Down to Earth

Hi, uniqueone and welcome to A2K.

Your poem is quite cryptic. Would you mind giving a brief explanation of the numbers hidden in the verses? There is a pain in your lyrics, and it comes through clearly.

i don't know where the numbers came from it was just like that when i typed it i don't know why

i've been curious about what these #'s that show up from time to time are for awhile now too. i'm wondering if it's some kind of glitch in a code that's supposed to appear as an apostrophe and gets lost along the way.

Welcome to a2k, UniqueOne.
I've seen numbers pop up like that before. Mikey's probably right about its being a glitch in a code.
Like Letty, I would love to know the story behind your poem, although you needn't to tell us for us to appreciate your message and the pain behind it.
I hope you post more of your work.

Poem as therapy. Poem as a cry to the world 'I'm alive: look at what I've seen.' Poem as damage limitation. Poem breathing life into the otherwise oft-times lifeless negativity of mere existence. Poem as scatological rage. Poem as self-definition/affirmation of pain - pain which, if understood and borne, is as self-defining as joy.

We try to be tender and sensitive but some people move heaven and earth to stop us. They are bad - but nothing is unforgivable (bar the unforgiving).

Words

Out of us all
That make rhymes,
Will you choose
Sometimes -
As the winds use
A crack in a wall
Or a drain,
Their joy or their pain
To whistle through -
Choose me,
You English words?

I know you:
You are light as dreams,
Tough as oak,
Precious as gold,
As poppies and corn,
Or an old cloak:
Sweet as our birds
To the ear,
As the burnet rose
In the heat of midsummer:
Strange as the races
Of dead and unborn:
Strange and sweet
Equally,

And familiar
To the eye,
As dearest faces
That a man knows,
And as lost homes are:
But though older far
Than oldest yew, -
As our hills are, old, -
Worn new
Again and again:
Young as our streams
After rain:
And as dear
As the earth which you prove
That we love.

Make me content
With some sweetness from Wales
Whose nightingales
Have no wings, -
From Wiltshire and Kent
And Herefordshire,
And the villages there, -
From the names and the things
No less.
Let me sometimes dance
With you,
Or climb
Or stand perchance
In ecstacy,
Fixed and free
In a rhyme,
As poets do.

Edward Thomas, 1916

love from Jon in England.

Hi, mr trips, and welcome.It seems that you have the inside info on poetry as your quite meaningful contribution reflects. There is another Jon in England that is a member here. He spells his name with an "H".

Bonne matin Diane, Letty, et al. If you write your piece in "notepad" then cut and paste it into the empty vindow provided by Le Patron. Senor Craven, ze leetle numbers vill go poof and fly fly away into oblivion. Voila.

Bonne chance mes amis.