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What's your favorite poem?
I'm sorry. I didn't realize this was against the rules. :(
- 3 weeks ago
Poem Title: The Greatest Fears Lies Within
In The Night
If Ever I Might
Think Of My Fears
Which Brings Me Tears
The Things I See In My sight
Gives Me Quite A Fright
The Horror Makes Me Shiver
Or Should I Say Quiver
Do you ever wonder
What makes you Ponder?
The Greatest One Of All
Lies In The Art Gallery Hall
The Cats Yes The Cats!
They go around prawling
And they Also Like Yawning
Late At Night When The Moon Is Out
No one dares to roam the town
Because You know It's Going Down
When the clock strikes thrice
The Witching hour Begins
And The Nightmare hour begins
It is true what they say that there is No God In Sight
And The World Will Put Up A Fight
The Youths rebel For They Are Right
The Enemy Lies Within You Forever More
And only you can conquer him
Only you can get rid of your greatest fears
Written By: Queenstar Betty Amoah ( Ama Oforiwaa)
- 1 month ago
Tell me, if I caught you one day
and kissed the sole of your foot,
wouldn't you limp a little then,
afraid to crush my kiss?…
- 3 months ago
A few sonnets never truly leave you once you hear them. Ariana Brown's "Wolfchild" was one of those sonnets for me a year ago. Earthy colored talks on dark and earthiness with such intricacy and crudeness and effortlessness in this piece. Each opportunity I return to it I'm flabbergasted how through such shocking language she creatives something so otherworldly and clear and required in our discussions about reimagining America and Americaness. Hella shocking, hella significant, and furthermore a phenomenal sonnet. I'm deciding in favor of this sonnet in the primaries.
- SKITTZOLv 73 months ago
Edgar Allan Poe.
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- BillandhiscatsLv 63 months ago
There are many, but one that I wrote recalling my RAF service still gives me quite a bit of pleasure, not that I suppose its much good, but it does rattle the bars a bit because of its personal nostalger.
- FLv 73 months ago
The night train by WH Auden.
Special mention for The Tay Bridge Disaster by William McGonagall.
- 3 months ago
I know an old lady who swallowed a fly.
- Anonymous3 months ago
And at every drifting cloud that went
With sails of silver by.
I walked, with other souls in pain,
Within another ring,
And was wondering if the man had done
A great or little thing,
When a voice behind me whispered low,
"That fellow's got to swing."
Dear Christ! the very prison walls
Suddenly seemed to reel,
And the sky above my head became
Like a casque of scorching steel;
And, though I was a soul in pain,
My pain I could not feel.
I only knew what hunted thought
Quickened his step, and why
He looked upon the garish day
With such a wistful eye;
The man had killed the thing he loved,
And so he had to die.
Yet each man kills the thing he loves,
By each let this be heard,
Some do it with a bitter look,
Some with a flattering word,
The coward does it with a kiss,
The brave man with a sword!
Some kill their love when they are young,
And some when they are old;
Some strangle with the hands of Lust,
Some with the hands of Gold:
The kindest use a knife, because
The dead so soon grow cold.
Some love too little, some too long,
Some sell, and others buy;
Some do the deed with many tears,
And some without a sigh:
For each man kills the thing he loves,
Yet each man does not die.
He does not die a death of shame
On a day of dark disgrace,
Nor have a noose about his neck,
Nor a cloth upon his face,
Nor drop feet foremost through the floor
Into an empty space.
I know not whether Laws be right,
Or whether Laws be wrong;
All that we know who lie in gaol
Is that the wall is strong;
And that each day is like a year,
A year whose days are long.
This too I know—and wise it were
If each could know the same—
That every prison that men build
Is built with bricks of shame,
And bound with bars lest Christ should see
How men their brothers maim.
With bars they blur the gracious moon,
And blind the goodly sun:
And they do well to hide their Hell,
For in it things are done
That Son of God nor son of Man
Ever should look upon!
The vilest deeds like poison weeds
Bloom well in prison-air:
It is only what is good in Man
That wastes and withers there:
every stone we turn by day
Becomes one's heart by night.
With midnight always in one's heart,
And twilight in one's cell,
We turn the crank, or tear the rope,
Each in his separate Hell,
And the silence is more awful far
Than the sound of a brazen bell.
And never a human voice comes near
To speak a gentle word:
And the eye that watches through the door
Is pitiless and hard:
And by all forgot, we rot and rot,
With soul and body marred.
And thus we rust Life's iron chain
Degraded and alone:
And some men curse, and some men weep,
And some men make no moanSource(s): Oscar Wilde
- Anonymous3 months ago
My favorite style are limericks. Often making reference to a certain town in New England.
- 3 months ago
The Charge of the Light Brigade.