Treasure Island

Freeform Workshop


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  • Joseph Alvarez (11/19/2013 11:27:00 AM) Post reply | Read 4 replies Stage

    empty

    a universal word
    infinitely descriptive
    I feel empty.
    my home is empty.
    my heart is empty.

    finding people to fill it
    isn't as easy as it portrays
    im not looking for love
    im looking for passion

    pour your emotions into me
    and fill my heart.
    fill my home.
    fill me.

    Replies for this message:
    • Unknown But Will Be (5/12/2014 3:08:00 PM) Post reply Stage

      I love this, Its so relatable... keep up the good writing!

    • Levi Hopler (12/12/2013 10:25:00 PM) Post reply Stage

      As one who suffers from this, I understand wholly. Excellent execution. I would say to perhaps lengthen it, but I try not to recommend such often; poetry is as long as poetry needs to be to sing its m ... more

    • Doris Cornago (12/8/2013 9:52:00 AM) Post reply Stage

      Hi Joseph: I was in the process of posting an answer to your request in the poem (fill me) but the system suffered a glitch. You might try looking at my poem " To Him Who Pleads Fill Me" ... more

    • Colleen Gaida (11/29/2013 12:21:00 PM) Post reply Stage

      Perfectly expressed! Beautiful.

  • Lanaia Lee (11/3/2013 11:15:00 AM) Post reply Stage

    The Unsettled Master of Macabe

    Living here in Baltimore, I never took the opportunity to visit the master
    The master of my profession of a writer of thrillers and dark poetry
    The man himself, because of him, I became a true follower of the darkness from which I cannot deter
    Just like him and his writings, seems like he was fanciful and free.

    Just like the man, even in death certain things remain a mystery
    When he collapsed in 1849, he was found in someone else's clothes
    You have to ask why, never regaining consciousness, no one really knew why death was meant to be
    A thousand ideas and scenarios, but all these were just theories I suppose.

    The master of the macabre and suspense, I so hope he is at rest
    But someone or something left behind seems they are not at rest, seems forever they will greave
    Everything this man wrote seems it was his very best
    But he was laid to rest in a place he would never leave.

    Since his death in 1849, someone always celebrates his birthday
    Each year someone leaves him a bottle of wine and one red rose
    EVERY year since his death, these things show up every year without delay
    Who could this be?Paying yearly respects to the master of dark poetry and prose.

    Every year, each birthday is exactly the same
    What could be the reason for this?I guess something we will never really know
    He was only forty when he died, he never shared in any of his fame
    So tragic, so much potential, but death took him from us, many of us his work would be missed, why did he have to go?

    This mystery is just as unanswered as the question why did he have to die?
    Yes, he was the master of the darkness and it's flow
    As for his birthday and his death, there will always remain a thousand whys
    Today I will visit the grave of the master known as Edgar Allan Poe.

  • Erin Thomas (10/3/2013 4:18:00 PM) Post reply | Read 1 reply Stage

    How do I withdraw my poem from your silly little popularity contest?

    Replies for this message:
    • Thomas Vaughan Jones (3/9/2014 3:04:00 PM) Post reply | Read 1 reply Stage

      Very minimalistic. Obviously the scansion has been affected by the brevity of this piece, but it carries the message clearly and shows some promise.

  • Kristina Dee (9/17/2013 5:46:00 AM) Post reply | Read 1 reply Stage

    A surprise in familiarity
    from this soothing command
    in the realm of eccentricities
    beauty chases liberty
    provoke not paranoia
    of expensive insanity
    escape fear undoubtedly
    abandoning relief of normality.

    Discreetly Bold
    Kristina

    Replies for this message:
  • Kristina Dee (9/16/2013 11:39:00 AM) Post reply Stage

    Dawn at Sunset

    Feed in comfort of extremity
    tame the aches of a rebel
    harbor a child of pretension
    impossibility of acceptance indulge
    distorting tendencies tempt the weak
    return home colors within
    excite laughter in purity
    storm in command chill the bare
    grace may blur in blackish hue
    each tearful strand commits in truth
    an ear to the silence of symphonies
    faithful clock awaits hope to marry
    a surprise in familiarity.

