Another observational one.....it's quite long :roll:

November 18th (Liverpool)

People
crowding, shoving,
searching, talking,
buying , selling
in the market.
Stalls,bright coloured,
patterns,carpets
pots and pans,
people.
All definition lost in a confusion of colour.
Rain
falling steadily
blurring all
colours into one
rainbow
of movement.
You
walking
shuffling along
through anxious crowds
of unseeing eyes,
who pay as much
attention to you
as they would to a lampost.
a moving mass
of uneasy, restless people.
You
huddled for comfort
from cold
in someone's
cast-off rags of grey,
billowing about your gaunt frame.
Hair a-tangle
caught by the wind.
face expressionless.
Clothed in the colour
of this November day.
Shoes stuffed with newspaper
in vain attempt to stop the rain
seeping through the holes.
You
wound your way
through crowds.
Clutching a carrier bag
filled with paper
like it were a child
for comforting
or a secret store
of hidden treasure.
You
shuffled in to
the bustling
market crowds.

I left there
to question
and stare
at the rain falling in to grey
litter-strewn puddles
and watch the city drown.
While on the hazy horizon
a faint rainbow
in the colours of life
danced
feebly
in an attempt
to shine.

Bren

Nice poem Bren.

Hell is a rain of fists
A tormented cry
A withered shivering child
The mother shrieks and screams
And screams and screams and screams

Hell is a head smashed against the wall
A bl00dy nose
A childs head smashed against the wall
A broken bone
A broken soul
Hell is a bathroom gas chamber
While the mother lies and drinks
And drinks and drinks and drinks

Oh the neighbors won't listen
To the awful cries the awful cries
Of the child with the slashed chest
And the mother lies the mother lies
Ah! The bl00dy lies the bl00dy lies

Hell is flesh on a hot stove
Hell is the childs mind
Oh Lord
Oh Lord
Deliver him from evil
Oh Lord
Oh Lord
Deliver him
Deliver him
Deliver him from the devil

Hell is the rain that never stops
Hell is the child left to rot
Hell is the sun that never heats
Hell is the newpaper for sheets
Hell is the hunger so unforgiving
Hell is the life that's not worth living. . .

STOP CHILD ABUSE NOW

Very powerful poem Eyeore


Bren

thanks.

i just wanted to say something :oops:

Bren, you have some great stuff, I can relate to most of that stuff in the Child poem U read.

Every_1 great job!!

I promise, I will write something tonight and post it here tomorow. okay, c yea

Why do little girls cry?
Well, the boys, they lie
That's why little girls cry. . .

In a house
(Not far from here)
A little girl grins
From ear to ear
The boy next door he loved her
He'd never do her harm
And he'd take a bullet for her
(But only in the arm. . .)

The little children laugh and pray
Unaware that they, someday
Will grow, and all the sick'ning woe
That will be brought upon them both
(It's just not worth thinking about)

They used to tell eachother secrets
They never asked for more
But in June they were found kissing
Behind the stable door

Then Jimmy got exited
Got more than a paper round
He fell in with the wrong crowd
And has since, never been found

And now the little girl
In the house not far from here
Is softly, sadly weeping
Throat slit
From ear to ear. . .

Let us weep for the children,
Torn apart by hate,
Fathers face like thunder,
Mothers face bruised and beat,
Love was plundered,
And life was a cheat.

Mend these people,
God won't you please.



Father in jail,
Looking for bail,
Mother in limbo,
Childrens hearts bruised.

Mend these people,
God won't you please

You're onto something there Dot (can I call ya Dot? Don't mind if I already did) Anyway, yeah, looks like that could turn into a really good poem, keep it up.

Thanks eyeore, yes Dot ok :D Will keep working on it, did write some of my own poetry and posted it at the beginning of 'Give a little Time', if you care to go and have a look, much in the same vein, although not written from personal experience, thank goodness

Right. This is a poem. It's about me. And it very reavealing, but these are some things I want to share, so uh, here goes:

These are the words of a serial victim
Hung by his feet in a barthroom stall
For loving his love and giving his all

It was only a hopeless fancy
But it meant much more to me
You were out of my reach
In more ways than one
And it's been nigh on two years now

But you're a boy and I'm a boy
And that's all that they can see
But love is the same as it ever was
(But you'll never want me)

The people stare,
Well, I just don't care
And I'll stop the rain from falling
If a drop would hurt your head

I'll love you as much a I love anyone
But you're more interested in her. . .
I'm such a sickening mess
And as far as I can tell
The world will turn regardless
(I lost my bag again. . .)

