this is now a poetry thread.

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  1. #1
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    Default this is now a poetry thread.

    Quoting something so I can have it later if I need it for something...never mind me.

    "And so it begins.
    Dark clouds gather.
    The skies rumble threateningly.
    Followed by an unnatural calm.
    But then, the calm vanishes.
    ... and lightening strikes.

    The storm has broken -
    - it's wrath unleashed.
    And each of us
    Must face it's torrential rage
    In his own way.

    Coldly analytical and deliberate,
    Militantly disciplined and precise,
    Absurdly unorthodox and carefree,
    Wretchedly Misguided and vengeful,
    And with the bittersweet experience of centuries.

    I have defeated old Hob before.
    Then, as now, the battle was fierce.
    But what once was solely a fight for survival...
    Has become very personal.

    Eventually the tempest subsides
    And what began with a ferocious roar
    Ends in uncertain silence.

    We have not forgotten.

    It is simply the calm before the next storm."

    -Master Splinter

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    can we just throw lots of poetry in here
    I hate TALKING. to PEOPLE. about THINGS.

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    No Nick. Stop listening to that shite, open a can of Tennants and come join the boys. We're watching 8 Out of 10 Cats Does Countdown.

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    Death i embrace thee.
    Death i feel your cold dead hands.
    Oh to how the corpse rots and decays.
    But to you that is death you do not fear death for you are death.
    May all mankind be wiped from existence.
    May a great swarm of locusts take us out.May they bring many deaths from the four corners of the world.
    May the sky blacken.
    May the moon bleed and cryith with tears of blood.
    May the pale rider reap what we sowed.
    May justice be served and may the gates of Hades stay open.
    May the wicked be smited and punished with sores and lashes of broken flesh with many pain. May the plague grow and kill each and all of us.
    May the great seals open one by one.
    May death to whom i embrace reap all souls. The worthy and unworthy.
    May the harlot be struck down like the whore she is. May the sinful drink from her goblet and that to whom drink shall die.
    May the seven churches rise.
    May the four beasts be unleashed upon the world.
    May the four riders upon there great steeds bring destruction to all mankind.
    May the blasphemers and hypocrites be crucified upon broken crosses and as they take there last breath embrace Hades for its what was in there hearts.
    May the saints protect us.
    May god above smite the wicked with great justice.
    For death walks. She brings great pain but great pleasure to the worthy.
    For in the end all will be judge for there wickedness.
    To the human race may we all die.
    And may death reap us like the farmer reaps the corn.
    And that is my letter to all.



    i cant write at all >.< but tried
    You hate me? No worries death to all my enemies forgiveness is over. If you hate me so bad come to my house and we can settle it like men. Am i claiming to be a fighter? Nope but im sick of your shit. You bring your boys ill bring mine i can guarantee some one gonna leave in a body bag. Ill shove this pitch fork up ya ass and have you begging for mercy and none will come. As i roast you over the fire laughing at your burning flesh. Im sick of your shit and your threats lets settle this like men

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    Quote Originally Posted by postrook View Post
    can we just throw lots of poetry in here
    Yeah, why not. It didn't seem like poetry in its original context but like this I guess I see it.

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    We are the music makers,
    And we are the dreamers of dreams,
    Wandering by lone sea-breakers,
    And sitting by desolate streams;—
    World-losers and world-forsakers,
    On whom the pale moon gleams:
    Yet we are the movers and shakers
    Of the world for ever, it seems.

    With wonderful deathless ditties
    We build up the world's great cities,
    And out of a fabulous story
    We fashion an empire's glory:
    One man with a dream, at pleasure,
    Shall go forth and conquer a crown;
    And three with a new song's measure
    Can trample a kingdom down.

    We, in the ages lying
    In the buried past of the earth,
    Built Nineveh with our sighing,
    And Babel itself in our mirth;
    And o'erthrew them with prophesying
    To the old of the new world's worth;
    For each age is a dream that is dying,
    Or one that is coming to birth.

