What's Sup Forumss favorite poem?

what's Sup Forumss favorite poem?

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What happens to a dream deferred?

Does it dry up
like a raisin in the sun?
Or fester like a sore—
And then run?
Does it stink like rotten meat?
Or crust and sugar over—
like a syrupy sweet?

Maybe it just sags
like a heavy load.

Or does it explode?

That Jewish one on the Statue of Liberty. I deffo want all the world's dregs here.

I'll just go with this if the thread ends sooner

The Fuhrer's

მე მძინარე ვარ...ვწევარ და მძინავს,
დაე მძინავდეს!
ხედავ, ჩემს შუბლზე ღიმილს დამცინავს,
როდესაც ნანა მესმის ძიძების?
ბევრს ეშინოდეს
ჩემი სასტიკი და ულმობელი გამოღვიძების,
ვით გათენების!!!
მე ვხედავ სიზმრებს არა თქვენებურს...

Roses are red
Violets are blue
OPs suck cock
And that includes (You)

>poetry
fag

That actually made me tear up. RIP Adolf. :(

Ulysses - Tennyson
Nightingale - Keats
Don Juan - Byron

Roses are Red
Violets are Blue
Fuck off Faggot

poetry is for leftards and cucks. gass yourself

Tax his cigars. Tax his beers. If he cries, tax his tears.

It's a limerick

Do Not Go Gentle Into That Goodnight, Dylan Thomas.

It was not part of their blood,
It came to them very late,
With long arrears to make good,
When the Saxon began to hate.

They were not easily moved,
They were icy -- willing to wait
Till every count should be proved,
Ere the Saxon began to hate.

Their voices were even and low.
Their eyes were level and straight.
There was neither sign nor show
When the Saxon began to hate.

It was not preached to the crowd.
It was not taught by the state.
No man spoke it aloud
When the Saxon began to hate.

It was not suddently bred.
It will not swiftly abate.
Through the chilled years ahead,
When Time shall count from the date
That the Saxon began to hate.

mods are gods
gods are mods
mods are dogs
dogs are mods
gods are dogs
dogs are gods

Beady eyes, ANGLO lies
Muffled Aryan women's cries
Aryan children, big and small
Bomber Harris kills them all
Left, right, right, left
ANGLO sows the seeds of death
Not a stone is left to stand
When ANGLO flies across the land
After starting World War One
The ANGLO's work was still not done
So joining with the Pole and Jew
He made a new one: World War Two
To sate his thirst for Aryan blood
That he wanted, that he got
Now Dresden is devoid of cheer
Hans have fear; the ANGLO is here

kek

>Bomber Harris kills them all
We are going to scourge the Third Reich from end to end. We are bombing Germany city by city and ever more terribly in order to make it impossible for her to go on with the war. That is our object; we shall pursue it relentlessly
holy based

They fuck you up, your mum and dad.
They may not mean to, but they do.
They fill you with the faults they had
And add some extra, just for you.

But they were fucked up in their turn
By fools in old-style hats and coats,
Who half the time were soppy-stern
And half at one another’s throats.

Man hands on misery to man.
It deepens like a coastal shelf.
Get out as early as you can,
And don’t have any kids yourself.

I like Oscar Wilde. Don't have a favorite

...

CELLS

This should legit be Sup Forums's favorite poem:

>Nature's first green is gold,
>Her hardest hue to hold.
>Her early leaf's a flower,
>But only so an hour.
>Then leaf subsides to leaf,
>So Eden sank to grief.
>So dawn goes down to day,
>Nothing gold can stay.

t. Robert Frost

The world is too much with us; late and soon,
Getting and spending, we lay waste our powers;—
Little we see in Nature that is ours;
We have given our hearts away, a sordid boon!
This Sea that bares her bosom to the moon;
The winds that will be howling at all hours,
And are up-gathered now like sleeping flowers;
For this, for everything, we are out of tune;
It moves us not. Great God! I’d rather be
A Pagan suckled in a creed outworn;
So might I, standing on this pleasant lea,
Have glimpses that would make me less forlorn;
Have sight of Proteus rising from the sea;
Or hear old Triton blow his wreathèd horn.

