Good to see you writing again, Percy. The first one is effectively heartbreaking - metaphor is well chosen. I like everything except the "less than perfect" line, because.. well, we are all that normally so there's not as much humanity as if you were to say something along the lines of "less than functional." (Yeah, as you can probably tell, I'm out of practice.)

And the Meadowell poem evokes the sort of sharp imagery I expect from you and is not insipid. I really like the last stanza.

you're so natural
religiously unkind

Is each dull breath a waste of air,
When the world around you hardly cares,
Who should live and who should die,
Amongst these masses by your side?

Consumer fed with wretched fears,
Another cog, a shift, a gear,
So why don't you just end it here,
Lost in multitudes of tears?

This is modern living,
At the best.

Like a Nun on the Run, I'm terrible fun.

All I've got left is some stupid picture,
Of me pulling a face like a chimpanzee.
Not much of a memory.

All I've got left is a box,
With one or two things at the bottom,
That don't quite fit.

All I've got left is some pride,
Which isn't much to look at
But it's mine.

All I've got left
Is me.

Like a Nun on the Run, I'm terrible fun.

Well I'm still writing bloody awful poetry...

"Saint Valentine was beaten bloody,
With Roman rocks and clubs in hand.
He fell before the Flaminian Gate,
A severed wreck, a bitter study.

And so our bloody saint may frown,
To see what change the wind has blown,
A man who died a martyrs death,
Arose to be a red red rose."

Like a Nun on the Run, I'm terrible fun.

What does that poem have to do with Valentine's day?

Good as ever, Pers.

you're so natural
religiously unkind

In reply to:

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What does that poem have to do with Valentine's day?

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I just like to be oblique.

I created my own shit poetry blog... my highest ever viewing day was about 27 people... I'm proud of that statistic!

http://terriblepoems.wordpress.com/

Like a Nun on the Run, I'm terrible fun.

Walk through bullets every day,
And don't flinch from the sting of their passing.
Blood and bone only hurt so long, so walk on.

Don't flinch, though the staccato gunfire beats you down relentlessly,
Just meet them with a resolute grin and remember the price you paid.
That same kid with the wonder of the world tucked in his pocket,
Long summer days and kicking through dry yellow grass,
Finding your feelings for the first time as you hurt with shivering sobs,
Knees tucked up as hoarse breaths racked your adolescent soul,
Loves first loss.

Remember the ambition and yearning you had?
Wide dreams that seemed to spin off the pages of books,
Magic in a parents hug and the fluttering moths by the old window pane.
Do you regret the compromises you made as the evening set in?
Trying on a hundred coats and finding the first one that fit,
Was not fitting.

You were made in those dreamy days,
When each minute seemed to last a day,
That sunshine memory is stronger than steel cobwebs,
And more fleeting than rain.

And when the end comes, that same wide eyed wonder kid,
Will laugh one more time as the sun sets,
To go kicking through the old field by the lane,
Where the kites fly high in the ethereal air.

So don't flinch,
Walk through the bullets and grin,
Just grin...


The more things change... the more irritating it gets

By my reflection

I wrote this,
So that you may never truly know me.
Save by my own assumptions,
A cover judged by its book and no other.

For just as glass reflects a little light,
So we only see a glimpse,,
Of that which learns to talk and walk,
But deeper currents still darker stalk.

Contextualize if you must,
This man is worthy, this woman good,
Action, deed and thought combine,
To tell each story in its time.

Are we even honest with ourselves?
Then again, who would want to be?
Self denial serves no worth,
And self deceit is simply living.

"And you're not the 'Man who fell to Earth' you're 'The man of La Mancha'.