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lainchan archive - /lit/ - 4754



File: 1480454093839.png (19.67 KB, 300x300, drunk.png)

No.4754

On average, how long did you need to write a poem?

  No.4755

>>4754
there once was a man from limerick
who just couldn't get the trick of it
he toiled away
day after day
until he gave up and was sick of it

  No.4758

A quiet moment
As windows tell of rainfall
And lamps dispel night

  No.4759

Crumble away
Over time is like
Crashing for 20 hours
Killing me softly
Movement infernal
Asteroid belt takes a dive
Show and tell like
Ta-tas and skivvies
Error bound
Read the first letters vertically.

  No.4761

More one for the autumn:

Feel those cold winds blowing by
the summer's over, fall's arrived
and winter's not too far behind
by the Old Milwaukee River

  No.4763

many leaves grow
a month
or two, slowly

  No.5304

this topic is postmodern as fuarrrk

  No.5305

File: 1491180472089.png (1.76 MB, 189x200, cool noise.gif)

>>4755
There was a young man from Japan
whose poetry never would scan
when asked why it was
he said it's because
I always try and cram as many words and syllables into the last sentence as ever I possible can

  No.5306

Some come quick and others come slow,
With haste my pen can follow that flow,
But she can be a fickle thing,
And some days I cannot hear her sing,

Some days she comes with words divine,
Others it takes just too much time,
Weeks and months can pass in blur,
No sight of hair or hide of her.

Today it seems she is my friend,
Mere minutes in which this was penned,
When not, alas, I do not see.
A way to make her come to me.

  No.5310

Sing to me, oh sweetest blossom!
Cleave to my heart, O dew of bliss!
Revive my spirit of old, my flesh like new,
For my time is passing, and my lover too.
How can I chase the beauty of what I only knew?
As I cross the blind man’s bridge, what should I do?
I will gather you, my love, ‘till you are home.
There Father waits, there Mother lies
Be not afraid, nay, close your eyes,
Walk carefully into that silent night.
Listen closely, for Father is nigh.

  No.5313

Those who lived in Pylos and lovely Arene,
In Thyron, ford of Alpheius, and Aipy,
In Cyparisseis and Amphigeneia,
In Pteleos and Helus and Dorium, where
The Muses met Thamyris and stopped his song
As he journeyed from Eurytus' house in Oechalia
Boasting he would win even if the Muses,
Daughters of Zeus, were to sing against him,
And in anger they maimed him, took away
His melody and silenced his lyre—

  No.5315

Nearing the end, it was hopeless.
Her selfishness had branded the sin into the flesh.
Burning desires changed with time.
Oblivious of this, she clung on to a dead dream.

  No.5318

Life is meaningless.
The world doesn't care,
Nothing we do matters in the void, endless.
So what? So what if what life means we can never ensnare?

So what if the universe doesn't care?
Enjoy this blip in infinity.
Eat, fuarrrk, sleep, run, write, get high, dare,
For life is really nothing all that fancy,
unless you care to give it revelry.