    A breath of our inspiration
    Is the life of each generation;
    A wondrous thing of our dreaming
    Unearthly, impossible seeming—
    The soldier, the king, and the peasant
    Are working together in one,
    Till our dream shall become their present,
    And their work in the world be done.

    They had no vision amazing
    Of the goodly house they are raising;
    They had no divine foreshowing
    Of the land to which they are going:
    But on one man's soul it hath broken,
    A light that doth not depart;
    And his look, or a word he hath spoken,
    Wrought flame in another man's heart.

    And therefore to-day is thrilling
    With a past day's late fulfilling;
    And the multitudes are enlisted
    In the faith that their fathers resisted,
    And, scorning the dream of to-morrow,
    Are bringing to pass, as they may,
    In the world, for its joy or its sorrow,
    The dream that was scorned yesterday.

    But we, with our dreaming and singing,
    Ceaseless and sorrowless we!
    The glory about us clinging
    Of the glorious futures we see,
    Our souls with high music ringing:
    O men! it must ever be
    That we dwell, in our dreaming and singing,
    A little apart from ye.

    For we are afar with the dawning
    And the suns that are not yet high,
    And out of the infinite morning
    Intrepid you hear us cry—
    How, spite of your human scorning,
    Once more God's future draws nigh,
    And already goes forth the warning
    That ye of the past must die.

    Great hail! we cry to the comers
    From the dazzling unknown shore;
    Bring us hither your sun and your summers;
    And renew our world as of yore;
    You shall teach us your song's new numbers,
    And things that we dreamed not before:
    Yea, in spite of a dreamer who slumbers,
    And a singer who sings no more.
    I hate TALKING. to PEOPLE. about THINGS.

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    Quote Originally Posted by Aurthur Guiterman
    The tusks which clashed in mighty brawls
    Of mastodons, are billiard balls.
    The sword of Charlemagne the Just
    Is Ferric Oxide, known as rust.
    The grizzly bear, whose potent hug,
    Was feared by all, is now a rug.
    Great Caesar's bust is on the shelf,
    And I don't feel so well myself.
    Quote Originally Posted by Billy Collins
    The neighbors' dog will not stop barking.
    He is barking the same high, rhythmic bark
    that he barks every time they leave the house.
    They must switch him on on their way out.

    The neighbors' dog will not stop barking.
    I close all the windows in the house
    and put on a Beethoven symphony full blast
    but I can still hear him muffled under the music,
    barking, barking, barking,

    and now I can see him sitting in the orchestra,
    his head raised confidently as if Beethoven
    had included a part for barking dog.

    When the record finally ends he is still barking,
    sitting there in the oboe section barking,
    his eyes fixed on the conductor who is
    entreating him with his baton

    while the other musicians listen in respectful
    silence to the famous barking dog solo,
    that endless coda that first established
    Beethoven as an innovative genius.
    . .
    Quote Originally Posted by Emily Dickinson
    I had no time to hate, because
    The grave would hinder me,
    And life was not so ample I
    Could finish enmity.

    Nor had I time to love; but since
    Some industry must be,
    The little toil of love, I thought,
    Was large enough for me.

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    le crépiscule du soir / comes the charming evening

    Comes the charming evening, the criminal’s friend,
    Comes conspirator-like on soft wolf tread.
    Like a large alcove the sky slowly closes,
    And man approaches his bestial metamorphosis.

