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Reading and Analysis of Poetry (not a poem)

Reading and Analysing Poetry

As a poet when you read your peers poetry is it a quick read, instant opinion and move on? Do you really think about the content of the poem, the technique, how well crafted it is. What the message really is? Do you tick like because the poet posted a poem, and make gushing comments without too much real thought? Or do you read it several times, really analyse the piece and make constructive comments? Do you hope that people will take time and trouble with reading your poetry to give it the attention it deserves?

Be Happy hahahaha

I have all along been sitting and glossing
under an apple tree all my life
what happiness can be

a simple comparison of combined incidents
many jovial
few sorry

from the milk of both
if you can but extract
the elixir of glee
‘twill a successful story be
of merriment truly

yes ‘tis poetry alone
as it lends paradise
but lets me be full of gladness
to share here my story

you say what you want to
but be merry
not guilty

one must simply be cheerful
just smile will all ye

Us

Hand in hand,
there is no greater darkness
than the one that's growing steadily between us.

Hand in hand,
there is no greater darkness
than the one that's growing steadily between you and me.

United scars... the dripping blood
and a body that fears no one but itself!

As above, so we are: So below, as we are!

In the blink of an eye
stars collapse and we are here,
hand in hand and torn apart.
Can’t you hear the countdown?
Can’t you hear the clocks
that are ticking in our hearts?

A Dream of the Old Ones

My nightmares are vivid and etched in blackest agony;
The eldritch curtain of the gloomy sky
Darkly engulfs the fearsome writhings of my dreams
And my very soul screams out in timeless pain.

I try not to breathe in my dreams lest the Thing
I cannot bring myself to look at, the ungodly one,
Whose name no man can utter and stay approaching sane,
Sees me sleeping and reaches out from hottest Hell.

Dylan who?

He'd tell me about Dylan T
the boathouse
the scenery
how he'd party with the worst of them
show 'em how it's done

and maybe
somewhere between
the laughs and the re-fills
it would spiral downward
to past loves
ideals
the occasional awkward stare
and lip-bite silence

Then we'd part ways
fluff-brained
wobbly
and forget what we'd learned
about each other by the morning

Is this all a Game

What if this is all fake,
all a game being played,
every decision made,
using a game plan,
every twinkle in your eye a facade,
every kiss the same as every other,
every unread message,
the result of lost interest,
I ask is this all real,
will the feelings prevail,
what if this is all the same,
all a game still being played,
soon you will realise games can only be played for so long

Her

She talks
In a velvet voice
Fit for angels
But not to me

Spending time with her
Is a gift
A feeling
Like my stomach is caving in
I can't breath
I'm nervous
Around her
Thinking about her

Worrying
Wondering
Thinking
Wanting to know everything
About her
Her

Unloved

Unloved

When 2019 began, everything was great.

It started off with happiness.

Which was a first for me.

Since I was thirteen, life was hard.

Had no friends, and even had a family who

never once cared about me.

I was even bullied every day

For the way, I spoke and looked.

Life began to become unbearable.

So, I tried everything in my power

To make things better.

It started off sneaking online

To find people who actually liked me.

I met plenty of people.

Some nice and most horrible.

The Song of the Star-Spangled Sewage Workers

O, say can't you smell in the morning's delight
What failed to get flushed, thus the toilet needs cleaning?
Huge turds and bright piss, such a horrible sight,
Out of bodies fast pumped with odours demeaning?

Sewage workers so brave, the shit wagon driving
Will speed through the night to cleanse toilets for you;
How grateful we are for their generous striving
To cleanse the home of the free from the stench of stale poo.
.

A pretty French pianist called Lucie
Studied piano with butch Claude Debussy
But "Claire de lune"
Was too hard a tune
With three fingers deep in her pussy.

In concert, young Benjamin Britten
Was once seized by continuous shittin';
Refusing all drugs
He tried two big butt-plugs;
But sadly neither would fit in.

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