The Student Room Group

The Short Poem Thread

Have you written a short poem? Do you suddenly feel inspired to write a short poem (around a maximum of 150 words long)? Post it here! :jive: Funny, serious, meaningful, you name it; its place is here :colondollar:
I call it: Jealousy - the green eyed feminist.

I like de batty + de vagine.
De batty + de vagine love me.
Babe, stay thicc + humble.
Or I will seek de sexy time elsewhere
Gyal nor Man is not hot; she is freezing.
Gail’s baby shower is Tuesday -
her batty is stunning, but she got man.
She’s ready to pop her alien - she has named it : Jealousy, the
(edited 6 years ago)
Going to shamelessly borrow from my "blog that is not a blog" blog for this.

Is it possible to be ignorant of ignorance?
We must worship God but follow the Church. Why? Why?
Politics is the uncomfortable answer to difficult questions.
Don't be so WEAK.
A society fixated on a screen delivers only material achievement.
Why are we so closed to sharing emotion?

Why are so many rules not rules but norms unbroken?
Norms like Gnomes in a garden, small, still, permanent, effective; pathetic.
We have become slaves to judgement.
"Don't know" has become better than wrong answers because avoidance has become better than failure.
Even though it is failure which stimulates learning.

Why? Why? Why?
The answer may be simple: nobody knows.
Credit for the first line of this goes to Zigi Shipper. Been meaning to write some more poems actually.:smile:

Alarm Clock

"You can lose everything in life,

but not education."

Smoking by a statue.

Disrespect? No, just ignorance.

Ignorance fills London with monotony.

Nobody notices. Sleep walking zombies.

Forwards backwards backwards forwards

Always moving, never stopping,

never stopping, never looking,

never looking, never noticing

never noticing: something's wrong.

Poets can moan and groun,

and shout and kick

and scream and cry

cry yes cry. But why?

Politics is never the answer.

The poetry of politics of the politics of poetry

Which is more important?

Smoking is finite, but smoking infinitely is more finite

One word, one simple question.

I would love nothing more than to share my artistic temperament with the common folk of this website, but I can't help but suspect that there is a serious danger of plagiarism within this particular forum.
The human animal
so similar in so many ways
to our mammalian counterparts
experimented on in torturous ways
We've freed the "specimens"
We've taken over the facility
We've captured these torturers
Time to teach them some humility

AH... syringes filled with dihydrodesoxymorphine
I've combed the streets in search of hypodermic
needles and dirty sharp hoarding
All aboard this ship of fools, this train of pain is finally boarding
Tendinous disintegration, irreparable musculature goring

Ah these shameless ways we get our fix...
we get our kicks off human suffering
through puncturing the skin accidentally restructuring
Epimysium covering

No need for anesthetics, your research for cosmetics landed
you here on my gurney, hurting, gurgling diuretics
Tube in your anus leads to open sores creating sepsis
Septic shock sets in - No asepsis in my cold aesthetics
Apathetic, yet frenetic, simply unsympathetic,
shredded limbs needing prosthetics, best to just call off the medics

How does it feel?
Multi-Dermal peel - that shall never heal
These clandestine ways - of distributing pain
Diseased train of thought - krokodil rot

Oh this desire... to see your limbs on fire...
This sick exhilaration... of total excruciation...

Ah these shameless ways we get our fix...
we get our kicks off human suffering
through puncturing the skin accidentally restructuring
Epimysium covering

Now I believe I've seen everything
of what this subspecies is capable of producing
Why do we do these things?
Is this the meaning of "human being"?
Bleeding is believing
Reply 6
I spend my days tossing breadcrumbs to birds that won't come close,

I resonate with the sky in desperation to ask it why?

Why do my breadcrumbs fail to satisfy?

These flocks of birds that are not near or nigh?

Inspired by true events.

Deathbed poems
(edited 2 years ago)
The Psychopath
You will not feel
without my permission.
Let your dying parents scream,
your refugees starve,
and your pets suffer.
My believers will erase
those frantic footsteps from the earth,
and the wings of ravens will echo
down all your dark alleys.
You will be studied unseen
in your lonely room
- that cold midnight analysis,
until your shadow
into flickering neon lights.
Excellent thread bumpage :woohoo:

I will have to dig out some of my more recent poems :cyber:
Seeing as the theme has switched to psychopaths:

Rain, Rain, Go Away...

Rain fell, first slow then with increasing vigour, like the tears of deities for what was to come. And amongst all this angst was a sleek Jaguar car, housing a man that would soon lose himself. For it is when we lose ourselves completely, then we find our true self. With black tinted windows and an idle engine, it stood, just by the town square as a predator would.

