The Wicker King

The rob in the roan
The biggleby’s sown,
And grown.
For who can call its own?

For fee be we who wiggle must
Through doom and dust,
But vain in trust.
And Noblest Blue, most firey blust
Stands firm in the Hall that bends for us all.

But.

When the Bork King rises will and whey
The Bigsbanes scatter and the Worthvains pray
And Gorgon swees the morth and may
For fain will come! Oh direst day!

The blowings blowing and the coldings colding
And the biggleby’s scratch-scratch wains and dies
And the gallumps burst with rules and lies
Because Fortentook draws ever nigh!

Will the bigsbanes weep and the Gorgon cry
“The Wicker King comes, for you nor I?”

There is so much terrible poetry on here.

Jesus. 

I have read 30 poems about people bleeding out words

15+ poems about love that involve cutting skin and pain.

only 1 poem that dared to rhyme.

and No poems that are witty/happy/upbeat.

People  here mostly write poetry about the same stupid things. How sad they are, that they feel so alone, that the person they love won’t love them back. How they’ll die if they just don’t write because writing is their only release All of which are legit topics, but they are all written so unoriginally.

Everyone just writes prose, then spaces it so that it looks like a poem. Then, they cram too much imagery inside in an attempt to look “sophisticated” and “artistic” when in actuality, because everyone and their mama is doing the same thing, it just comes out as contrived and stale.

Its thousands and thousands of people trying to write like Mina Loy, but without the depth, knowlege of mythology and symbolism that actually makes stuff like that good.

Its just a bunch of literal metaphors. 

Its boring.

I’ve talked to quite a few writers on here that agree with me on this. Not naming any names but at least 3 of them are really big on here. 

Poetry doesn’t have to be “deep” or “emotional” to make readers feel something deep and emotional. 

It can be simple and sweet. Blunt. Childish even.

You don’t have to talk about “I can feel you in my skin and the pain makes me want to die because my love for you is like a cancer and its turning me inside out because I’m so sad and emo and am pretending no one else has felt these feels before, because they are so complex and deep and artistic.”

I don’t want to sound like an asshole, but we can do better people. We can all write better. We can all be inspiring and inspired.

Lets just stop pumping out the same tired shit.

Incubus

A boy with a face like winter and hair like a typhoon. Hands for grabbing, hips for holding, and lips that snarl and groan.

Sink into his veins like morphine, rush through his highways, past the roan and bark. 
Finding and tasting; twisting and writhing together like unformed twins in the dark.

And when I’ve gobbled up all his secrets –black and white alike, 
I’ll push them into my heart. Keep them safe from storm and strife.

This boy, with eyes so dark, will stand before the world,
with a crown made of my fingers  nestled in his curls.

And feel the weight of all its worth, the finest rarest gift on earth.

Lucifer, through the eyes of the angel Jophiel.

(Inspired by this post)

They describe him as vain,
But really he wasn’t.
Its a common fault often falsely attributed to those of great beauty,

But Lucifer was only mildly aware of his loveliness,
He didn’t hold any true value to it.

He was a philosopher,
An Imagineer, a Logician
Mathematician.
It was not his occupation, but an irrevocable part of his nature.

He would spend hours stewing in thought
Going on rants, pacing and gesturing wildly,
growing more and more radiant
as the gears spun in his head.

It must have brought our Lord great joy
to discover that his vessel of beauty and song
had developed this gift for intricate reason.

Being divine, It was natural Lucifer would delve
into the science of Realities,
Determined to smooth out some of
Our Lord’s plans. And this interference
(much to our shock) was not
seen as an annoyance, but
welcomed and cherished.

Lucifer did not brag about this.
Or at least he never meant to.

He was so full of wonder.
So full of love.
So full of genius,
but incredibly naïve .

I think that perhaps he needed
more fear
and a bit more humility.

He made enemies among his brothers as easily
as he coaxed himself back into their favor.

All in all, he was unique.

With hair as dark as coal and eyes like cut crystal
He was a rarity inside a Heaven of golds and reds.
And there were many whose interest in him bordered on worship…

Anna

I’d love to watch you dress up.
Make up.
Red pumps and a matching purse.
You’re a highlife girl.
Lips smeared with the glory of the stage and flashing lights.

I

Am your muse….

The scent of old fashioned perfume with
Your garters and stockings,
Classy, still   

Even as they hit the floor,
For one admirer, than the next.

Only you could wear that blue dress.
In that way.
Turning something simple
Into a gesture so obscene.

My little starlet.
Balancing on the balcony of fame
And folly
One day we’ll all be

Longing for thee.

.

.

.

.

* I rarely write poetry. This is from when I was fourteen years old.

Anna

I’d love to watch you dress up.
Make up.
Red pumps and a matching purse.
You’re a highlife girl.
Lips smeared with the glory of the stage and flashing lights.
I…
Am your muse.

The scent of old fashioned perfume with
Your garters and stockings
Classy, still
Even as they hit the floor
 For one admirer, than the next.

Only you could wear that blue dress
In that way.
Turning something simple
 Into a gesture so obscene.


My little starlet.
Balancing on the balcony of fame
And folly
One day we’ll all be
Longing for thee.