Messy poems from famous poets and best beautiful poems to feel good. Best messy poems ever written. Read all poems about messy.
Whosever room this is should be ashamed!
His underwear is hanging on the lamp.
His raincoat is there in the overstuffed chair,
And the chair is becoming quite mucky and damp.
Stop bleeding said the knife
I would if I could said the cut.
Stop bleeding you make me messy with the blood.
Trust yourself and have faith in you
Bullies can't hurt you, they are few!
Why fear! Be smart and take my note
Nobody ever sees you when you vote!
As I was saying . . . (No, thank you; I never take cream with my tea;
Cows weren't allowed in the trenches -- got out of the habit, y'see.)
As I was saying, our Colonel leaped up like a youngster of ten:
"Come on, lads!" he shouts, "and we'll show 'em," and he sprang to the head of the men.
[The following little Poems are written after the Model of the Old English Ballads, and are inscribed to those who admire the simplicity of that kind of versification.]
NEAR GLARIS, on a mountain's side,
What a beauty there
In your vermillion smeared face
The Lady sought the lofty hall,
Where many a bold retainer lay,
And with jocund din among them all,
Speak out my dear
Why hath thou in a state of depression?
Speak out my dear
I stand here waiting for thy confession
(Mobile Columns of the Boer War)
Out o' the wilderness, dusty an' dry
[As a Tribute of Esteem and Admiration this Poem is inscribed to ROBERT MERRY, Esq. A. M. Member of the Royal Academy at Florence, and Author of the Laurel of Liberty, and the Della Crusca Poems.]
O THOU, to whom superior worth's allied,
Tilly wants to wear
her yellow shoes
with her yellow socks.
My voice, the ink for this write
If just u ever wonder how SOUL sounds like
Not written this as another fairytale story
For real this is about you and me
Pardon me, my Pakistan!
land of hopes and finest dreams!
where gently flow the shining streams
and youthful rivers...
I woke to the beaming rays
Of dawn's early golden light
Birds flew singing across the sky
Breeze whizzed past telling all is right
A little child stood thinking, sorrowfully and ill at ease,
In a forest beneath the branches of the tall pine trees -
And his big brown eyes with tears seemed dim,
While one soft arm rested on a huge dog close by him.
You knew her better than I – you’d
looked after her when her splendid
eccentricity which the English do so well
went beyond the bounds that others set…
'Spain is also a truth, '
the Blessed Virgin Mary once whispered
in my ear while we were riding the F train,
nearing the Fort Hamilton station.
1. The Wrongful Death
I'm at the Hobart Law Firm
In downtown St. Louis.
In the 'Add New Poem' instructions PH says 'Take a deep breathe',
but it should say 'breath' [rhymes with death], so I now DO grieve!
It's a grammatical error, one even (I think) 'Bri' has made in the past,
AND I'll bet my high school English teachers would....now be aghast!
Artists see everything as an open slate. I guess I am an artist. After all I draw pictures everywhere. Happy pictures defined with a red outline. Sad pictures that turn to white visible memories that never go. Every part of my body is a canvas. Every picture I make, never leaves my body. This blank canvas is running out of room to draw, so I write over other pictures. Summers are hard as critics notice my beautiful art work and judge. They only see messy lines while I see years of pain and sorrow. Every story is written with blood, books filled to the brim and pages saturated and soaked. Every page reminds me beauty has a consequence. Some times life doesn't turn out as desired. Sometimes hills turn into mountains and sometimes nights can be lonely sleepless and a fight for your life. But its all worth it, for every scar still shows, every piece of this canvas has been filled. I have died so many deaths and so many of my deaths my funeral was unattended. Now every time I plan on drawing I fight. I fight for the blood to stop flowing. I fight my canvas will be filled enough that it satisfies me. I fight that pain turns to peace. But I will only ever be a canvas. A canvas that can be filled more. But one day I will find an ocean that sings so beautiful that it masks every scream I have made in front of it. I will find the drawers that hide all the sharp things. And on that day the critics will stop judging and learn to love and appreciate my artwork.
I have writers block. I have a mental block. I have so much to offer if it would just come out when I need it too. Instead I am writing this and burning a burrito that is my snack for the morning. My my how ideas come when you're just simply vomiting words on a page and hope they stick and they should because it is vomit. The messy part about cleaning up the "vomit" is how do you soak it all up with out being disgusted by it. I know, what a terrible way to look at it but my point is how do you work with it after the fact? Looking at the positive you will start to feel better depending on the situation. The clean up becomes the improvement of the scenario, I have all these words above, where do you take it from here? Part of me wants to abandon the paragraph but when you look at the big picture this all makes sense. Maybe it was that I was simply hungry and just needed that burnt burrito, (it was actually good) . Maybe I just needed to keep writing, never stop, keep trying and see what happens.
What Pleasure abuses
And Genius breeds,
All Mortal accuses
A messy world
Like our world
Goes behind what is normal,
Corona's deadly cases are
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