He sat stagnant in the leather seat,

Gazing out the blurry window,

The silence was his only beat,

Watching raindrops fall, stream and smoothly flow,

Thinking again and again on continued repeat.

Pitter-patter, pitter-patter.

Always deemed to be litter latter,

Chosen to be last in every matter.

An opulent fragrance in the air,

A decaying lunch on his tongue,

Complexion light and amply fair,

An eldritch sky with a day that’s young.

Thoughts curling and spiralling out of control.

Pitter-patter, pitter-patter.

He must be made of bitter batter,

For his anger was no straightforward matter.

Judged by all with much disdain,

His blood ran cold but also boiled,

Nothing to fester but hate and pain,

Tears were commonplace and in abundance.

With a mind that put him through an endless hell.

Pitter-patter, pitter-patter.

he was going mad, mad as hatter,

all his dreams move, move to break and shatter.

Knife in hand, he was ready,

Off the seat and out of the car,

Rain pouring in torrents and pouring heavy,

Tonight, he would shine like the brightest star,

For his acts would be looked upon by many.

Pitter-patter, pitter-patter.

His ego was growing stronger, fatter,

Stomachs split open, splitter splatter.

A smile etched into his face,

The bloodied instrument at his side,

His task was finished at a good pace,

Waves of ecstasy, red luscious tides.

A testament to his magnificent grace.

Pitter-patter, pitter-patter.

Now they’re running, skitter scatter,

Pure discord, and cacophonous clatter.

Blood, bodies, and guts,

The most beautiful creation,

A canvas full of cuts,

A cull of the population.

What a cheeky man,

One with malice deep at heart,

And so became this plan.

But now that all was done and dusted, he needed to depart.

Pitter-patter, pitter-patter.

With none to commend, and sadly none to flatter,

His deed was to be buried in silence thereafter.

Back in the plush leather seat,

Gazing out the cherry red window,

All that was left was a few tonnes of meat.

The seeds of destruction that he had to sow,

To finally get others to admire his almighty feat.

Pitter patter, jittery chatter.

He is the sinner, so the rain must be later.

Rain, rain, go away,

Because this version of him is here to stay.
Here is one of my more cheerful poems read for my net radio, by myself. I am also the sound editor

Reply 11
At the ward
Nurse! Nurse! Come quickly!
I am in pain, when will my doctor come?
“I cannot say, I just passed by.
Have you submitted your forms?
Are you registered?
If every paragraph is obeyed,
then surely he will be here soon?”

Nurse! Nurse! Come quickly!
I am in pain, when will my doctor come?
“But, my dear man, look at your neighbor,
how he suffers too?
Is your life worth more than his?
If you are worthy of treatment,
Then surely he will be here soon?”

Nurse! Nurse! Come quickly!
I am in pain, when will my doctor come?
“When the moon climbs high over yonder ridge,
When boughs stir in the gentle breeze
and a starry carpet unfolds above,
in soft tweets and ripling brooks,
in the sigh of evening, in dawn and morning mist.”

by Michael Henrik Wynn
Reply 12
To the Harvard Pathologist who Sold Body-Parts Online
Dusk swallows modernity,
pimpled students withdraw to their own future,
and ancient winds swirl the leaves over cobblestones.

It is then, accompanied by the owls of the city,
that a regular apparition moves under a fleeting moon.
Like a ghost of Burke or Hare
it steals across the parking lot towards a waiting morgue.
Footsteps on venerable floors, doors creak,
panting down those countless winding stairs
to the bowels and intestines of academia.

And there it was,
the illuminated cold storage of many minds!
Jarred egg-heads and poetic hearts in formalin.
Who would not have bought a decapitation of Peirce,
or the preserved moustache of William James?
But one must take what life offers.
Then the giggling tomb raider
flings a sack of spoils over his shoulder:

"How stupid they all are! Naive to the last.
These relics of preserved flesh
will fetch a fortune on the open market!
No need....... no need whatsoever,
to inflate tuition fees."

by Michael Henrik Wynn
Oxford, 2006,
and a blackout has swept the city.
Now, in the growing twilight,
candles flicker in their thousands
in gothic lancet windows
atop dreaming spires
in college courtyards
and lining streets of Oxford stone.
I cannot help but think,
as I hold a cigarette in my mouth,
pressing my cellphone to my ear with my shoulder,
a notepad in my left hand and an chewed-up ballpoint pen in my right,
that I might be out of time.
Now that I have seen this ancient shrine of wisdom
in the way it was always meant to be,
as it was in a simpler time, perhaps,
or maybe a happier one,
can I really stand here and say
that I belong to the present?
(edited 1 month ago)

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