|I'm not a fag, so no. Jk, but seriously, I'm terrible at writing them, but if I could, I prolly would.|
|No, sorry, I'm not gay|
|ive written a few hundred or so but they are all pretty amateur and not very good|
|I'd be happy to contribute something|
|i write sins not tragedies|
|Yeah, I've got some stuff. Pretty bad stuff. Here's a limerick:|
There once was a tic upon Tok
Too tipsy on tonic to talk
Said Tok to the tick,
"You're gonna be sick!"
Said the tick back to Tok,
|Did a bit of poetry in English II, hated it.|
going to punch you
in the eye
steal your money
|Anybody here like wearing skirts and pretty ribbons in their hair?|
jk, kinda sorta but not really
|I suck at it. But have you read Leonard Cohen's poetry. It's amazing. |
|that was just a taster of my work give me a topic and i will write something even more awesome|
|oh wow i'd love to what are the requirements?|
|i love dicks|
shoot forth your seed
into my face
i will see heaven
through the sticky mess
|do some war poetry Helvete|
and I'm dead
|Not as raw as the first one but good|
|it is tight|
slide it in
in your butt
|ugh poetry's so fuckign gay|
|that's walt whitman, correct?|
|Gay poetry is gay. Good poetry isn't.|
They fuck you up, your mum and dad.
They may not mean to, but they do.
They fill you with the faults they had
And add some extra, just for you.
But they were fucked up in their turn
By fools in old-style hats and coats,
Who half the time were soppy-stern
And half at one another's throats.
Man hands on misery to man.
It deepens like a coastal shelf.
Get out as early as you can,
And don't have any kids yourself.
|Keep in mind everyone that lyrics from songs are poetry as well. If you hate poetry then you hate music lyrics basically. |
|Have some of this, too.|
Tich Miller wore glasses
with elastoplast-pink frames
and had one foot three sizes larger than the other.
When they picked teams for outdoor games
she and I were always the last two
left standing by the wire-mesh fence.
We avoided one another’s eyes,
stooping, perhaps, to re-tie a shoelace,
or affecting interest in the flight
of some fortunate bird, and pretended
not to hear the urgent conference:
‘Have Tubby!’ ‘No, no, have Tich!’
Usually they chose me, the lesser dud,
and she lolloped, unselected,
to the back of the other team.
At eleven we went to different schools.
In time I learned to get my own back,
sneering at hockey-players who couldn’t spell.
Tich died when she was twelve.
|Collective Soul rules.|
|ALL YOU DID IS SNITCH|
YOU LITTLE BITCH
|poetry if for wussys.|
Real men write Scifi/fantasy novels.
|my poems are x rated|