    To arms that have laboured, evening is kind enough,
    Easing the strain of sinews that have borne their rough
    Share of the burden; it is evening that relents
    To those whom an angry obsession daily haunts.
    The solitary student now raises a burdened head
    And the back that bent daylong sinks into its bed.
    Meanwhile darkness dawns, filled with demon familiars
    Who rouse, reluctant as business-men, to their affairs,
    Their ponderous fligh trattling the shutters and blinds.
    Against the lamplight, whose shivering is the wind’s,
    Prostitution spreads its light and life in the streets:
    Like an anthill opening its issues it penetrates
    Mysteriously everywhere by its own occult route;
    Like an enemy mining the foundations of a fort,
    Or a worm in an apple, eating what all should eat,
    It circulates securely in the city’s clogged heart.
    The heat and hiss of kitchens can be felt here and there,
    The panting of heavy bands, the theatres’ clamour.
    Cheap hotels, the haunts of dubious solaces,
    Are filling with tarts, and crooks, their sleek accomplices,
    And thieves, who have never heard of restraint or remorse,
    Return now to their work asa matter of course,
    Forcing safes behind carefully re-locked doors,
    To get a few days’ living and put clothes on their whores.
    Collect yourself, my soul, this is a serious moment.
    Pay no further attention to the noise and movement.
    This is the hour when the pains of the sick sharpen,
    Night touches them like a torturer, pushes them to the open
    Trapdoor over the gulf that is all too common.
    Their groans overflow the hospital. More than one
    Will not come back to taste the soup’s familiar flavour
    In the evening with some friendly soul, by his own fire.

    Indeed, many a one has never even known
    The hearth’s warmth. Pity such a one.



    Voici le soir charmant, ami du criminel;
    Il vient comme un complice, à pas de loup: le ciel
    Se ferme lentement comme une grande alcôve,
    Et l'homme impatient se change en bête fauve.

    O soir, aimable soir, désiré par celui
    Dont les bras, sans mentir, peuvent dire: Aujourd'hui
    Nous avons travaillé! - C'est le soir qui soulage
    Les esprits que dévore une douleur sauvage,
    Le savant obstiné dont le front s'alourdit,
    Et l'ouvrier courbé qui regagne son lit.
    Cependant des démons malsains dans l'atmosphère
    S'éveillent lourdement, comme des gens d'affaire,
    Et cognent en volant les volets et l'auvent.
    A travers les lueurs que tourmente le vent
    La Prostitution s'allume dans les rues;
    Comme une fourmilière elle ouvre ses issues;
    Partout elle se fraye un occulte chemin,
    Ainsi que l'ennemi qui tente un coup de main;
    Elle remue au sein de la cité de fange
    Comme un ver qui dérobe à l'Homme ce qu'il mange.
    On entend çà et là les cuisines siffler,
    Les théâtres glapir, les orchestres ronfler;
    Les tables d'hôte, dont le jeu fait les délices,
    S'emplissent de catins et d'escrocs, leurs complices,
    Et les voleurs, qui n'ont ni trêve ni merci,
    Vont bientôt commencer leur travail, eux aussi,
    Et forcer doucement les portes et les caisses
    Pour vivre quelques jours et vêtir leurs maîtresses.

    Recueille-toi, mon âme, en ce grave moment,
    Et ferme ton oreille à ce rugissement.
    C'est l'heure où les douleurs des malades s'aigrissent!
    La sombre Nuit les prend à la gorge; ils finissent
    Leur destinée et vont vers leur gouffre commun;
    L'hôpital se remplit de leurs soupirs. - Plus d'un
    Ne viendra plus chercher la soupe parfumée,
    Au coin du feu, le soir, auprès d'une âme aimée.

    Encore la plupart n'ont-ils jamais connu
    La douceur du foyer et n'ont jamais vécu!
    Last edited by postrook; 07-03-2014 at 02:10 AM.
    I hate TALKING. to PEOPLE. about THINGS.

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    Body Bag

    You've made your mark;
    Exceeding muscle and tissue.
    It stopped at the heart;
    To laugh and critisize.
    It shrank it to a size so minute;
    It questions the continuity of existence.
    An unhealthy disorder inherited;
    By the bloodflow of the masses.
    Clogging its veins with a batch of homemade venom;
    Steadily increasing the dosage.
    The arteries distressed-fluid seeps through paper-punched holes;
    Concluding in the toxic liquid absorbing into the carpet.
    Days could pass, and you could remove the body;
    But the stain still remains.
    Entitle me to my opinion;
    But I forgot what it was.

    /winku
    League of Legends IGN: Ellista

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    roses are red

    xeno's dumb

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