>AABBCCDD

Literally cringed. This is craigslist tier.

bartleby.com/364/234.html

Overnight, very
Whitely, discreetly,
Very quietly

Our toes, our noses
Take hold on the loam,
Acquire the air.

Nobody sees us,
Stops us, betrays us;
The small grains make room.

Soft fists insist on
Heaving the needles,
The leafy bedding,

Even the paving.
Our hammers, our rams,
Earless and eyeless,

Perfectly voiceless,
Widen the crannies,
Shoulder through holes. We

Diet on water,
On crumbs of shadow,
Bland-mannered, asking

Little or nothing.
So many of us!
So many of us!

We are shelves, we are
Tables, we are meek,
We are edible,

Nudgers and shovers
In spite of ourselves.
Our kind multiplies:

We shall by morning
Inherit the earth.
Our foot's in the door.

Tsss more like nuthin green can stay cuz of fall or sumpthin

Cringe at Frost, not me. Still been my favorite poem since I was little.

Anon5 is legit

Shills against him never quit.

Roll the Dice - Charles Bukowski

if you’re going to try, go all the
way.
otherwise, don’t even start.

if you’re going to try, go all the
way.
this could mean losing girlfriends,
wives, relatives, jobs and
maybe your mind.

go all the way.
it could mean not eating for 3 or 4 days.
it could mean freezing on a
park bench.
it could mean jail,
it could mean derision,
mockery,
isolation.
isolation is the gift,
all the others are a test of your
endurance, of
how much you really want to
do it.
and you’ll do it
despite rejection and the worst odds
and it will be better than
anything else
you can imagine.

if you’re going to try,
go all the way.
there is no other feeling like
that.
you will be alone with the gods
and the nights will flame with
fire.

do it, do it, do it.
do it.

all the way
all the way.

you will ride life straight to
perfect laughter, its
the only good fight
there is.

Lord Byron's last poem, written during the Greek revolutionary war.
Missolonghi, January 22, 1824

’Ti time this heart should he unmoved,
Since others it hath ceased to move:
Yet, though I cannot be beloved,
Still let me love!

My days are in the yellow leaf; 5
The flowers and fruits of love are gone;
The worm, the canker, and the grief
Are mine alone!

The fire that on my bosom preys
Is lone as some volcanic isle; 10
No torch is kindled at its blaze,—
A funeral pile!

The hope, the fear, the jealous care,
The exalted portion of the pain
And power of love, I cannot share, 15
But wear the chain.

But ’t is not thus,—and ’t is not here,—
Such thoughts should shake my soul, nor now,
Where glory decks the hero’s bier,
Or binds his brow. 20

The sword, the banner, and the field,
Glory and Greece, around me see!
The Spartan, borne upon his shield,
Was not more free.

Awake! (not Greece,—she is awake!) 25
Awake, my spirit! Think through whom
Thy life-blood tracks its parent lake,
And then strike home!

Tread those reviving passions down,
Unworthy manhood!—unto thee 30
Indifferent should the smile or frown
Of beauty be.

If thou regret’st thy youth, why live?
The land of honorable death
Is here: up to the field, and give 35
Away thy breath!

Seek out—less often sought than found—
A soldier’s grave, for thee the best;
Then look around, and choose thy ground,
And take thy rest. 40

Gold is innocence. Gold is the past. Gold is paradise. Nothing gold can stay.

The Second Coming
-William Butler Yeats

Turning and turning in the widening gyre
The falcon cannot hear the falconer;
Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold;
Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world,
The blood-dimmed tide is loosed, and everywhere
The ceremony of innocence is drowned;
The best lack all convictions, while the worst
Are full of passionate intensity.

