[Official] Share and discuss your amateur poetry and stories.

@aliwine, Impressive! Keep at it

wrote this the other night and made a thread, no-one commented D: but enjoy! it’s a draft, any tips on improving it will be much appreciated… by the way imhotep, your poem was so simple and neat, loved it

My wife Michelle and I moved into this house about a month ago. It’s a small, cosy, cottage-like brick house with a blue roof and white walls, and it’s on a very secluded rural property, surrounded by tall, looming trees. It’s about a 30 minute drive out of town, which isn’t too bad. The house has two bedrooms, a kitchen, lounge, laundry, bathroom, so it’s a pretty standard house. Except for the old tin shed.

I can’t explain why, but the old tin shed out in the paddock has always frightened me. It’s just how you would imagine an old tin shed to be, it was rusty, covered in moss, and the wooden door was nearly off the hinges. When we first looked at the house to buy it, the property manager showed us how great it could be to store all of our tools in. At first I agreed with this, because I have many tools, being an electrical engineer and all. But something made me shudder when I examined the inside of it. Cobwebs were hanging down everywhere, it had a damp dirt floor, and it seemed weirdly warm in there – considering it was cold and windy outside.

When I questioned the property manager about it, he had this to say. “The last owners of this house were spiritual nutters. They said that they sensed some sort of evil “boogeyman” entity in here. Personally I just think that’s hogwash, they were crazy to want to sell this house for so cheap. You don’t believe in that sort of stuff, do you?” I was just about to answer him when my wife interrupted him and said “Of course not, right John?” I just mumbled in an incoherent groan. Truth was, I did believe in sprits, and I could sense that there was one here too. But Michelle seemed too happy and I didn’t want to disappoint her, so we brought the house.

At first everything seemed great. We paid for the house straight away with our collective savings. Our two cats Minnie and Fritz settled in quickly and so did we. Michelle enjoyed being away from the city as she had grown up on a farm. “Oh John, it reminds me of when I was a kid, doing all the farm-work with Dad and spending the night watching television and drinking milo. I love it!”. I just put on a fake smile and agreed with her. It was all I could do. I didn’t bother telling her that the old tin shed was the only thing on my mind.

About three weeks after we moved in, I had a very strange and vivid dream. I was dreaming that I was my tabby cat, Fritz, and I was walking around the inside of our new home. Now, we’d always talked about how Fritz was a weird cat, he was very jumpy and he would always stare into our old fireplace for hours on end, even when it wasn’t lit. We named him Fritz because of his irradic and seemingly peculiar nature. Anyway, in the dream, it seemed as if I had become my cat in every possible way, it was like my thoughts and perception were that of a cat’s. I walked over to the cat-bowl and ate some food, licked my fur, typical cat behavior. But that wasn’t what made this dream so strange.

I suddenly bolted out of the little cat-door at the back of the house and ran across the paddock towards the old tin shed. Through Fritz eyes, it had a pulsating red glow, with a very menacing undertone to it. But I kept running anyway, something was drawing me to it. I sat down at the front of the old tin shed and stared at the wooden door. It was very big from where I was sitting, or should I say, where Fritz was sitting. That was when I heard the heavy footsteps from behind the door, thud, thud, thud, like someone wearing steel-toed work boots was treading the ground in there.

Then all of a sudden the door swung open with a loud BANG! against the side of the shed. There was barely time to look at the grotesque, tall figure that stood in the doorway. I got such a fright and to say the least, I ran the hell out of there, faster than the wind itself. I remember thinking how free and powerful it felt to be a cat, as I ran back into the house through the little cat-door.

I quickly made my way back into the bedroom and jumped up on the bed, and started nudging at my owner’s face. This was where the dream ended and I awoke to my cat panting and headbutting at me, trying to get my attention.

It has always been said that cats are more in-tune with the spirit world. Guess I know why now.

@imhotep, thankyou bud :)

Her heart plugged into
the beating crucibles of
those overpowered
beams of hope.

Until she wasn’t worth it;
the time and effort
the blood and guts
is it real?

I swear upon
my own machines
to sacrifice my passion
if my rot is needed.

To recite
all your flying kites
and tangled gasps
in my small drawer.