"Is it wrong to love your love,
And give nothing but your all?"
Says the voice of the serial victim
Upside down in the bathroom stall[/i]

I think we should have a poetry competition. Introduce some spice into this thread.
Eache week a theme could be set (Autumn for example). And votes are cast at the end of the week as to who one that round. Then in the proceeding weeks the subjects become more direct (a tree, for exapmple) and thus harder (or supposedly). After the contest, a final vote shall be cast, based on rounds won, and best entry. The winner could get something cool to put in their sig, like "Sister, I'm a poet!". Or something equally poetic. Who's with me?

I absolutely love reading these poems here, Eyeore. But a competition?
There is already So much competing in this world...maybe enough for me.
Well, if you have one, I will enjoy reading it...no way 'I can loose/win', being unable to write anything' :lol:

...Thank you again, for the poems! you guys are artists!

xxx

Mariella

Well yes, it'd be for fun more than any real rivalry. Just a thought mind.

I know that...Sorry, I am sure a lot of people will like the idea.
Keep up the good work!

xxx

Mariella

Did you mean with suicide?
Maybe yes...
Where do I find the otherside?...

...in my heart you depress...

Short. I like short things. . .

Short, but... also long...

Eyeore,
way back on page 2 of this topic it was suggested that we had a competition...i objected to it then and would still do now...sorry
if others want to fine ..but i would not participate if it was made into a competition.
It's not the reason i write poetry.My poems are very personal , about events that have happened about my feelings.....i love this topic but won't post here if it's turned into a competition.

just my opinion Eyeore...sorry..just being honest.

Bren

Fair enough. I suppose it is a bit. . .er. . .capitalistic. . .

Mistys Poem - Author Unknown

My name is Misty
I am but three
My eyes are swollen
I cannot see
I must be stupid
I must be bad
What else could have
Made my daddy so mad?
I wish I were beter
I wish I weren't ugly
Then maybe my mommy
Would still want to hug me.
I can't speak at all
I can't do a wrong
Or else I'm locked up
All the day long.
When I'm awake I'm all alone
The house is dark
My folks aren't home
When my mommy does come
I'll try and be nice
So maybe I'll get just
One whipping tonight.
Don't make a sound!
My daddy is back
From Charlie's Bar.
I hear him curse
My name he calls
I press myself
Against the wall.
I try and hide
From his evil eyes
I'm so afraid now
I'm starting to cry.
He finds me weeping
He shouts ugly words,
He says its my fault
That he suffers at work.
He slaps me and hits me
And yells at me more,
I finally get free And I run for the door.
He's already locked it
And I start to bawl,
He takes me and throws me
Against the hard wall.
I fall to the floor
With my bones nearly broken,
And my daddy continues
With more bad words spoken.
"I'm sorry!" I scream
But its to late
His face has been twisted
Into unimaginable hate.
The hurt and the pain
Again and again
Oh please God, have mercy!
Oh please let it end!
And he finally stops
And heads for the door,
While I lay there motionless
Sprawled on the floor.
My name is Misty
And I am but three,
Tonight my daddy
Murdered me.

The Boy Who Loved Another

I may be loud
I may be brash
But I'm still a boy
And a boy needs love
A boy needs to be held
Close to someone. . .
It doesn't matter who
As long as they love me

I need to have a shoulder
I don't need to cry
I just need to lie
And know that the world is sane

I may be big
And I may be strong
But I need someone like you,
Who I can depend on,
I need someone like you

I don't need romance
I just need a chance
To be loved
For once in my life
I just need to love and be loved by you

(Look at me the way I want you to. . .)

powerful poem Dottie.

brought a tear to my eye and i dont do that often.


i enjoy reading these.

Think your all fantastic.

Of all the people I've ever known
I think you're my favourite
Because you're funny,
And you make me laugh
And I know that you would never
Break my heart in half

Now that's all good and well
But if I ever dared to tell
You'd turn and run a hundred miles
But I suppose I can dream
It seems. . .

'In the darkened street corner
Where the serial muggers play
I'd push you up against the wall
And we'd kiss till the break of day'

So when you smile
I want the guile
To make you mine for life
But in a world where every poem
Is strung up and mobbed
There's not a word I could speak
Of the wonder so unique
That would ever turn your head

You know, I think hope's dead. . .

beautiful Eyeore, it ends on such a note of sadness


Bren

Thanks Bren. All the stuff I'm churning out at the moment is rather hopless. I'm going though some confusing times right now, I think the last line of the last post I made pretty much sums up my opinion of things right now.