Thread: poetry

without my chair

the road i follow
dearest to me
blinds and troubles
endlessly

a companion needed
for lonelyness stays
enchant the fleeting
momentary rays

a connection lost
with no hope at all
a download corrupted
brimming with flaws

the moments flying
searing the screen
a rest to be taken
sit back to lean

the floor you embrace
with arms open wide
your companion you found
albeit its ground

joy abounding
a plug replaced
truly most astounding
corruption erased.


-a poemish type thing by a newbie(at poetry, i'm pro at evry thing else, like spellng and stuff)

Sometimes my old man can be a real dick, and here's the bull**** that results from it:

Some don't know
Very few do
intention leaks
reasons skew
no one can smell
no one can hear
that purpose reeks
with skid-marked smear
You're no different
You can't see
You don't know
My meaning to be


It's short and it sucks, but it's a lot better than kicking a hole in the wall.

horatio's ratio

Horatio's ratio;
the sum of all means.
he had no heart
and he had no spleen.

He had a lung
and maybe a liver
he had a hand
but it always would shiver.

he collected organs
keyboards, rather
the notes were all
the shampoo he could lather.

His hair was gray
his voice was soft
he lived above me
in the loft.

And when he came down
for dinner and tea
he would take out a trinket
and give it to me.

Everynight a different
trinket i would recieve
and he lost more wisdom
he couldn't retrieve.

and so one night
he came down blind
his eyes were on a chain
and trailing behind.

He gave them to me
as he laid down to die
and all they would do
is cry and cry.

A year went by
and the eyes were haunting
i wanted to return them
but the task was too daunting.

One day i gathered
the might and the power
to put the curtains
back onto the shower.

So i went to his grave
and dug it up real quick
i had in hands a shovel
and by my side: a stick.

As i stood there
staring at the man
i couldn't bring myself
to finish my plan.

i searched his body
and found a note
it was signed "horatio"
and on it was wrote:

"to my friend,
to you i have endowed
the one thing that
so long had my heart cowed.

"thank you for listening
and taking my toys
because, you know,
they are meant for boys."

and with that
the note concluded
and so i had found
what my mind had eluded.

John Hall

On an Houre-glasse

MY Life is measur'd by this glasse, this glasse
By all those little Sands that thorough passe.
See how they presse, see how they strive, which shall
With greatest speed and greatest quicknesse fall.
See how they raise a little Mount, and then
With their owne weight doe levell it agen.
But when th' have all got thorough, they give o're
Their nimble sliding downe, and move no more.
Just such is man whose houres still forward run,
Being almost finisht ere they are begun;
So perfect nothings, such light blasts are we,
That ere w'are ought at all, we cease to be.
Do what we will, our hasty minutes fly,
And while we sleep, what do we else but die?
How transient are our Joyes, how short their day!
They creepe on towards us, but flie away.
How stinging are our sorrowes! where they gaine
But the least footing, there they will remaine.
How groundlesse are our hopes, how they deceive
Our childish thoughts, and onely sorrow leave!
How reall are our feares! they blast us still,
Still rend us, still with gnawing passions fill;
How senselesse are our wishes, yet how great!
With what toile we pursue them, with what sweat!
Yet most times for our hurts, so small we see,
Like Children crying for some Mercurie.
This gapes for Marriage, yet his fickle head
Knows not what cares waite on a Marriage bed.
This vowes Virginity, yet knowes not what
Lonenesse, griefe, discontent, attends that state.
Desires of wealth anothers wishes hold,
And yet how many have been choak't with Gold?
This onely hunts for honour, yet who shall
Ascend the higher, shall more wretched fall.
This thirsts for knowledge, yet how is it bought
With many a sleeplesse night and racking thought?
This needs will travell, yet how dangers lay
Most secret Ambuscado's in the way?
These triumph in their Beauty, though it shall
Like a pluck't Rose or fading Lillie fall.
Another boasts strong armes, 'las Giants have
By silly Dwarfes been drag'd unto their grave.
These ruffle in rich silke, though ne're so gay,
A well plum'd Peacock is more gay then they.
Poore man, what art! A Tennis ball of Errour,
A Ship of Glasse toss'd in a Sea of terrour,
Issuing in blood and sorrow from the wombe,
Crauling in teares and mourning to the tombe,
How slippery are thy pathes, how sure thy fall,
How art thou Nothing when th' art most of all!

uhm... here..its about cprogramming.com hehe

with the visual workspace for c
programming was the job for me;
it left me full and never doubting
always right for lack of pouting;
my code flowed free as a river of rain
debuging, simple, never full of shame;

until the day on which i died
not physically, but in my mind;
my code was a wreak, all jumbled and confused
my memory was sad, it felt abused;
so help did i seek, a while in looking
cprogramming.com was now my beautiful rookie;

day in an out it waits for me
always on the job, no resting spree;
advice it lends when im in need
articles it hides when im wont to read;
a friendly shoulder to me it lends
cprogramming.com is my only friend.



-dedicated to all the hard working posters(people who post) at cprogramming.com


-a poemish type thing by a newbie(at poetry, i'm pro at evry thing else, like spellng and stuff)