To see if your passion
could be set afire
upon the bones of
someone’s smouldering forest.

To watch you board that train
I would trip over
each and every single
track.

Waiting for you at the station
so you could brush me aside
and tear at my heart
until I told you hate.

I would wave my wilted cap
dispatching dust across
the cobwebbed stations
the rusted trails.

I would.
Invest my entire spirit
for a taste of your
shoulder

Half about my sister who passed away after they took her off support and half about my girlfriend…

I am the precipice
bury your stones on my edge.
Forget the birds
and they’ll forget themselves.

Grated teeth will bare
and understand why I should love you
all the while
your eyes to the sky

But the birds are weeping
to feel the ground and it’s embrace
The birds are weeping
it is you that they envy.

Desperation ticks
and the tolling bell calls out
bloated lungs failing
search for the reason.

And all the while
the birds, they can’t escape
longing for the edge
quietly falling for their death.

Sparrows caress the winds turning creases as it goes higher and higher
they have no wings.
They sway and they sweep
fallen victim to the sky.

Your body, some chiselled marble pillar
lust beneath my plaster rooftops
for anyone but I
you take only my shelter.

Spit on me and my crucifix
bore in blood and rag
I long for your love
and I am your prison.

About people who search for fame so much. Search for “high existence” without thinking enough about what they have, they can’t get off the ground because of their obligations, and they birds envy their abilit yot come back to earth after jumping, birds can never fall. Thanks, I have been writing for two months and need people to criticise

“@mimic, I hope this isn’t about a serial killer.”

It was about socks, silly! you’ve got a very dark mind, if that’s what you see when you think of socks!

The maggots repose, a feast for crows,
a gourmet meal, a stone cold pose.
Nobody better, to leave her unfettered,
and fix her right up for the box.

But her storie’s not through,
for her artist in lieu, is truly the best in the biz!
he’ll make her look dapper, the slim little slapper,
for this is a penchant of his.

but as he prepares his tools and his wears
a second course comes to the table.
“how did he kill her?”
as she’s wheeled in for for dinner
“I hope this isn’t about a serial killer.”

you can name this one!

Where am I?
Where are you?
What am I supposed to do?
Sitting here all alone,
Broken, beaten, lost, unknown,
Wasting away on a summer day
Without even the discretion to say
Hey I need you.
You, all of you

Together we were always much more than amused,
But what did I do to lose all of you?
Where did all the magic go?
Why am I surrounded by nothing but atheist in foxholes?
But why are all these bridges burned?
Fire everywhere without concern,
Children still playing amidst the flames
Seeing it as one glorious game.

When will I fully see the light
And fully leave the world of black and white
Ignorance surrounds me like stones
Never moving on its own,
Stuck in its ways and dull in its mock sphere.
What is really there to fear?
Where is the release from these living catacombs?
Where is the way of truth to make my new home.

My mouths sealed shut
What the f*ck?
How can I spread the news?
Now all I can do is wonder
Why do they not see what I see.

But Ho!
No I will not give up on you
I will try to show you the way,
I will separate the darkness from the day
Where God can be found today
In you, me and all around.
So keep on fighting the good fight,
And hope that one day WE can sit here in harmony.

@imhotep, i love your poetry! it’s rich yet economic, insightful and with meaning but people have room for different imageries and particular interpretations :D

Imagine
A blobby world
where there are no fine lines or sharp edges
Only blunt corners and smudged ovals

Imagine
Looking out over the balcony
And seeing a floor of spilled india ink
Scattered with glimmering points of gold
Under a red velvet cupcake shade of sky

Imagine a world of strangers
Where people are featureless, almost faceless
Except those nearest to you

Imagine
Light

Not glaring
Not painful

But a glowing, flowing bright thing
That’s quite mesmerizing to gaze at

I put [my glasses] on
And the world is stark again
Starkly clear and bright and
overwhelming
Stark raving

I take them off.

@dawnistoday, @himynameisingrid, @thegiantsquid, @llewdiklirpa, @mimic, @aliwine, @imhotep,

Just wanted to recommend a web forum that I used to be a part of:

poetryx.com

It is a poetry forum that discusses and critiques each others poems. It is a great place for folks who love to write.