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bipoetry


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i try to write to let my crazies out.

i'd love to hear what you guys think

some color:

i see black as the color of death

even in a shirt

or a hoodie.

i see gold as the color of saints

and clergy

and silver the color of martyrs.

i see green the color of love

and red the color of the confused

i see blue as the color

of

love

and i think whales are the most

powerful

beings on the planet.

white makes me look kind of tan

so i can't lie

and say that i don't appreciate it.

the mirror:

i look at myself

in the mirror a lot

i look at myself

in the mirror a lot

i like my face

when it's in my reflection's spot

i look at myself in the mirror a lot

i shave to change

the face that i've got

i don't cut my hair a lot

i look at myself in the mirror a lot

i type quickly when i have something to jot

because my brain thinks it's on to

something

i look at myself in the mirror

more than the average person

in their greatest days

of vanity.

sine:

sinusodal existence

means ups and downs

and a continuum between them

of all different kinds of middle grouns

the scenery is changing

and the eupohoia never lasts

it just keeps on working it's way into the past

and somehow it just

flows backwards

and i'm left on my ass

and usually the signs and such

simply don't mean anything.

learning to type:

the home row came easily

mavis beacon guiding the way

[i hated that bitch

to be perfectly honest]

how she never changed her tone of voice

when she would tell me my mistakes

she was purely business

and she thought she was

better

than me

dictating me letters

using every key on the board

the bottom still foreign to me

the top just coming into view

"don't look at the keyboard" she'd say

well fuck you bitch--

i still look at the keys

when i type.

scars:

i'm making new scars on my hands

from accidental burns

and i'm watching them grow

letting them burst

their blistery puss on my

nuckles

broken open

from the exaggerated

movements

of my fingers trying to do

what i've never been able to do

with

my whole entire life

but they just give into the movement

that i prescribe to them

they just shut the fuck up

and do it.

mucho gusto:

i thought you knew me

don't you know me?

i thought you knew me

don't you know me?

you can't have kown

don't you know me?

i thought you knew me

once, you've taken a sip with me.

we've shaken hands

don't you know?

what about from school...

did we never cross paths?

i thought you knew me

don't you know me?

it's like you've never been around me

me.

i think i know you.

don't i know you?

i must know something about you

we grew up together

we're of the same foundations

i thought you knew.

hunch:

hunched down

hunched down over a typewriter

hunched down over a typewriter

typing

hunched down

over a typewriter's keyboard

typing my peace

i simply like to write

i like to listen

i can't hear you usually

because i'm listening to something else

something in my head trying

to sing

but it leaves me complacently

smiling

nodding

smiling

yessing

nodding

mmhhmming

until i get home and hunch myself

over a typewriting and POUR

and pour and pour and let it out

and pour this fucking ink

into a line

as much ink as i can get out

a click at a time

tick tack

click clack

typing on a mechanical

excuse

for handwriting.

depress:

mixed state ethereal

depression

as i transcend into lonliness

and regression

one more time i'm at the machine

click click click clacking

creating noise

and trying to believe that

this mixed state dysphoria

is nothing but a dream

but the lights

still go on and off

and i'm not flying.

the trail:

i'm just listening to music

sitting in a desk chair

tilt lock

off

leaning back

hands behind my head

a non comformist to my life

conforming to my thoughts dreaming of things that i should

have long ago begot

yet here i am playing

the only thing i have any rythm on

which sings

that i could be someone

banging on a drum

or one of those guys

who makes strings WAIL

but alas

i'm just a guy

who makes ink into a trail.

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I like them. I also appreciate your ability to share them. I know that isn't always easy. Depress and scars stand out as especially resonant for me. Very powerful. There's obvious feeling in those, and that is, for me, the mark of great writing. Bearing in mind that I really enjoyed your writing, I would suggest spellcheck.

This is a great thread idea, and we should keep it going. Embrace the stereotype, and let your BP inspire you. I'll help:

Frantically lethargic.

Heavy thoughts moving too quickly;

The inertia is pulling me apart.

I

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Does a sentence

written in a column

become

poetry?

No critique.

No analysis.

No answer.

It just IS

I guess.

An expression.

(Where is "Stasis" when we need him? ;) )

Well, now I feel silly. I gotta admit, though, that's pretty damn funny.

