Spontaneous Poems

I awoke to the rain and thunder
That come a bustin ?'cross my roof
I closed my eyes and wondered
Dear God what 'm I 'spos' ta do


I knew I wouldn't see the sunrise
But I packed up my bags anywho
I knew I wouldn't see the sunrise
I growed under like a root


Well if you see my baby Lucinda
Tell her I just had to go
Tell ?'er I gonna miss her
Ain't gon' ta see her not no mo'

Lord, lord
She put a padlock on her door


Well if you see my baby Lucinda
Tell her I just had to go
Tell ?'er I gonna miss her
Ain't gon' ta see her not no mo'


I ain't seen no sunshine since Monday
Seems like a hundred years ago
I always believed that one day
Lucinda won't hurt me no mo'


No no it's gonna rain and thunder
Until the happy day I die
Ain't no surprise and wonder
Dear God there ain't no use to try


Well if you see my baby Lucinda
Tell her I just had to go
Tell ?'er I gonna miss her
Ain't gon' ta see her not no mo'

Lord, lord
She will never see me cry


Well if you see my baby Lucinda
Tell her I just had to go
Tell ?'er I gonna miss her
Ain't gon' ta see her not no mo'

today i saw a rainbow
bright against grey skies
almost neon in its beauty
it stretched what must have been for miles
it reminded me so much of you
i sat there for a while
remembering that fateful day
the awful day you passed away
the day i saw your rainbow
curled over the motorway
god it warmed my heart to the core
like you knew i was feeling low
i felt you watching over me
smiling and saying "i'll be ok"
i smoked another cigarette
and watched you fade away

foul day
night falls
owles prey
might cause
depression heres a lesson
'dont' get used like blunt weapons
rum drinking sessions
lead to middle finger fixtures
plus alcoholic mixtures
thinking they fix-ya
so we do it again
not at peace till the bottle count is ten
yet pretend were on the mend
straight n narrow? were on a bend
6 world wars with ourselves
infantry cost
sympathy lost
yet instantly bossed
to run at guns n get instantly dropped
like hot lava rocks
living for tommorow
decaying in sorrow
look at the time once'
look again
there goes a month

How am I supposed to write
Without a single muse in sight?
How am I supposed to make
A poem quickly, with no mistake?
Do you really expect it to flow
Without a few days to let it grow?
I don't think I could do that, I don't even kid
Oh wait--I was wrong--I just did

I like yours. It sounds kinda like you're rapping.

thank you.. yes it has a sort of flow to it, i guess i dont know the right way to do it

You don't know the right way?! I don't see anything wrong with it. Oh well. We're more critical of our own work than others.

She talks to me
Walks with me
Gets inside my head now
My brain talks to me
Try change my mind state
But everything just relates
Close my eyes n all i see is her face
Pacing around my room
Hopefully the pain goes away soon
Anylizing the dark
With a stone heart
Well so i thought cause
She ripped it apart
Like she did to many men
So I ressurect my soul.. n start again

what is love?
is it even real?
or did we make it up?
to pretend we feel
my stomach aches
my mind aint my own
im child like around him
im supposed to be grown
its stupid coz life aint being lived
when all i do is think of him
his naked skin against mine
so warm and damn he's fine
his eyes they give me peace
yet i cant rest
since we met
why i ever took this bet
i'll never know
gave him everything i owned
i would of took out a fuckin loan
but the worst thing is he knows
and he never felt the same
should i even feel ashamed
tryna not feel the pain
i hope he sits one day
and reminisces, bout our disses
and wishes i was still his mrs
coz he feels no passion in her kisses

We talked some times
The rest was physical
They were simply fun times
More meaning then anything biblical
Questioning love is like
Me questioning my son
So if it aint real
Then all the living is done
And the bitch is scum
Nothin' better then love turned audible
Moon walk? God? santa clause?
Its the only thing plausable

desire overload
that leaves her cold
it will kill me if i let it
sit back n get stoned
tell myself to forget it
incase she's home
too afraid
to pick up the phone
it hurts to be in love
when you're love's deep
and you have shown your feelings
leaves you weak
and i wish i wasn't
burning up inside
and i wish that i could
put aside my pride
but its grown
and my mind can't leave her
just can't leave alone
that i miss her near me
day drags deary
and time ticks slow

wish that i could ring
and tell her so





---- jeez i'm gona start blubbering if we carry on like this..

Power wont save ya
My rebellious nature
Will make me hate ya
Maybe I need a saviour
Cause even the court dates
Wont change my beaviour
like with Alcohol
Soon as i taste the flavour
Turn into something else
Something other then my self
Something you couldnt create
Something filled full of hate
Maybe it was fate
How alcohol could manipulate
That irate state
Of mind, like pirates
All I ever wanted was something to find
And call it mine
But i was blind
And forced to procrastinate
I want answers now
Why do I have-ta-wait
Moving to full throttle
Turns out the answers wernt at the bottom of a bottle

summers back
im rollin round shining like hummer tracks
pinky stones on my fingers n ma toes
english rose extinguish those
sly looks with a finger in the air
real classy i know, but there!
tunes up so loud cant hear my thoughts no more
let my unconcious flow into tha microphone
inhale some good **** exhale the bad
let go of the sad mad fad im glad
good friends sittin outside at my local dive
pick em up n go for a drive through the country side
send trance vibrations through the sky
no limitations i lean back n smile
sunshine fya style
stead a me liftin you
im high on life for a while

nice, mcee fya

Charles Simic, Surrealist With Dark View Named Poet Laureate
August 2, 2007
Charles Simic, Surrealist With Dark View, Is Named Poet Laureate
By MOTOKO RICH
New York Times

Charles Simic, a writer who juxtaposes dark imagery with ironic humor, is to be named the country's 15th poet laureate by the Librarian of Congress today.