Surely some revelation is at hand;
Surely the Second Coming is at hand.
The Second Coming! Hardly are those words out
When a vast image out of Spiritus Mundi
Troubles my sight: a waste of desert sand;
A shape with lion body and the head of a man,
A gaze blank and pitiless as the sun,
Is moving its slow thighs, while all about it
Wind shadows of the indignant desert birds.
The darkness drops again but now I know
That twenty centuries of stony sleep
Were vexed to nightmare by a rocking cradle,
And what rough beast, its hour come round at last,
Slouches towards Bethlehem to be born?

When, long ago, the gods created Earth
In Jove's fair image Man was shaped at birth.

The beasts for lesser parts were next designed,
Yet they were too remote from humankind.

To fill the gap, and join the rest to Man,
The Olympian host conceived a clever plan.

A beast they wrought, in semi-human figure,
Filled it with vice, and called the thing a nigger.

- H. P. Lovecraft

cause you better brew yourself a new pot a fresh pot of java,
you better never let it go-cold
you only got one shot to make this coffee hot
this opportunity only comes once in a morning

/thread

But if you post his cheery face,
He will disappear at lightning pace.

did six million really die,
or was it all, a jewish lie?

Whose woods these are I think I know.
His house is in the village though;
He will not see me stopping here
To watch his woods fill up with snow.

By Frost
My little horse must think it queer
To stop without a farmhouse near
Between the woods and frozen lake
The darkest evening of the year.

He gives his harness bells a shake
To ask if there is some mistake.
The only other sound’s the sweep
Of easy wind and downy flake.

The woods are lovely, dark and deep,
But I have promises to keep,
And miles to go before I sleep,
And miles to go before I sleep.

Oh the red daisy
Flowers retain all happiness
Sunshine! Yay! Sunshine!

hands down
>The Wagerer
>by John Donne

If you like to gamble, I tell you I'm your man
You win some, lose some, it's all the same to me
The pleasure is to play, it makes no difference what you say
I don't share your greed, the only card I need is
The Ace of Spades
The Ace of Spades

Playing for the high one, dancing with the devil
Going with the flow, it's all a game to me
Seven or eleven, snake eyes watching you
Double up or quit, double stake or split
The Ace of Spades
The Ace of Spades

You know I'm born to lose
And gambling's for fools
But that's the way I like it, baby
I don't wanna live forever
And don't forget the joker

That's a really good poem, user. I'm gonna make this my go-to toast for whiskey shots.

Roses are red, violets are blue. Traps are gay and so are you.

kek

Fuck off shill. You won't stop whites from having children.

Roses are red

Barack is half-black

If you can't drink milk

You have to go back

The Hollow Men
T. S. Eliot

i can see, what you see not
visions milky then eyes rot
when you turn, they will be gone
whispering their hidden song
then you see, what cannot be
shadows move, where light should be
out of darkness, out of mind
cast down, into the halls of the blind

youtube.com/watch?v=pDAdmoaKjCI

>>poetry
>fag

Les Enfants Perdus

Predetermined one
life, body and soul of urbanalia dark consciousness-
a marketable commodity,
URBAN GUERILLA TACTICALS,
traded in the Binomial Military Post-Industrial Corporate Complex - Golemgovernaliamentobazaaragoralia.

Predispositional one
life, body and soul of the forlorn hope shone a single light,
contract life with lifeless fiction,
a guaranteed promotion should one survive.

Dark consciousness, the bed to sow governalia propaganda.
Meme ghetto -
impregnate uteral factory,
birthmarked into corrupted light,
perfect lost children
oh pioneers.

