

Life so precious when taken away
one flick of the wrist and you're on your way
toward pastels and whites of dreams long gone
all the times you have lost, yet have you now won?
When walking past images within your mind
wishing those things you didn't need to leave behind
but something caused you to feed the doubt
to seek new adventure, to find your way out
and now you are soaring, I can see you up there
smile down upon me and whisper winds through my hair
I hear your voice laugh, never heard it before
but you tell me to continue, to reach for that shore
so I'll keep on moving whereas you've stopped your quest
you did what was right for you, what you thought best
so my dear friend, a sweet kiss for your thought
your life now wasted, another one bought.

[Funka Genocide]

time for a dose of some Zoamelgustar freestylin. I mean here is some poetry from the hip.

an ego's worth of fabrication
falsely said, in implication
that we are far greater than
our pervasive social station

judged and happy stand silent minds
never believed it takes all kinds
even those of lesser worth
may stand with us behind the lines

mercy given unexpected
fines accrued and then collected
keep asthetics' pristine luster
no remorse for those rejected

those circumstances self imposed
with bitter hatred still enclosed
forbode by the collective
brash transgression not once supposed

discordant to a fine ideal
the hope of worth seems so surreal
entropy awaits beside
those who've died still able to feel

this one is about bums, you know, transients, hobos, tramps, vagabonds, disenfranchised persons, squatters, the destitute, you know what I mean?

I just realized this thing reads all wrong. it seems to bash the homeless. I didn't mean that, what I mean to do was display societies patronizing and hypicritical view of them. I hate the way its just "get them out of my sight" and everyone just wants their world to be rosy and freshly scented. I hate the way people try and remove themselves from something unpleasant instead of removing the source of their ire. I realize that not much can be done, but who said I wasn't a hypocrite as well? I find it funny that I wrote the entire thing in a tone of sarcasm, expecting everyone to realize without an explanation, apparently I have some kind of disassociative social disorder. Maybe thats not right, hmm...