Such Cursèd Clichés

[drummondo]

Beware the poet's curses three;

Depression, loneliness and thought.

Your pen shall bind thee; verses wrought

With passion, pride or even jealousy.

 

For sometimes, finding I'm without

The joys of life, as others share,

I spit my spite as words, and wear

My label; "Useless poet", I don't doubt.

 

But why continue writing such

Depressing and disjointed verses?

Addition to the list of curses;

My pen and I are one. I thought as much.

 

And so, on every noiseless night,

No light alighting from my eyes,

I still can't sleep, such futile tries.

Do other poets feel this restless plight?

 

Please, let me go, I cannot write

Another thought-out set of lines,

I've run out several thousand times,

But still the harsh words hit, with no respite.

 

Now, watch the car pull up; a dead, black hearse,

And ponder as to how it could get worse,

For you could try to capture death in verse,

And so, miss out on life; the poet's curse.

 

Help me :<

[WrenWind]

Such words we need to expel

the angst we hold too close

the tolling of a distant bell

enough to shake thoughts loose

 

The freedom gain from writing down

the pain and joys we feel

though temperary,releaves the frown

and sets the mind on rest

 

Too soon again we are affected

by some stray word or thought

better to again find your pen

than drown in a bottle bought

 

And so we suffer through

The poets mortal plight

To alway have a paper and pen

To exersize what we must write

 

 

(off the cuff poem it's been a long time)

 

*hugs*

[Pillow]

Wow. Nice poems, both of you. I'm not much for poetry. Only write it when my muse gets the itch to. However, I'm alright at short stories...

 

 

Pilocanci

[cryptomancer]

The curse that cannot be dispelled,

By mythical magics or weapons held,

Save by pen in tight held fingers,

Caressing lover of the notebook's pages.

 

Blessed gift of the gods that be,

Power to use the blade of ink, and see

The skill to cleave the minds all,

That by the spell are held enthrauled.

 

Goddess of the written verse,

Ink tinged skin of beauty's shell,

Wonder of my Muse's eyes,

That write colours in my sky.

 

I hold the spirit of my dawn,

Upon my outstreached trembling palm,

And in the beauty of her love I see

How powerful the words can be.

 

Lament not the curse of fates,

Regret not the bold cliches

For in the words by poet spun,

The world makes sense, (at least for some.)

 

 

Sometimes posting poems can be like answering a question with another question.

 

 

When at 3am you see the scribbling page's history and in the soft cursed whispers note the logic that through your mind like smoke sifts and twists its patterned path to reach the dawn the night outlast the lover asleep in the dreams of wakened bliss the last memories of the embrace drift upon the tide of sleep that stretches to outpace the running of your mind so free so strangly ecstatic in its leap of agile thought so swift as to the scribbles point accept as truth at least for the dreams of all the nights that awake you lay enthrauled by whispers of the troubled life that makes your maddness take to flight and in the words of poetic spell weave the love you love so well atuning you to the dreams of her that sleeps apart wrapped only in her blankets soft and not in the embrace of your arms as you know she ought truly then the poets lament you know for sorrow at loves apart can tear the fabric of the strongest heart and pull the woven words to your knees binding in the traces of ink the thoughs that you must release or fall to the maddness of your mind as it races its self in circles around the winding passage of life and time and dreams escape your thoughts drain for the words will not stop until you weave them again.

 

 

One day our words will make sense, but for now they just need to be written.

 

Edited November 15, 2004 by cryptomancer

[Appy]

Let go of the Angst

and take a good look

Such beauty all around us

asking to be caught

[Quincunx]

Cliches are curses on the verses--

however much you might bemoan it--

but no one will misunderstand--

--except for one--another poet.

[Regel]

Walking in the evening woods

Stars and moon retired

By boughs of trees that have withstood

The ravages of fire

 

He turned off his light a while ago

Not waiting for his eyes

A dirt road suits him traveled so

Leaves rustle about like lies

 

Lost in his thoughts this night

And far he is from home

Silences roars and without his sight

How far does he dare to roam.

Edited November 19, 2004 by Regel

[Mynx]

Sometimes your words need no reason

They need not even make sense

But to pour One's heart upon the page

Allows us poets to vent

 

And then perhaps one comes along

Who sees meanings in the words

Granting purpose to the rambled scribblings

And a friendship bonded by verse