When, long ago, America was young,
And held by yeomen from Britannia sprung,
New-England was with hardy rustics fill’d;
Green were her fields, and diligently till’d.
My grandsire John, beside a rocky hill,
‘Mid pastures water’d by a sparkling rill,
Erected firm his unpretentious cot;
Sunk deep his well, laid out his garden-plot;
Built sheds for poultry, hives for honey-bees;
Barns for his cattle; clear’d the land of trees.
The meadows wide with walls he fenc’d around,
Builded of stones digg’d from the rocky ground.
From dawn to darkness reach’d his daily toil;
Each spring with seed he sow’d the fertile soil:
And in the heat of each midsummer day,
With sharpen’d scythe he mow’d the leaning hay.
‘Neath harvest moon he reap’d the rip’ning crop;
In winter’s blast his axe was heard to chop
The wind-sway’d oaks and maples of the wood
That on his hillside slopes majestic stood.
In grassy pastures, teeming with rich loam,
His brawny kine were wont to feed and roam;
Thus did he live, and call’d his humble acres „HOME”.

The wooden farmhouse, painted snowy white,
Had in it more of broadness than of height.
A sloping roof its safe protection lent;
In vain the storms outside their fury spent.
Above the roof, the stone-built chimney tower’d,
Thro’ which the smoke in inky torrents pour’d.
Around the door, the clinging ivy twin’d;
The sunny garden brilliant flow’rs confin’d.
The rooms within were scrubb’d until they shone
By the good wife of honest Farmer John.
Beside the fire at night the rustic sat,
And listen’d to the singing of his cat,
Or read the Scriptures to his wife and son,
Or thro’ the window watch’d the rising moon.
His child by maxims wise and good was rear’d,
Virtue he lov’d, Immortal God he fear’d.
The vice and folly of the world he spurn’d,
But at the district-school true wisdom learn’d
From his kind master, who with precepts sage
Refin’d and shap’d the growth of tender age.
With no low trade his pliant mind was fill’d,
Nor was his wit by friv’lous notions kill’d.
Few were his studies, but with zeal pursu’d;
With solid learning was the youth imbu’d.
His hours of leisure were discreetly spent;
In harmless joys and sports he liv’d content.
Sturdy he grew, by Nature’s certain law;
No towns he knew, nor crowded streets he saw.

burned

the kid went back to New York City to live with a woman
he met in a kibbutz.
he left his mother at the age of
32, a well-kept fellow, sense of humor and never
wore the same pair of shorts
more than one day. there he was
in the Puerto Rican section, she had a
job. he wanted iron bars on the windows and
ate too much fried chicken at 10 a.m.
in the morning after she went to
work. he had some money saved out of the
years and he fucked but he was really
afraid of pussy.

I was sitting with Eileen in Hollywood
and I said:
I ought to warn the kid
so that when she turns on him
he’ll be
ready.

no, she said, let him be happy.

I let him be
happy.

now he’s back living with his
mother, he weighs three hundred and ten pounds
and eats all the time
and laughs all the time but you ought to see his eyes…
the eyes are sitting in the center of all that
flesh...

he bites into a chicken leg:
I loved her, he says to me,
I loved her.

I hate niggers I hate jews
I hate spics and arabs too
Go ahead and try to sue
I got cash up the wazoo

The sun on the meadow is summery warm
The stag in the forest runs free
But gathered together to greet the storm
Tomorrow belongs to me

The branch on the linden is leafy and green
The Rhine gives its gold to the sea (Gold to the sea)
But somewhere a glory awaits unseen
Tomorrow belongs to me

The babe in his cradle is closing his eyes
The blossom embraces the bee
But soon says the whisper, arise, arise
Tomorrow belongs to me
Tomorrow belongs to me

Now Fatherland, Fatherland, show us the sign
Your children have waited to see
The morning will come
When the world is mine
Tomorrow belongs to me
Tomorrow belongs to me
Tomorrow belongs to me
Tomorrow belongs to me

I read this. awfully morbid thought.

From my mother’s sleep I fell into the State,
And I hunched in its belly till my wet fur froze.
Six miles from earth, loosed from its dream of life,
I woke to black flak and the nightmare fighters.
When I died they washed me out of the turret with a hose.

...