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I apologize if that seemed a 'put down'. And I suppose, in a way, it was. But I write both ways and I say this to myself. Overly critical and it bled out on to this thread. Sorry. Some of my stuff actually makes it past my critic to be considered actual "poetry" - but then I just criticize it for its "quality" - or lack thereof!

Again, my apologies. Your feelings and meanings came through and are important.

"my wrists itch for false escape" definitely hits home in its phrasing.

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Does a sentence

written in a column

become

poetry?

No critique.

No analysis.

No answer.

It just IS

I guess.

An expression.

(Where is "Stasis" when we need him? ;) )

sometimes

the breaks

can explain

why the sentence

was written.

the tower of babel

wouldn't have accomplished

much

as a plaza.

even though

now we can't

understand

eachother.

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Steve: Doesn't bother me. I'm much more of a stream of thought writer, and will openly admit my inability to write poems. I was hoping to help this thread take off though, because I'm really interested to see what we'll get.

Moreover, I thought you're reply really was funny.

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Oh WTF. This isn't directly related to BP.....yes it is. This circle of friends imploded 12 years ago and I still feel guilty that I'm not there for her:

Tears Red White Clear

Had a brother, he was older

She shot morphine, in her shoulder

Didn't hide it, she did not care

Saw the needle, I was there

Go on then, stick the needle in

Push your medicine

Cut marks on your legs and arms

Needle sticks can't do more harm

Go on then, stick the needle in

Push your medicine

'That's illegal, there's no excuse'

Go on girl, push your juice

When you cut you, you bleed red

They bleed white, those poppy heads

It's ok girl, go ahead

Push your meds

No don't swallow, use the needle, make it last

You'll loose 1/3 by first-pass

That, and the needle's fast

Go ahead then, stick it in

Push your medicine

You're out of smokes? And milk too?

What else you need? I'll be back soon

If you don't want to be alone

I won't smoke more of yours

I bought my own

Not like you do

But I know life

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Tears Red White Clear

"Had a brother, he was older

She shot morphine, in her shoulder

Didn't hide it, she did not care

Saw the needle, I was there

Go on then, stick the needle in

Push your medicine

Cut marks on your legs and arms

Needle sticks can't do more harm"

i like the meter, and how you kept it fresh at times.

the rhyming lends to the flow nicely throughout, but especially in these first couple stanzas it sets up the mindet well.

"I've seen the damage done

And the needle"

yeah neil young. :)

"Have your white tears

From your flower

Mine

Are

Clear"

the last lines really resonate well. the points are well laid out. and i like how you used tears as your final image.

well done

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i see things

in

colours.

sometimes pictures

too.

some days,

it seems that the colours may take me

to heaven

or wherever that perfect place is.

my arms, red from the energy

my head glows yellow

my words are white and so

beautiful.

i am dancing with

green wind on purple shoes with orange bows and

we go faster around in a circle until

we are lifted up and UP and the perfection

is exquisite.

my golden orange smile

is given to those around me, a gift.

my fingertips,

heal the people near me

my appearance

brightens up the

whole

room.

some days

colours are

hiding.

they take

my memory

they take

my power

they take

my words

and

my life?

my words are now purple

and black

a barrier

between

me and everyone who tries to

reach out.

my body is

oozing

silver

it slips right into the cracks

of those around me

secretively

inconspicuous

but i know.

the colours

their power

their supreme knowledge

takes control.

what once guided me to the light

now pushes me

into the darkness.

sometimes chemicals

new,

shiny,

perfect

or almost.

they fight the colours.

but they dont know when

to stop.

they take the bad but

the good ones too.

and in any case

the colours

still

know how to win the fight.

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i

wish i could cry

to do something worthwhile

with my eyes

and i

dream i was blind

because before i ever saw

i did just fine

and i

feel like i've died

because there's nothing left that feels

in my mind

and i

fucking hate time

because the minutes

just drag on

in a desolate mind

and i

wish i were high

so i could fall from grace

one more time

though i

just wonder why

the medications

that i've taken

won't fix my life

because i don't feel so strong

and my friends they're moving on

and i'm just stuck at dawn

and there's a heavy cloud cover on

and i'm pretty sure it's gonna rain today

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