Alcoholic

Silver Moonlight
Shining on Dark cement,
Glistening for a cheshire Grin,
Hiding a sort of dark intent.

"Who Are You?"

It's A question,
Screamed into the Dark.

Taken from a memory
That's been locked,
Deep inside
A decaying mind,
Betraying,
It's decaying body.

"Don't forget who I am,
Please,
Because I seem to have a hard time,
Forgetting who you are."

My thoughts;
Traitors.
My actions;
Revolting.
They Sicken me,
(But Then again)
I sicken me.

But that's when the time has come,
Oh- yes. The time has come for me,

To Consume.
My drug.
My Bottle.
My Love.

Another Promise
Broken.

Because of this mind altering Substance
That comes in liquid form.

"What was I sad about again?"

"Will you forgive me?"

Person Who I can't remember,
It seems as if I've forgotten,
How easy
It is to fall into that,
Brown bottle,
To swallow that amber liquid.

"Hey, What's that sound?"

It seems to be a scream--
Of a Lonely child,
Of a lover who's lost their hold--
of Me
Looking for a person,
Who is no longer real.

Looking for a person,
Who I can only find
In this bottle of
Amber colored liquid.

Funny thing is;
It used to burn going down.

But now it only burns if
There's none.

I hear America Singing
A poem based off of another.

I hear America Singing in
Crisp green bills
Trading
From nervous, shaking hands
To blood soaked confident ones.

I hear America Singing
In the cry of a
loving child; held close
To it's mother.

I hear America Singing
In the tears of those
Hated for; Race, Sexuality, Social
Status.

I also hear America
In the Sweet Laughter
Of children
Who do not know
our world yet.
The despair they will face;
To build them up,
or break them down.

I hear America Singing
A chorus of Pain
And joy.
A collage of many voices.

I hear America Singing;
Rebounding inside of my brain.

This poem I wrote is just a short, and not so sweet one, that's been rebounding inside my head and won't leave me alone.

Untitled.


If I could know what love is,
I'd never drink again.
I'd put down these green glasses,
And understand what it means
To walk.

If I only knew,
What love was,
Maybe I wouldn't find the need,
To hurt all that I know.

If I knew what love was,
The real stuff, not the fake,
Maybe I wouldn't have to hurt those
Who I blame.

If I knew that I was loved,
I'd never raise my fist again--
I'd never hurt you again--
You'd never cry again.

If I only knew how much you loved me,
I'd never find myself,
Grabbing you by your throat,
Slamming my fist into your head,
Reminding you--

That I hate You.

Mai girlfran is gud at poetreez! :o

...Anyways, that was an enjoyable read. I see real potential here, with a little bit of work (criticism not included).

Keep up the good work.

Would you ever let your
Soul
Be in the hands of another?
Would you ever let yourself
Be
Ripped into two perfect parts
One
Identicle
To the Other?
Would you survive
If
You looked into the Mirror
And saw
Someone Else's
Face?
There's always a story
Behind the birth of Twins
When one become two
And evil seems to win
It's never a choice
Not for them
They can only have half
Of whatever one else has
One
If you could
Look
Without your eyes.
And if you could see
With only have a mind
Would you blame them
For being a little blind?

Loving the style of your poetry, Saken. You have a very personal, subject style -- sudden full stops, semicolons, line breaks. It takes some getting used to, I'll admit. It's what I think people call an acquired taste? It kind of reminds me of e. e. cummings; he gives me lots of inspiration for my poems myself. Thanks for the lovely review, too, I'll be sure to take your suggestions and comments!

Just one little note - I don't know if this is a side effect of your individuality, but in the poems with the organised stanzas, the rhythm of the lines is off by one or two beats sometimes. I don't think it matters at all personally, but still. :p
<3 the work!

No title.

If I could survive
please promise
a chance or a touch
a simple thought,
Or even a song.

I'm not to know
of plans already made
constricted moments
and dreams foretold.

An oracle to bounce
around in my head,
without a touch or
a chance
of going to bed.

If I do die, just let me have
one last kiss.

Another Mirror (Poem Two)
Fragments of my life,
a glass mirror
broken in order to give a
glimpse
of an inner reflection
that no one wants to see.

A lie,
carefully covered by
that sparkling cover
of crystalline glass
(don't peek)!

Opaque- true
But clear.
Always in my sight, but
kept locked away.

Beneath my outer facade
(lent to me by you)!

A shattered reminder,
Of a life
Left behind.

(Didn't I already beg you not to look?)

Mirror, Mirror.
Let me see.
Mirror, Mirror.
Let me believe.
Mirror, Mirror.
What have I done?
What can I do?


Who Have I become?