Nazi flag is red,
CIA niggers are cucked
I've taken enough pills
I see in the darkness glowing Jews

Not in my backyard
(dooryard open from 9a.m. to 5p.m. Monday- Friday)
This plot of land
groomed for my protection.
Four walled enclave
free from invasion.
Complacent one,
self absorbed,
within hot house glass.
Duck and cover
a thing of the past.
Nuclear family
atomic blast.
You look down upon the lesser with disdain,
handicapped yourself,
you reserve the right to bitch and complain.
This bubble you create
imperfect obtuse,
encroaches on others
familiarity becomes abuse.
No!
Never!
Not in my back yard
boast of impenetrable façade;
as a bulldozer wrecks your fragile ego
with one swift motion
across the whole subdivision.

Someone archive this thread
Damn where is based Norway bot

Here's a poem I wrote 3 years ago, it's as relevant as ever

Garland

How that thought could silence me--
A blinking pressure from my pineal gland
Formulated by
Primordial youth and not so sacred beauty

She offered herself, promise fulfilled
And was granted the dream
And was filled with cum
Star fame dazed on the leather couch

Now and then picked up by time as a
Nefariously ripe cherub
Whose voice of deception
Sings for the Emerald City

Helped weave the dreams of children past
With the veiny fingers of cinema executives
They built these warped frames
Today is built upon

And when the frames seem to
Crack and splinter
The time passes
So the thought leaves my mind...

...

That which we persist in doing, becomes easier. Not that the nature of the task has changed, but our ability to do so has increased.

Boys flying kites can haul in their white winged birds;
You cant do that way when youre flying words;
Careful with fire, is good advice we know
Careful with words, is ten times doubly so.
Thoughts unexpressed may sometimes fall back dead; but god himself can't kill them when they're said.

Roses are red
Violets are blue
jews are fags
lets gas them

saged

>a poem I wrote
cake boy

>nobody's posted this yet
For shame, Sup Forums

On her way to work one morning

Down the path alongside the lake

A tender-hearted woman saw a poor half-frozen snake

His pretty colored skin had been all frosted with the dew

"Oh well," she cried, "I'll take you in and I'll take care of you"

Now she clutched him to her bosom, "You're so beautiful," she cried

"But if I hadn't brought you in by now you might have died"

Now she stroked his pretty skin and then she kissed and held him tight

But instead of saying thanks, that snake gave her a vicious bite

Your church, your prison.

Your church,
your prison.
The effective tool to manage the slaves.
Another negro spiritual,
another chain to bind.

King James commands-
to beat,
even unto death,
His errant property.
The assurance of fidelity
of the captive
congregation.

This is their lot,
no need to shed a tear,
nor waken them from their slumber.
'Tis better to believe the lies.
Your church,
your prison.

Some say the world will end in fire,
Some say in ice.
From what I’ve tasted of desire
I hold with those who favor fire.
But if it had to perish twice,
I think I know enough of hate
To say that for destruction ice
Is also great
And would suffice.

Mango

Any poetry besides epic poetry is for faggots

psalm of life

youtube.com/watch?v=6gYvS8L0nDY

Rudyard Kipling
"Rimini"

When I left Rome for Lalage's sake,
By the Legions' Road to Rimini,
She vowed her heart was mine to take
With me and my shield to Rimini--
(Till the Eagles flew from Rimini--)
And I've tramped Britain, and I've tramped Gaul
And the Pontic shore where the snow-flakes fall
As white as the neck of Lalage--
(As cold as the heart of Lalage!)
And I've lost Britain, and I've lost Gaul,
And I've lost Rome and, worst of all,
I've lost Lalage! -

When you go by the Via Aurelia
As thousands have traveled before
Remember the Luck of the Soldier
Who never saw Rome any more!
Oh, dear was the sweetheart that kissed him,
And dear was the mother that bore;
But his shield was picked up in the heather,
And he never saw Rome any more!

And he left Rome, etc.

When you go by the Via Aurelia
That runs from the City to Gaul,
Remember the Luck of the Soldier
Who rose to be master of all!
He carried the sword and the buckler,
He mounted his guard on the Wall,
Till the Legions elected him Caesar,
And he rose to be master of all!

