• ✍️ WORDS ✍️

    Welcome Guest!

  • Words Moderators: Shambles

Your old, embarrassing poetry

Strawberry_lovemuffin

Strawberry_lovemuffin

Bluelighter
Joined
Jun 11, 2002
Messages
15,525
Location
Melbourne, Australia
Come on, I know you've all got some.

OLD poetry, hidden down deep in the depths of your bedroom drawers, dig it out and give us something that you THOUGHT was really deep at age 14, 15 or whatever, and now makes you cringe.

here's mine. :D

(age 16 - this was written after going to a nightclub and feeling really isolated and ignored by everyone)

The Garden

Night-
It's cold in the garden.
The weed tries desperately to cling to branches,
Leaves, flowers, for warmth -
And, failing, folds into itself.
Alone,
It seeks company
And grows amongst the tall, proud grass
The smiling, sunny daisies
The beautiful, elegant roses;
and tries to be like them.
Swaying in the breeze,
it follows the pattern of left to right,
left to right
left to right....
And secretly, wants to sway in circles.

Morning.
The harsh, honest sun is revealed,
and the weed stretches to meet it.
Smiling, the daisy unfurls its dainty yellow petals
And the weed in vain smiles too,
But nothing happens.
Dismayed, disheartened,
it spreads its roots deep into the soil,
folds it's pitiful leaves,
and dies.

Night.
It is cold and windy in the garden.
Swaying forcefully now;
Left to right,
left to right,
left to right....
Elegant rose petals are ripped from their stems;
Eversmiling daisy heads cartwheel
Like drunk acrobats across
a withered lawn.
Until finally,
Calm.....

Silent.

They come to rest beside the dead weed.
And in the soil become one.

- April 1991
 
Here's more from that year. About my family.

You
You arrived when I was six.
Remember how you swung me high
And how I liked to call you Daddy...
We were the three bears, you mummy and I.

Remember the 'Daddy' mug I made?
You loved it, stored it safe away
But you never loved it for what it was
You used it as an ashtray.

Time passed and I was ten
My place was taken as little bear
You made me feel like Goldilocks
And I never fitted in your chair.

So I learned to pull away before you pushed me
And even now I still won't fall
I'll return your song of silence
But it's your turn now to climb the wall.

- April 1991

Perfect Home
Oh perfect home
I watch you through the
windows of my mind.
My breath fogging up the glass
I watch with tears in my eyes.
A girl that looks like me
Cuddled with her mother
in an armchair...
if she turned her head
She'd see
"Daddy!" she cries, "tie my shoe!"
And holds her arms wide
With joy on her tiny face
And pride on his.
My heart aches -
Come outside,
Hug me too.

Oh perfect home
It's cold out here
I'm surrounded by people
Listening to themselves
Listening
And I'm alone.

- August, 1992
 
I certainly wouldn't be embarrassed to have written The Garden when I was 16.

I didn't start writing poetry 'seriously' until I was 17. Here's something I wrote around that time:

Tonight

Shall we walk every nameless street
Until in light and dark we kiss goodnight
Shall we talk through you and talk through me
And every world in between
Nothing in our eyes left unspoken
And laugh at everything we've laughed at before
Shall we touch every atom of concrete with our feet
Until tonight's forever ends?
 
<3

(Wordy) said:
Until tonight's forever ends?
Click to expand...
^And I wouldn't be embarassed to have written that. :) I especially like this line - leaves you with a sense of calm and deep seated passionate romance. Very adolescent, but hey. ;)
 
My words are archived here under the username CARESS. There are things I am proud of like Truth About Loving The Dreamer....and also pieces I look at now and just shake my head.

It is amazing as we grow and experience life, how our tastes change. However, some truths are always true and some beautiful things are always so.

On that note, your words above are beautiful and should def. not be embarassing...at any age.

Tip from an oldhead...Keep writing, you have a gift.

Caress
 
My first poem that had a meaning to me was poorly written and I guess embarassing. Just to give insight into how poorly it was written, the first stanza:

You can take this as you like
A thought to you while on open mic
A way to understand
The reasons why I hide my hands

It was for my first wife (girlfriend at the time) but even though it's so lame I'm fond of it because it's a good memory.

Then there was the LSD poetry days...

Looking over a few old journals/notebooks from back when I used to sit in school, fried, and write things.

