write a really bad poem

[Modigliani]

Doubt thou the stars are fire;
Doubt that the sun doth move;
Doubt truth to be a liar;
But never doubt I love.

Oh wait. Hamlet wrote that one.
Let me try again.

i am not a poet,
but i am made of poetry.
my bones are ancient verses
my hairs are lyric strands
my footsteps are rhymes,
and my heart beats
to the changeful meter of a catholic ballad.
but i see nothing but words.
my eyes are weary.
i see nothing but words
and my eyes are weary.

Sadly enough, this is probably the best poem I have ever written.

[Farah786]

Who Are You?

He comes in the night...
He whispers.....in my ear....
He breathes down the back of my neck.....
And, all I can do, is shiver in fear.....

I am full of goosebumps...
From head to toe.......
All I want to do is shout 'OH NO!'....

But I can't.....
I'm frozen......
I'm asleep....
But I feel wide awake....
He only comes when I'm asleep....
When I'm at my most WEAK.......

Who are you?
I ask myself....
The faceless person...
Who bothers me....
Time and time again....

I want to wake up....
So I can see.....
Who is this person....
Constantly BOTHERING ME?

He says.....
But I'm only your Self conscience.....
There's no need to be scared of me.....
I'm the one who guides you....
Without me, there'd be NO YOU!


OMG.....how bad was that? I just made that up....as I was tapping away on this worn out keyboard....

[blp]

OMG.....how bad was that? I just made that up....as I was tapping away on this worn out keyboard....

Yeah, great, really bad. Modigliani's too.

snape's is rather touching though.

[blp]

Argued in signs with holes hoed into
in the argued end of the lended bends
there there is there but a hair of wear
it is so said that it gets bleated and torn
to a touching hand, lair, rail, bandage
and badinage, therefore for your snore
you say something and it goes before.
There is no lend for forfend.
It is mumping.

[Zeniyama]

He called me mean names
And then he gained fame,
That just makes me feel
-eel

[MacMungo]

I ate a tasty orange
And sucked upon a lozenge,
Then took the golden syringe
And dreamed of Stonehenge.

- Mungo

[blp]

Blankly surveying sandydale with opera glasses
I began to believe in the lapidary theory of crassness
Wherein the chins of Finns with full bins
Are cracked into ham sandwiches with sinful brims
on hats had apparently apt likenesses to librarians
I am always bumping into these librarians.
How they bore me.
The way they adore me.
It's boring.

[a_little_wisp]

I ate a tasty orange
And sucked upon a lozenge,
Then took the golden syringe
And dreamed of Stonehenge.

- Mungo

This might just be my favorite bad poem ever. Ever.

[blp]

Truck your ruck you've
run out of luck but
your hair and your
eventuality in general
were seen at the fun
eral of a
two-seater sofa
clever ever in clover
oven proof natural
moleskin mittens
be careful the face
you sit on
may be your own
or may be a kitten.

[snape]

Be'eth your smile good or bad,
You need not know why.
Just smile and don't ask questions,
And don't be ashamed to cry.
Try to hold your sorrow in and laugh instead of cry,
For crying is no fun at all.
But with crying, you need know why.

[blp]

Today is going to be a day for
failing to require what is for the day for
the day you for days said for days for
This will be it and you will have to have it
Or you will be put into rice and gravy and that'll be it
And you'll wonder how your pens and pincers winced
When it was all owls and cats in the parlour and your guesses
Were all of spinach and vampires.
Why was that? Why did you guess those things?

[MorpheusSandman]

I think this thread illustrates that it can actually be difficult to write a bad poem on purpose as I actually like some of these! But I'm also a fan of surrealism, so randomness can be appealing. I think in order to be really bad you just have to be really cliched and take yourself seriously. Like:

With this heart of steel
I'll shower you with kisses
I'll bear my soul for you
So you'll become my missus
Your glances make me reel
Just tell me what to do
I'll do it just for you
Oh, be still my heart!
Our love is like a rose
It grows and it grows
Nobody knows
Where it goes, where it goes
Rain will feed it
It will need it
To drink its water like I drink your looks
Our love's the stuff of epic books

[paperleaves]

Sunny with a slice of carrot cake
is where my mind went blank
between the torn pages of a croissant
no, wait, a crescent
moon

[billl]

Not mine, but one of my favorite bad poems.
Eddie Murphy (reading as the inmate/poet Tyrone Green) on Saturday Night Live

Images
Dark and lonely on a Summer's night.
Kill my landlord. Kill my landlord.
The watchdog barking, do he bite?
Kill my landlord. Kill my landlord.
Slip in his window, break his neck!
Then his house I start to wreck!
Got no reason--What the heck!
Kill my landlord. Kill my landlord.
C-I-L-L my landlord.

[SleepyWitch]

the other day in another city
a guy passed me, blondish and tall,
radiating vague recognition,
protective and detachedly amused;
by his pants I knew he was American
although you are not.
I remembered your instant chilly devotion,
your distanced patience and I thought:
now that angels have had a go at my soul,
it’s time for a different kind of power;
but maybe he’s just some archetype
and you are him but I
am not me