And he left Rome, etc.

It's twenty-five marches to Narbo,
It's forty-five more up the Rhone,
And the end may be death in the heather
Or life on an Emperor's throne.
But whether the Eagles obey us,
Or we go to the Ravens--alone,
I'd sooner be Lalage's lover
Than sit on an Emperor's throne!

>Rudyard Kipling
>classic one

If you can keep your head when all about you
Are losing theirs and blaming it on you,
If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you,
But make allowance for their doubting too;
If you can wait and not be tired by waiting,
Or being lied about, don’t deal in lies,
Or being hated, don’t give way to hating,
And yet don’t look too good, nor talk too wise:

If you can dream—and not make dreams your master;
If you can think—and not make thoughts your aim;
If you can meet with Triumph and Disaster
And treat those two impostors just the same;
If you can bear to hear the truth you’ve spoken
Twisted by knaves to make a trap for fools,
Or watch the things you gave your life to, broken,
And stoop and build ’em up with worn-out tools:

If you can make one heap of all your winnings
And risk it on one turn of pitch-and-toss,
And lose, and start again at your beginnings
And never breathe a word about your loss;
If you can force your heart and nerve and sinew
To serve your turn long after they are gone,
And so hold on when there is nothing in you
Except the Will which says to them: ‘Hold on!’

If you can talk with crowds and keep your virtue,
Or walk with Kings—nor lose the common touch,
If neither foes nor loving friends can hurt you,
If all men count with you, but none too much;
If you can fill the unforgiving minute
With sixty seconds’ worth of distance run,
Yours is the Earth and everything that’s in it,
And—which is more—you’ll be a Man, my son!

good shit but I like his Afghan poem better

Turning and turning in the widening gyre
The falcon cannot hear the falconer;
Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold;
Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world,
The blood-dimmed tide is loosed, and everywhere
The ceremony of innocence is drowned;
The best lack all conviction, while the worst
Are full of passionate intensity.

Surely some revelation is at hand;
Surely the Second Coming is at hand.
The Second Coming! Hardly are those words out
When a vast image out of Spiritus Mundi
Troubles my sight: somewhere in sands of the desert
A shape with lion body and the head of a man,
A gaze blank and pitiless as the sun,
Is moving its slow thighs, while all about it
Reel shadows of the indignant desert birds.
The darkness drops again; but now I know
That twenty centuries of stony sleep
Were vexed to nightmare by a rocking cradle,
And what rough beast, its hour come round at last,
Slouches towards Bethlehem to be born?

My brazilian monkey eater

Chek this narration of the Ballad Of Gunga-Din

youtube.com/watch?v=fHD9IEhuGRE

Roses are red
Violets are blue OP's a fag
And nigger Jew, too.

>Baudelaire
>The Mask

Let us observe this prize, of Tuscan charm;
In how the muscles of the body flow
Those holy sisters, Grace and Strength, abound.
This woman, this extraordinary piece,
Divinely robust, admirably slim,
Was made to be enthroned on sumptuous beds
As entertainment for a pope or prince.

Also, observe the fine voluptuous smile
Where Self-conceit parades its ecstasy;
This long, sly, languorous and mocking gaze;
This dainty visage, with its filmy veil,
Each trait of which cries out triumphantly,
'Pleasure invites Me, and I wear Love's crown!'
In this creation of such majesty
Excitement flows from her gentility!
Let us approach and look from every side!

O blasphemy of art! fatal surprise!
This woman fashioned to embody bliss
Is at the top a monster with two heads!

But no! it's just a mask, a trick design,
This visage lit by an exquisite air,
And look, see here how cruelly it is clenched,
The undissembling face of the true head,
Turned to the shelter of the face that lies.
O beauty, how I pity you! the great
Stream of your tears ends in my anxious heart;
Your lie transports me, and my soul drinks up
The seas brought forth by Sorrow from your eyes!

But what has made her cry? A beauty who
Could have all mankind conquered at her feet,
What secret pain gnaws at her hardy tlank?