When you find an intoxicated homeless man
Sitting underneath a windowframe
That has inscribed upon it your name
And I'm talking about the man

Do you have any idea what to do
When your mind falls out and lands in your bedroom closet
Because everything you knew
At one point dealt with making tea

And you open a door and find a doorknob bigger than the sun
Or maybe half of one
But it's much cooler and easier to get close to
So you tackle it and die peacefully in a superb explosion
Click to expand...

That's definitely embarassing. Before I started respecting psychedelics like I do now, I wrote 4-5 notebooks worth of it.

But it's funny.

--mic
 
i cant find too many....heres one but its a little depressing...i wrote it when i was 15.

A beautiful little girl, with a heart that used to be filled with hope,
was found in her basement hanging from a rope.
And on the concrete floor is where they found her note,
trying to explain the rope around her throat.
She's in a better place now, there's no need to be sad.
Don't mourn the life she lost, mourn the life she had.
She thought death was better than the torments of her mind.
Everyone saw her smile but everyone was blind.
Forced smile, hidden face,
secret thoughts, different pace.
Noone really knew what was going through her head.
She sang her lonely song, and now that song is dead.
Why did she do it, was her life all a lie?
What happened to her that would make her want to die?
Maybe she tried to show us, but we see only what we want to see.
Maybe life had stole her soul, she wasnt truly free.
Something shattered her mind, she never could forget.
Life was never kind to her, her life was full of regret.
She painted her own picture of how it used to be,
pretty little picture, smashed by reality.
She had to stop the pain, she had to make it end,
no words could comfort her, no drugs could help her mend.
The girl sang her song, she sang her own sad tune,
on how the world had killed her soul and how it would all be over soon.
 
lol. shit you can find about 20 semi embarressing poems in words archive from 5 years ago... heres one now from archives, perhaps my worst poem, but hey it got pyro, whom i respect much back then, to leave me a comment:

03-02-2001 20:55

Remember that day,
So beautiful, vibrant
Monochromatic shades of green with sunlit kisses
A boy in a car, a night full of memories.
One hand lazily floating in the gentle breeze of the afternoon air
Cigarette in other
A barely noticeable smirk.
Meaning nothing to those who did not share his night
That night,
So uncertain and mysterious,
Only heaven knows the ecstasy of those moments
Friendships rekindled new ones forged
This was a night of many surprises
Five linked through friendship and nothing more, because that is all that matters
Sacrifices are made, it matters little
Complacency steps in negating anything else.
If only every night was as perfect as the last
A day of smiles and conversations
Consoling a loved one.
Being with these people because you want to not because you have to.
One second
A heartbeat, a smile a friendly gesture
A promise to care and love one another always.
One member stirs, breaking through the hypnotic glare of friendship
"Same as it ever was and will always be"
In this room nothing matters.
Bills, responsibilities, the trivial points of life.
Five come together, and for just one moment meet as one. For one second they know, truly know that,
That’s all they will ever need
Just one second.
-phil-
 
so this is interesting how time will change perspectives and subject matters coalesce. this was my first poem i ever posted in words
03-02-2001 20:55

this is my first post in words so be gentle
walking

i walk at night when christian goes to bed walking for hours in the dark poorly lit backstreeets of hillcrest...trying to find something i guess...maybe myself maybe a memory...
voices always voices, they never stop, never let me sleep, never let me stop walking. Telling me im worthless, ugly. If i walk, i tell myself, they will go away they have to...
Im tired have been for days. Tired of living tired of thinking, tired of walking. my self deprication does not allow for any leway. if i stop i will go crazy, stay crazy...
I dream sometimes when i walk, dream of better places, golden feilds and smiles for days, the kiss from a dogs wet nose, a test of manhood down by the creek. did i ever know happyness like this?
I awaken still plauged by the emptyness but now there is more, im somewhere new......
White walls flood over my senses like finger nails on a chalkboard. how many days had i been here. i try to move but cant, im restrained. I know violence and stuggle will not release me from my shackles. ive been here to many times...i know the rules. Looking around i see the familiar faces, haunted, fading signs of humanity in their eyes. they will always be here, they are me.
next comes sleep....
a warmth smooths away the tears from my cheek. an image of a smile, the sound of her laughter and a sense of hunger for life washes over me. Im disoriented im living two second away from reality, away from lunicy. i smile contently because here is the only place i can be with her. the only place i want to be

