Wednesday, August 27, 2008

Writer's Block (Blank Verse)

Starving for inspiration
I cannot find

Loss in my own words
I cannot rhyme

I make due with what's here
But never find

A poem I wish to write
On borrowed time

Poem #50 (Sonnet)

Get out of here
You so were not
Shut up you lie
You're smoking pot!
There's no such thing
Bullshit there is
Whatever bitch
You're full of piss
You so are drunk
You dumb ass fuck
Leave me alone
Before you chuck
Yeah real clever?
Punks For Ever!

[Dimeter]

If Werewolf Babes Sleep In? (Butterfly Cinquain)

Awake
So too awake
I can't fucking sleep dude
But my eyes sting like shit so dry
Damn Moon
Like a werewolf on P. M. S.
If there were such a thing
I'd ask her this
Why sleep?

[2-4-6-8-2-8-6-4-2]

Moronic Ideal (Triplet)

I won't sleep a wink
Until I can think
Inspiration's brink

Tuesday, August 26, 2008

My House (Sonnet)

Waking to a room of white, tactful with muck for colors resonating gray-browns
Familiar whistles and chattering chimes the day to be reckoned as my early morn
Trapped between walls, corners bleak of life, stringing with silk webs and dusty rusty molds
The floor dirt filled and dust too scrub bare feet with aging carpet thus almost forlorn
Cars pass with muffler engine roarers disturbing the peace we frustratingly live
Shouting and complaints echoing through our culdesac havens that reminds us all
There is a heaven, there is a paradise, there is a hell, But this must suffice
For struggles implore faith in hopes to dream imaginative amongst the dull
Suppose this was a home, being that it is a house, we should live and work as one
But to be one with those whom differ from your purpose, communication must come
And conjuring the such fairs less with your own conscience and much less with mine own
Keep trinkets to reminisce and new ones for hope, hours pass idly and then some
Fry the chicken and serve the sodas, give the monotony we coordinate
Life is this and forgiving is that, there's none to lose but the coed intricate

[Decameter]

Sunday, August 24, 2008

Lullaby (Limerick)

She writes with keys going for so long
Typing sad stories to market one song
She cries her tears
Line up the beers
Selling her soul to say "Nothing is wrong!"

Brothel (Epigram)

It occurred to me that no one can talk with even a little bit of diction
I suppose after reading only body language, all that's left is friction


NOTE: Short witty poem in Couplets or Quatrains.