5 minute poetry

[RaiRai]

I wake up
put on the radio
wonder what to do
where to go
sip the coffee
from my greasy cup
stare at the ceiling
I'm up, I'm up
though eyes are closing
I cannot wake
to the kitchen
the toast I take
butterknife cuts
I slump to the floor
not from bleeding
but I must sleep some more

[Osterbaum]

Suddenly I found my self all alone in the darkness
No one to talk to, no one to hold
I wondered towards
Minute by minute growing old

That for a long time I did
Until I gave up, too tired to sit
I fell to the ground
Couldn't get up
Like a lonely bird with out wings

For a minute I thought, I was left there
But then I remembered the others that were
The others that cared

It was then I realized
I didn't really need you
You made me think so
It was lies though
I know it now

Well...I guess it could be worse...

[Funka Genocide]

I'm no good for anyone
but doesn't that excite you?
with my violent, smoking gun
I'll take your tears away

all those movies say
you'd rather I be bad
walking my own way
and caution left behind

I'll be your tragic hero
I'll never wear a smile
passion isn't free though
you must need me alone

just some late night mutterings from an empty mind.

[Demon with a Glass Hand]

Heh. That's hilarious, Rai Rai! Bravo!

Growing up in a farming community can sometimes spawn poetry like this:

Chilliwack Love Story

She told me that she loved me,
And gave me a long-stem rose,
and a kiss.

I told her that I loved her,
And gave her a glass of milk
and an ear of corn.

[videogamerz2000]

Nice Demon and RaiRai! Quite funny....

The cold feet on the cold floor,
my eyes widen to the utter extent,
as a cold wave shoots to my mind.

The bathroom fan,
spins, flutters and hums as I brush my teeth,
and the taste is absoluetly horrid.

The bowl of cereal,
floats to the ends of the earth,
and it's just the beginning of the day.

[Lycanthrope]

First verse of an opera I am writing:
Rest you your eyes
and I'll sing you a song
of love and dispare yet uncharted
Would bring her suprise
for she ment me no wrong
but left me no less broken hearted

not much, but its a start.

[Thaumaturge]

That's good, Lycanthrope!

What's the storyline?

Here's my quick bit of poetry:

A bright blade flashing,
The dark foe gnashing,
A battle 'tween good and ill.
The victor unknown,
Seeds of the future sown,
Which shall our destiny fill?

[Funka Genocide]

Don't do it! nobody likes being grammatically corrected! Why, one time I was almost punched by a good friend of mine for doing such things! I feel very spammy right now so I will write a poem.

time is left in minds perceived
in open thought for greedy thieves
so talked about in hateful tones
but what is left but ancient bones?

thats it, and feel free to correct my spelling, just PM me about it. Everytime I come across a spelling error in any of my posts I always edit it out, kind of neurotic eh?

[Lycanthrope]

oy, the storyline. Lets see, the PDQ Bach line... oh yes "The Plot seems complicated at first but with some study it becomes hopelessly confused."

Well, I tweeked a couple of Opera stereotypes and let things fall into place. Its about a bard who is in love with a lady in waiting who has no feelings for him. A phillanderer comes into the picture and seduces the lady, then leaves her, causing her to commit suicide. The Bard goes mad and kills the phillander and himself. There's also a witch involved but in the interest of keeping people's heads, including my own, from exploding, I won't try to complicate issues further.

[Funka Genocide]

here it comes, something poetry like in consistency, has an odor reminiscent of prose, its boiling point seems to be correct, and yet I still believe this may be an infomercial in disguise...

who will cry for the fat mans plight?
the one whos visage gives way to fright
his indecent existence a thing of sorrow
but who will stay with him tonight?

bound up in rags and lain to rest
an empty headed malignant pest
his future is sold for less than his past
his destiny fades with all the rest

disgusting people still humane
in disposition still remain
accomodating and pliable
but these things are inane

the churlish braggart does not wait
he makes his way with obvious gait
his scars are worn for all to see
like a violent fishers luring bait

her face is pretty, oh so fine
your overt wants she won't define
purchased is her divine right
her innocence is by design

horrid children of circumstance
wasted not are many a glance
written off as a lost cause
thrown away was their last chance

buy my cutlery yo!