and the update:

walking
i walk at night when Christians are in bed, because I feel unholy unwanted,tainted,
walking for hours in the dark poorly lit back streets...trying to find something I guess...maybe myself, maybe a memory...
Voices, there are always voices, they never stop, never let me sleep, never let me stop walking. Telling me I’m worthless, stupid, lazy.
If I walk, I tell myself, they will go away they have to...
I’m tired have been for days. Tired of living tired of thinking, tired of walking. My self-deprecation does not allow for any leeway. If I stop I will go crazy, stay crazy...
I dream sometimes when I walk, dream of better places, golden fields and
smiles for days, the kiss from a girl long since forgotten, a childhood lived in a flash down by the creek. Did I ever know happiness like this?
I awaken still plagued by the emptiness but now there is more, I’m somewhere new...
White walls flood over my senses like fingernails on a chalkboard. How many
days had I been here?
I try to move but cant, I’m restrained, trapped in my own thoughts. I know violence and struggle will not release me from my
shackles. I’ve been here to many times...I know the rules.
Looking around I see the familiar faces, haunted, fading signs of humanity in their eyes. They will always be here, they are me.
Next comes sleep, the death of the normal world....
A warmth smooths away the tears from my cheek. An image of a smile, the sound
of laughter and a sense of hunger for life washes over me.I’m disoriented I’m living two second away from reality, away from lunacy.
i smile contently because here is the only place i can be everything and anything.
The only place i want to be
 
We had to write a poem about colours when I was 10. This is the first one I came up with



Run to death
run to black

darkness is here
black as your death
red as your blood

once you follow the lonely track
you will soon see the colours of

red coming near
of black coming here

Then I was told it was too.. depressing. So I had to write another one

Colours are something so wild and gay !
As far as the wide morniing sky
Which one will you chose?
Soft blues light greys....

I cant remember how the rest of this one went.. but im sure it was shite.
 
originally posted on BL in april of 04, akaT.C., the poem was actually written in 94. i was 14.





You who ever are; apparent
in least of all likely ways and
simultaneously erupt within
a golden mountain of furs,
buried in your head


and far
as wide as dull is green
and simple, wether you are
what you are. simple and
destined to be an infamous
retraction of your feelings.

You who ever are; graceful
and independent and searching
and, calling into a great
mountain -- cast with sanctions.
you who ever are likeable
and untrusted:

as far,
as seen -- the pretty roses -- green,
and surpassing all that which has
arrived -- not yet to where there
has been grown into, large and bearable.

you who ever are: too beautiful
and light skin graceful. nice
is what you are (under today as a
restriction) simple and progressive
as purity.

for you,
who ever are hard to find.
listen well as hard is my
mind -- who wanders as a
falling commodity and
feared androgyny:

whom I have never talked
or written or shown; so
many unshown wisdom
(talents that surpass all manner
of man ever known).

yet, who lies while riding
is a bastardly beast with
haphazard dreams; of
serenity as to which bore
even her -- you who ever are.
 
I've posted in words under quite a few names over the past years. -Resque-, -Anonyme-, and obviously my current handle. :) I'm not writing very much these days, nor do I come to Bluelight often, but here's one of the first ones I ever posted here. It seems like so long ago... I think I was seventeen when I wrote it, and barely older than that when I posted it here, 6 years ago. The embarassingly long title was 'Being Young: Growing up Apathetic and Bored."

-...before, i think, there were endless possibilities-

earlier today i might have tried to say something clever
now all i can manage is edgy laughter
and a glance at your crotch
(skittish boys stand in corners sizing up my ass, my chest)
the music rises up like cigarette smoke
“i quit smoking a week ago,” i think...
As i light up,
i bend over the table,
knowing what i'm doing to the aching groins
young heat, barely contained
and make my first shot.

i cant quite understand this game,
our reasons for playing.
(i glance at my watch, feign disinterest)
i drop my half-smoked cigarette into a cup of warm beer
that i'm not old enough to hold
“does anyone in this place have anything real to say?”

breath on my neck, erection pressing against my ass
i decide if i'm in the mood to deal with this:
“want me to teach you to play?”
when i was younger, i used to dream of horses

-...when there was nothing, there was always the possibility of something-
 
^ I thought I recognised the style of of the silence piece.

Nice to see you about... I wish you were posting here more often :)
 
You must log in or register to reply here.
Top