Its good! very good! alittle morbid, but good none the less. I happen to like the morbid stuff so its not a bad thing :P

Hey! Great work! Um... I'm sorry, but it's sort of a peeve of mine that I need to mention. You said base off of (I hear america singing) and you can't really base something off of anything, only on. It is based on a foundation. You can't base something off a foundation because it wouldn't be on the foundation. It would be somewhere else and not really based at all.

The poem is written off of another poem, it is written in the exact same style and using some of the words. The form, and even the concept and idea,is in replica of the poem it's self, just the stuff in it is from something different.

I liked the one that started:

Would you ever let your
Soul
Be in the hands of another?

Not bad overall, but sometimes the flow is off.
That's probably not the right word, the poetry sometimes seems just a bit stilted.
Probably not to worry about, I have a somewhat picky taste in poetry.

It's the second half of a poem I wrote. I lost the first half, but gave it to an RP friend of mine to put on his half of the profile (we'd been playing twins. =o) That is prolly why it is off, it has a lot more to go on.

Ahh, that would explain it.

I mean logical sense. You can't win this. Basing anything OFF of or writing OFF of or doing something OFF of cannot work. Unless you're levitating off of the ground. You're actually not on the ground. If you're writing off of a poem, you're writing somewhere else that has nothing to do with the poem. It's not like it has bungee jumped off of the page(another accurate use because you are leaving the page and not really connected).

Technically, Pangerbaum is right...

Anywho, these are some beautiful poems.

...

Yeah, that's all I wanted to say.

A plead.
I can’t live like this anymore.

No, I just can’t.

It may seem to be all right,

in fact, it may even be

‘all right’,

but I can’t let this go on.

You see, even if you scream

(at me, or at him)

nothing changes, and you just keep

running.

Running away from something

from everything.

From the emotions we wish to share

(would you just please stop?).

I can’t live like this anymore,

it hurts me,

it hurts other people.

You are a destructive force,
Like wind or rain, or snow.
Something unstoppable, unchangeable.
Feared and revered, all at once.
Yet, all I can say,
All I can plead for,
is for you to stop.

I can’t take this anymore.

The Couch.
Sleeping on the couch,

Oh isn’t it fun?

I guess so,

I wouldn’t know.

What is it like to dodge

Questions from those sad, sad

faces, of children

who don’t understand.

Their world is coming to an end.

“What’s wrong with momy, what’s wrong with daddy?”

How to answer, a simple question,

that hasn’t even been asked.

“Why are you sleeping on the couch?”

It’s not even as easy as that.

Maybe it’d be easier to explain,

Where do babies come from.

What is love.

Sleeping on the couch.

It’s never just that.

-Confusion-

I'm used to one plus two,
equaling three,
not four, or five, or seven or eight.

I don't know what this world has come to anymore,
that people who are searching and seeking,
are left in the dust, of someone else's making.

I guess I'm used to it,
this having nothing, or having to make due,
with the bottom of the pot, while everyone else, is getting the good stuff.


To the victor go the spoils.

Or so the saying goes, but why would the victor, get the bad stuff?
And how do you win, when you don't have the components,
to even live?

- Untitled. -

I've realized something, that the person who means the
most to you
is going to be the one who completely and utterly destroys
you even if
that were to mean they have to renounce everything they once
claimed since that's
what it means to destroy someone. I can't help if if that person
just so happens
to know the exact spot to hit- with words, or maybe fists, although
it's the fists
that always seems to hurt less, even if they try and lie to you, by
claiming physical abuse
is what we really need to worry about, but it's okay because I understand
that having a
lie crash down onto your body and squeeze out all the fear that you simply have
oozing under your
skin is a lot worse than a simple black eye, or a hit to the gut, or maybe even a broken
bones because bones
can heal but there is no healing from the words that seem to reverberate inside of your mind
telling you that
every single thing you've ever done is meaningless, that you're meaningless that you
are nothing except
a person to be stepped on, to be used, to be toyed with. As if you have no
real emotions except
the puppet of the person who is mocking you and talking to you and destroying
you because that
is their entire goal in life, to make it so that you have become nothing except
this little toy
that they're going to use, and move, and play with and situate into a
house or a home
or a car, then drive you down the street- makeup on, clothing
all socially acceptable
so that they can not worry about how you look
or what people
will think when they see you with
them because that's
what it all seems to boil down
to, that you
have to be the perfect
image of perfection
if you want someone
to love you
for even
a single
day.

Half A Life.

I'm bodyless.
I own nothing, not these hands that I use, not these eyes that I stare at you with.
Nothing.
I'm incomplete, without a body, without the other half of my soul.

Only half remains.

It’s a brain, without a body.
A person without faith.
A storm without rain.
Lost, while being found.

Only half remains.

No longer a question,
Of the who’s, or the what’s.
Not even a matter of the Why’s.
Or the words that won’t come anymore.

There’s nothing.

Broken into pieces, a bit of you.
A bit of me.
A bit of her and of him, but
Only half remains.