The reason, fool, she cries is that she's lived!
And that she lives! But what she most deplores,
What makes her tremble even to her knees,
Is that tomorrow she'll be living still!
Tomorrow, every day! - And so will we!

>Any poetry besides epic poetry is for faggots
"Die Gedanken Sind Frie"
My Thoughts are Free

Thoughts are free!
Who can guess them?
They fly along like nightly treasures.
No man can know them
No hunter can shoot them
With powder and lead
Thoughts are free!
I think about what I want
and what makes me happy
But everything quietly,
and just how it comes.
To my wish and desire
Nobody can oppose,
It stays this way:
Thoughts are free!
And if they lock me in a dark dungeon
That is something that can be forgiven
'Cause my thoughts tear up the bars and walls.
Thoughts are free!
I think about what I want
and what makes me happy ...
And if they lock me in a dark dungeon ...
I love wine, my girl most of all,
Only me she pleases best
I am not alone
With my glass of wine
My girl is with me:
Thoughts are free!
That's why I will never worry anymore
And I will never tease myself
with whims anymore
Because in one's heart
One can keep laughing and joking
While thinking
Thoughts are free!

- The White Rose Movement
arrested for distributing the sixth leaflet at the University of Munich on February 18, 1943.

I heard Fulton Sheen read this, was haunting. In The Desert, by Stephen Crane.

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In the Desert
BY STEPHEN CRANE
In the desert
I saw a creature, naked, bestial,
Who, squatting upon the ground,
Held his heart in his hands,
And ate of it.
I said, “Is it good, friend?”
“It is bitter—bitter,” he answered;

“But I like it
“Because it is bitter,
“And because it is my heart.”

Here I sit
So broken hearted
Try to poop
But only farted

Stupid phone.


I saw a creature, naked, bestial,
Who, squatting upon the ground,
Held his heart in his hands,
And ate of it.
I said, “Is it good, friend?”
“It is bitter—bitter,” he answered;

“But I like it
“Because it is bitter,
“And because it is my heart.”

Ozymandias

The Snek!

Then one day
I took a chance
Tried to fart
And shit my pants

t. Stephen Crane

Bukowski- As the Sparrow

If you shot someones brain it would destroy a thought in every sense

I met a traveller from an antique land
Who said: “Two vast and trunkless legs of stone
Stand in the desert . . . Near them, on the sand,
Half sunk, a shattered visage lies, whose frown,
And wrinkled lip, and sneer of cold command,
Tell that its sculptor well those passions read
Which yet survive, stamped on these lifeless things,
The hand that mocked them, and the heart that fed:
And on the pedestal these words appear:
‘My name is Ozymandias, king of kings:
Look on my works, ye Mighty, and despair!'
Nothing beside remains. Round the decay
Of that colossal wreck, boundless and bare
The lone and level sands stretch far away.”

Commies are red
Libshits are blue
Get out of my country,
before I gas you

Ode with a Lament
Neruda

Here's a poem by everyone's favorite fascist, Ezra Pound.
I think this ones about MGTOW

The Garden

Like a skeins of loose silk blown against a wall
She walks by the railing of a path in Kenington Gardens,
And she is dying piece-meal
Of a sort of emotional anaemia.

And round about there is a rabble
Of the filthy, sturdy, unkillable infants of the very poor.
They shall inherit the earth.

In her is the end of breeding.
Her boredom is exquisite and excessive.
She would like some one to speak to her,
And is almost afraid that I
Will commit that indiscretion.

ctrl f
coffee pot
one result
i am disappointed

Rime of the Ancient Mariner - Samuel Taylor Coleridge

best version:
youtube.com/watch?v=NA2cGy_iDTk

London by William Blake. Sup Forums's official poet

Love William Wordsworth.

They constantly try to escape
From the darkness outside and within
By dreaming of systems so perfect that no one will need to be good.
But the man that is shall shadow
The man that pretends to be.

T. S. Eliot