I much prefer the corn that pops
When popping corn is on my mind.
The kernels popped! I am so glad!
My deep thoughts now are not so sad.
But where’s the salt? I cannot find
The salty salt. I need that, too!
And butter? What’s become of you?
And thus I sink into despair
Abandoned by the world out there
That doesn’t ever, ever care.
Boohoo! Boohoo! I have to cry.
My soul’s disgusted with me. Bye!
Last edited by YesNo; 12-19-2016 at 08:29 PM. Reason: Just making a bad poem worse
I like the corn that's on my foot.
It's bitter and quite sore
when chafing 'gainst my shoe.
It's much like you, my chafing dear,
you chafe like walnuts and the scent of pears
bathed in cerulean blue.
You chafe my shoe.
A lot of stuff out there is free,
Too much for you to take.
Don’t let it soak down deep and drain
Your soul. Give it a break!
Don’t take it all!Just let it be!
The now is all you need, you see?
You don’t?OK.
Then let me say
Outside your mind’s a lovely day.
Now that I’m an imagist
My poetry is cool.
Emojis jump on every line.
That’s why I rule the school.
The girls are all excited.
Their boyfriends are so mad.
I say they have to take their turns.
Their boyfriends say I’m bad.
Eventually they’ll kick my butt
And I would kick mine, too,
But now I write pure poetry.
No other kind will do.
No doubt you want me to go on
But beauty calls tonight
And when their boyfriends find me out
It’s safer then for flight.
This is how it is
The little ant stood on the edge of
the curb, to avoid being stepped on
and looked down,
as the city crowds shuffled by,
faces clinched to another
average day.
And someone noticed the little ant,
on the curb's edge - and shouted
to the ant, "Jump! Jump you little fu cker!"
It's tough out here.
Another rough-boy Christmas.
Last edited by tonywalt; 12-26-2016 at 08:38 PM.
My husband's very bad poem:
"I am sad
My life is bad."
I can't sleep
I can't dream
How can I see you then?
===============-
When asked how World War III would be fought, Einstein replied that he didn't know. But he knew how World War IV would be fought: With sticks and stones.
-(:===============
Ever occurred to you Why
the Beggars will pray for you
Regardless you give them
Something or not?
Simple ......
They try to play with your sentiments
Inorder to influence you
To make you pity them
and dole em out some dough
Ha! These clever creatures !
These habitual flunkies !
Will pray so much for all
That even God gets confused
Indecisive
whether to answer the prayers or not.
If prayers are not answered
It's because of plethora
Of selfishness embedded in them.
Last edited by mazHur; 03-17-2017 at 05:04 AM.
===============
When asked how World War III would be fought, Einstein replied that he didn't know. But he knew how World War IV would be fought: With sticks and stones.
-(:===============
Please don't pray for me
Neither you nor I know
If our prayers would be answered
Probabilty is they won't
So leave the exercise alone
I don't want the extra burden
Which bleak prayers cannot
free me off.
===============
When asked how World War III would be fought, Einstein replied that he didn't know. But he knew how World War IV would be fought: With sticks and stones.
-(:===============
Lol!Originally Posted by YesNo
Now that I’m an imagist
My poetry is cool.
Emojis jump on every line.
That’s why I rule the school.
The girls are all excited.
Their boyfriends are so mad.
I say they have to take their turns.
Their boyfriends say I’m bad.
Eventually they’ll kick my butt
And I would kick mine, too,
But now I write pure poetry.
No other kind will do.
No doubt you want me to go on
But beauty calls tonight
And when their boyfriends find me out
It’s safer then for flight.The best bad poem I read for ages!
"I seemed to have sensed also from an early age that some of my experiences as a reader would change me more as a person than would many an event in the world where I sat and read. "
Gerald Murnane, Tamarisk Row
It is pretty bad, but at least it rhymes. I'm glad you enjoyed it!Lol!
I know the weeping willow’s ashen form that
under the red star beats out my name so I can
see, yeah, I, the wonders that the drizzled
monarch holds, awaits with pink thoughts dying,
trying, having had no bloom into the wonders
deep and sensuous that would love to say,
with murder on their minds, they’re mine.
Alice reported that
she understood
“.every.single.word.”
and so
I gave her a score
of “.zero.”.
miss blp.
Here's my bad poem:
Shadows of the tongues of supercalifragilistic occupation
Demand obsequious scatters of scat
left on my doorstep, shining
like desserted Hope, proud and perched in the
dreams of a vanity mirror, becalmed.
O seeker! bless the holy
anaesthetist like you bless me after sneezes.
My imaginary friend, Alice, loved your poem, Silas.
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