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TSR Failed Artist Society. watch

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    I have an idea, let's continue each other's poems.

    Failing is winning
    Winning is crying
    Crying is debating

    Life! O' Life!
    How do you do
    what you do your best
    How do you steal
    torture
    nurture
    people and places
    people and places



    (You should persuade other people to join in too, I'm sure there are a lot of crappy, I mean ingenius, poets at TSR)
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    Barriers.

    I'm selling a print cack-handedly signed by me for £200,000. I know, it's ridiculously cheap, but I'm not in it for the money.
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    Add me bint
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    I've been working on this one for 13 months, and I'm not even sure it's complete yet. Every evening I have been trekking down to the library to read books on Philosphy, and in particular the work of Nietzsche. I've also been studying the laws of thermodynamics, along with learning the number e to 46 decimal places. This poem could not have been completed without such intensive research, but it is so satisfying in the end when you feel you finally achieved something, don't you agree?

    I'm thinking of adding a second stanza, but I'll have to visit the British library since the local library has only a limited supply of reference books on the fall of Rome and Stanley Gibbons' British Commonwealth stamps.

    So here it is:

    Ode to a scornful waste of human dignity and schismatic pertainment

    Volts.
    High vaultage.
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    I call this; embrace your inner pirate in a sea of MSN smiley faces:

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    Great minds think alike:

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    Pouring stale beer down the sink
    and the stench hits my nostrils.

    Suddenly, you invade my thoughts;
    your great arms, physical strength

    substituting mental willpower.
    You didn't live to see me drinking.

    You would have been proud.
    People saw you as a great guy,

    and I'm becoming a good man too.
    The water flows, the weakening odour

    mixed with the comforting smell
    of aftershave. Great as you were,

    everyone has their bitter point;
    and your bitter point, the smell

    that ended you, dear father, I fear
    I will not be able to cleanse too.


    (4 minutes)

    (Ironically I think it's actually better than a crappy poem about alcohol that my classmate got an A for)
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    (Original post by τequιıasunrıse)
    I've been working on this one for 13 months, and I'm not even sure it's complete yet. Every evening I have been trekking down to the library to read books on Philosphy, and in particular the work of Nietzsche. I've also been studying the laws of thermodynamics, along with learning the number e to 46 decimal places. This poem could not have been completed without such intensive research, but it is so satisfying in the end when you feel you finally achieved something, don't you agree?

    I'm thinking of adding a second stanza, but I'll have to visit the British library since the local library has only a limited supply of reference books on the fall of Rome and Stanley Gibbons' British Commonwealth stamps.

    So here it is:

    Ode to a scornful waste of human dignity and schismatic pertainment

    Volts.
    High vaultage.
    :congrats:

    I have nothing more to add. I'm speechless.
    You must add a second stanza. We want more.
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    (Original post by foxo)
    Pouring stale beer down the sink
    and the stench hits my nostrils.

    Suddenly, you invade my thoughts;
    your great arms, physical strength

    substituting mental willpower.
    You didn't live to see me drinking.

    You would have been proud.
    People saw you as a great guy,

    and I'm becoming a good man too.
    The water flows, the weakening odour

    mixed with the comforting smell
    of aftershave. Great as you were,

    everyone has their bitter point;
    and your bitter point, the smell

    that ended you, dear father, I fear
    I will not be able to cleanse too.


    (4 minutes)

    (Ironically I think it's actually better than a crappy poem about alcohol that my classmate got an A for)

    I actually, genuinely, liked this one.
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    (Original post by conservativebohemian)
    :congrats:

    I have nothing more to add. I'm speechless.
    You must add a second stanza. We want more.
    It's truly perfect. In fact, it's revolutionary. It's pure minimalistic [sic] beauty. Genre defining.

    I think I'll see if I can try and mimic that greatness.



    The satirical parody of the pirates, sailors and Captain Cockpea the III

    Sea.
    Dead sea.
    See dead.
    Oh dear.
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    (Original post by foxo)


    The satirical parody of the pirates, sailors and Captain Cockpea the III

    Sea.
    Dead sea.
    See dead.
    Oh dear.
    Brainy, peculiar, splendid. Everything essential, very minimalistically. Magnificent! Bravo.
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    Sounds of the century

    A one, a two, a one two three four
    A wopbopaloobop, a wopbimbam
    Ba ba ba ba, bah bah, buh buh bah
    Tiddery idle oodle lum a dah

    Techno techno techno,
    Tooralley, tooralley
    Rave rave rave
    Oooh oooh, yeah yeah
    Eeeeeeeeeehhhhhhhh
    Chhhhaaaaaa
    Sha sha sha sha shalaboo

    Baddoom tish pow
    Fwump.
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    (Original post by foxo)
    Sounds of the century

    A one, a two, a one two three four
    A wopbopaloobop, a wopbimbam
    Ba ba ba ba, bah bah, buh buh bah
    Tiddery idle oodle lum a dah

    Techno techno techno,
    Tooralley, tooralley
    Rave rave rave
    Oooh oooh, yeah yeah
    Eeeeeeeeeehhhhhhhh
    Chhhhaaaaaa
    Sha sha sha sha shalaboo

    Baddoom tish pow
    Fwump.
    I see you are also a promising lyricist. Feel like folk dancing.
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    Weol, I doubt I am good enough for thoust humble soc.. But Here I present 'The plague of the criminally uneducated'
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    OK I protest. I don't like the name of this society. 'Failed Artist'. We are not failed artists. We have not failed at all! We are simply misunderstood, all great minds are.
    The world is not ready for us and our great art. But someday it will be. I have a dream. I have a dream some day, somewhere, when we least expect, someone will step up to us and say: "Smile, you were underestimated but not anymore". It's going to be a bumpy ride for us but we will be back, because I sense much fear in those who oppose our art.
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    Hanzing, you too will be appreciated.
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    Draw the Line

    I took a piece of paper
    and called her an ape, her
    she looked like a lovely wafer
    but she was safer
    when I took my pen
    not a hen
    or ten
    and drew the line - den.
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    (Original post by HearTheThunder)
    Draw the Line

    I took a piece of paper
    and called her an ape, her
    she looked like a lovely wafer
    but she was safer
    when I took my pen
    not a hen
    or ten
    and drew the line - den.
    Wonderful, wonderful, wonderful.
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    (Original post by HearTheThunder)
    Draw the Line

    I took a piece of paper
    and called her an ape, her
    she looked like a lovely wafer
    but she was safer
    when I took my pen
    not a hen
    or ten
    and drew the line - den.
    You can tell a true poet when his/her poems read as if there's no forced rhyming at all. Beautiful.
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    Bradbury Kitchen Style

 
 
 
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