Mr. Simic, 69, was born in Belgrade, Yugoslavia, and immigrated to the United States at 16. He started writing poetry in English only a few years after learning the language and has published more than 20 volumes of poetry, as well as essay collections, translations and a memoir.

A retired professor of American literature and creative writing at the University of New Hampshire, he won the Pulitzer Prize for poetry in 1990 and held a MacArthur Foundation "genius" grant from 1984 to 1989.

He succeeds Donald Hall, a fellow New Englander, who has been poet laureate for the past year.

James H. Billington, the Librarian of Congress, will announce Mr. Simic's appointment. Mr. Billington said he chose Mr. Simic from a short list of 15 poets because of "the rather stunning and original quality of his poetry," adding: "He's very hard to describe, and that's a great tribute to him. His poems have a sequence that you encounter in dreams, and therefore they have a reality that does not correspond to the reality that we perceive with our eyes and ears."

Mr. Simic, speaking by telephone from his home in Strafford, N.H., described himself as a "city poet" because he has "lived in cities all of my life, except for the last 35 years." Before settling into academia, he held a number of jobs in New York, including bookkeeping, bookselling and shirt sales. He originally wanted to be a painter, he said, until "I realized that I had no talent."

He started writing poems while in high school in Chicago, in part, he said, to impress girls. He published his first poems in The Chicago Review when he was 21.

Mr. Simic said his chief poetic preoccupation has been history. "I'm sort of the product of history; Hitler and Stalin were my travel agents," he said. "If they weren't around, I probably would have stayed on the same street where I was born. My family, like millions of others, had to pack up and go, so that has always interested me tremendously: human tragedy and human vileness and stupidity."

Yet he balks at questions about the role of poetry in culture. "That reminds me so much of the way the young Communists in the days of Stalin at big party congresses would ask, ?'What is the role of the writer?' " he said.

Mr. Simic said he preferred to think of the point of poetry in the way a student at a school in El Paso put it when he visited in 1972: "to remind people of their own humanity."

Reviewing his collection "The Voice at 3:00 A.M." (Harcourt) for The New York Times Book Review in 2003, David Orr said Mr. Simic was "a surrealist with a purpose: the disconcerting shifts and sinister imagery that characterize his work are always intended to suggest ?- however obliquely ?- the existential questions that trouble our day-to-day lives."

Mr. Billington said he admired Mr. Simic's work because it was "both accessible and deep," adding that "the lines are memorable." He referred to a stanza from "My Turn to Confess," a poem from Mr. Simic's 2005 collection, "My Noiseless Entourage," also published by Harcourt:

A dog trying to write a poem on why he barks,

That's me, dear reader!

They were about to kick me out of the library

But I warned them,

My master is invisible and all-powerful.

Still, they kept dragging me out by my tail.

The post of poet laureate has existed since 1987, although there were 27 consultants in poetry to the Library of Congress before that. Laureates receive a $35,000 award and a $5,000 travel allowance.

The position does not come with any specific responsibilities, although previous laureates have used the platform in different ways. Robert Pinsky, who held the post from 1997 to 2000, initiated a Favorite Poem Project, inviting poetry fans to share their favorites in readings captured on tape and video. Billy Collins, laureate from 2001 to 2003, began Poetry 180 (loc.gov/poetry/180), a Web site where high school classes can access a poem of the day. Mr. Hall joined Andrew Motion, the British poet laureate, for a trans-Atlantic reading program sponsored by the Poetry Foundation.

Mr. Simic said he had not yet figured out what he would do. In the meantime he continues to write for The New York Review of Books and is a poetry editor of The Paris Review. He has a new collection, "That Little Something," due from Harcourt in February 2008.

I was not aware of Simic. Guess I need to check him out. Thanks, BBB.

She defeated me n went to someone else instead
Left me searching through out my head
and lying in my bed
Close my eyes
But everythings black
I yell at the lord to
Cut me some slack
But still get nothing back
Then theirs times she'd come into my brain
Then dissapear just the same
Its insane
The power over me that
She maintains
I knew i wouldn't let this chick beat me
Untill one day she shut off completly
I used to thank
Now she filled with holywood bullets
and thats BLANK
Shes the thing that makes the writers stop
And indeed im talkin about writers block

its a work in progress.. gonna make it 3 verses and fix it to a beat

Reign- A poem about one raindrop

Innocent.
A teary, storm weathered drop.
blinding beauty, sponging the sun.
An unstable fall acquaints modestly.
Mother's cribbing breath manipulates.
It's fine today.
As my creator, it shells comfort
A Riveting chance,
lake peppered with salt.
So sudden.

it's only 12 and I'm alone
they've gone back to their lives
to their nine-til-fives
and I'm alone

two bottles of wine
one, not mine
devoured all the same
to ease the talk and drown the pain

i sent the last of it now
the "i'll miss you forever,
it's now or never"
but he missed the point somehow

i'm left wondering if
i should make the shift,
expand the rift
that separates us now

my flight's been booked
and by the absence of looks
i know its time
that I got on with mine.

so I go, the 15th of september I go.

so dissatisfied
we strive
tasteless, blind
should savour time
wasted mine
wasted minds
search for truth
meaning
youth
feelings rage
on my stage
acting strange
jealousy gets ya nowhere
that i know
ask god why
theres rich and poor
money? no
theres so much more