  • Sharni Mcmaster (8/30/2013 2:46:00 AM) Post reply Stage

    i call this poem " ghosts" i hope you like it.

    in the daunting light of the moon,
    a spirit stands in my room.
    his story lies within the past,
    just outer reach of my grasp.

    another soul stands in my room,
    her face is covered by the gloom.
    i hear her cry while i sleep,
    her tears slip in to all my dreams

    there's one more ghost i mustn't forget,
    and she is me in all my regret..

  • Charles Monroe (8/9/2013 3:51:00 PM) Post reply Stage

    My Freeform is expensive
    Its lengthy and extensive
    It is a formless matter
    A manner that's offensive.

    Of drug Parafanelia
    Or Hamlet and Ophelia
    Or Michael or Mahalia
    L.A. or Transylvania.

    My freeform is quite pricy
    Its heated or its Icy
    It comes in mild or spicy
    It mixes well with Hi-C.

    Its ironic as can be
    But my freeform aint for free.
    P.X
    8.9.13

  • Edgar Stevens (8/6/2013 3:47:00 AM) Post reply Stage

    Poem Hunter Poetry Contest has officially started. You can enter with your favorite poem now or write a new one and submit it before August 31st,2013.

    Prize is $1,000 for the winner and $250 for the 2nd and 3rd place..

    You can write in any poetic style and on any subject.

    Entering the contest is free.

    Details: http://www.poemhunter.com/contest/

  • Steve Downes (8/5/2013 4:22:00 AM) Post reply | Read 1 reply Stage

    Darren’s Room (2010)



    A window to a wall
    a dull council grey that exists nowhere in nature
    a few square feet of glass
    dividing what is inside from the wider world
    retina thin and translucent
    letting in the march gloom
    half-illuminating his mind
    a forty watt light not enough to set a fire
    but yet too much for ignorance
    too much for quiet blissful darkness
    the embers are smouldering
    burning black holes
    in his face
    in his brain
    in his soul
    he feels that soul move
    a half-hearted heart beat
    a foetus kick in the belly of the self
    that is why he broke
    that is why he beat
    that is why he scream
    that is why he drank the poison
    that is why he snorted the dust
    that is why
    he can not articulate
    he can not voice the pain in whispers or words
    he can not imagine the images in colours
    the smoke from the ash is too thick
    chokes his eyes
    makes blind the metaphors he would
    sing from his sore cut throat
    and deafens the song he would paint on the wall
    in brilliant screams
    a window in a wall to a wall
    he can only see through it
    to what is really there
    he can not see past it
    not today
    on his own
    not ever


    [comments welcome...S.]

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  • Okot Innocent Angeeyo (7/20/2013 5:54:00 AM) Post reply Stage

    THANK YOU
    The feeling has no name
    And yet saying, thank you,
    Express a bit of it.
    I am, and will forever be grateful
    Yet all I can say is,
    Thank you.

    Noble was the deed, and relieved was me,
    The victim.
    It’s just a deed in my struggle, just a hand,
    But without it, other hands would mean
    Nothing.

    Madam! Yes I call you.
    Whatever made you do it,
    I may not know, but can guess.
    And is what I would teach myself every other day,
    That I shall have a chance of living.
    Yes I will try everyday.

    You have directed me to future’s home,
    Yes, I will go
    And here I say,
    When am there, you will be grateful,
    Isn’t it?
    Am talking too much, I know.
    But saying thank you would and will never repay your deed.
    All I can say, humanly is
    Thank you again,
    God will guide your steps.
    I know it’s late, but now is the best time.
    OKOT INNOCENT ANGEEYO

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