There are somethings money can't buy. Then there's poetry. By a dead poet. Me, and him, together, are about to take 'you' the reader to a place. That place is the "are you hating on my poetry" zone. "Discos out. murder's in. What iz you smarting on me? best not, or else, otherwise I might kill you with my intense power of focused stupidity and hatred. Prepare to reminesce. "Early Mourning Night (Free verse) by deadpoet Haunted by images I cannot dispose of. A silent war stalks my mentality A thousand eyelids visible in deep passion. Why do these circular-hearted figures remain Shadows? Sweet breath and bright eyes But I'm losing... Foolish minds parlay on the backside of clouds Grasping art they will never sense Love awaits not yesterday Which settles under the blackest dust Above the earth, so low a level Where hope resurrects a wounded spirit Awaken now hidden child! Quiet nights bring forever mourning Without your clear illumination My life sleeps in eternal loss." ------------------------------------------------------------------------ send this poem to a friend ------------------------------------------------------------------------ complaints about this poem? ------------------------------------------------------------------------ Add a comment: Vote: Submit ------------------------------------------------------------------------ Votes: (green: user, blue: anonymous) Graph Votes 10  0, 0 9  0, 0 8  1, 0 7  0, 0 6  1, 0 5  0, 0 4  0, 0 3  0, 0 2  0, 1 1  0, 0 0  0, 0 Comments: Jeremi B. Handrinos 04-May-03, 06:39 PM I personally feel at a loss when I'm grasping art that I cannot sense. Reply  deadpoet 05-May-03, 12:22 PM do you want to elaborate on that?? Reply  horus8 05-May-03, 01:46 PM I would if I felt it would do you any good, but it wouldn't, because you wouldn't let it, even if you tried. Know this, if I did 'elaborate' on exactly what is, what was, and what will probably always be your Achilles heel in creative endeavors you would only close up more and stagnate furthur. Life is more then just the blatant difference between night and day, or god and satan or life and death. That's the problem, see, from the time we are born until we pass there is a massive manipulation underway forcing awareness levels down and cutting them off at the root. The cream is in the middle of a donut for a reason, so why avoid it? It makes you look ridiculous. Reply  deadpoet 05-May-03, 04:17 PM thanks a lot man, i like it when people hate on my poems! you try to sound smart but you really make no sense ...there's a difference between a poet and a schizo. my poem had nothing to do with what interpreted it to be. Reply  <{Baba^Yaga}> 05-May-03, 07:30 PM Am I "hating on your poems"? Trying to sound smart? Really? There's a difference between a poet and a schizo? Like what, the difference between your front teeth and the sound that a jet engine makes underwater in reverse? Allow me to elaborate. you would not, could not, should not ever know the difference between a poet and a mentally ill or damaged person because you are too mentally, physically and spiritually lazy to even attempt that most assuredly challenging scenario (task), that being, finding out what the difference 'is' between a "schiz", and a "poet" and say the poet was actually a schizophrenic poet (which quite a few are) what then? Would you cook the said poet a "homellete" while mentally figuring out what made him one or the other. My obviously young and 'slow' litte buddy. The day you do attempt to take on the adventure of figuring out the difference between the afore mentioned? Will ironically be the day your poetry improves dramatically. I hope all of that did not sound too smart for you. Reply X  <{Baba^Yaga}> 05-May-03, 08:28 PM I would also venture to say that a lot of 'people' don't make sense around you on a daily basis. Probably about 90%, but don't worry, I'm sure they were just trying to sound smart, or maybe, trying to talk and or grunt, paw the ground, drag caveman knuckles?. You know. Form sentences in a manner as to compel the formation of sounds, using nerve signals from your brain to your mouth. I know that it sounds terribly daring, but you are after all, brave enough to call yourself the 'dead poet'. And your poetry by the way, as you so eloquently put it, was not being " hated on" by me, young man, because when I hate on poetry? The fucking ground shakes you stupid little fucking moron. In fact if I wanted to. Just with the information that you have presented us with here. I could make you fucking despise me like no other motherfucker you've ever encountered. Because hate my little buddy is the wrong word in this situation. To be a poet hate is now dropped as a word. it is absorbed and manufactured as a way of life, with love, dance, music, lust, greed, loneliness, jealousy. You must be precisely everywhere never. Spontaneously procrastinatory always, horrifically loving on Tuesdays, brilliantly stupid once a year. You have to know how to projectile vomit, not sleep for weeks if not years. burn bridges with the power of your mind, and use bunny rabbits and puppies for dental floss while owning a very well respected children's animal petting farm. Yes, my friend, the life of a poet. I wouldn't change it for the world, even if the world could stop changing me. I think what you meant to say was probably dissing, or clowning, chiding, picking on, raking, belittling, or even perhaps the dreaded slammin' on your poetry. Anyway, to reassure you of just how far away you are from being a poet. Hence why you chose the name 'dead poet' psychologically speaking that's mighty revealing my friend. You are so fucking afraid to let go of what you think you are or have you could never be a 'living poet' so you brick yourself in before you start. Meaning, dead poets don't write, they're dead. Before you die my friend you would be a fool not to live, or not. I just think that it is really fucking sad to see a person in your position (yes I know) that posture of being an 'afraid to learn know it all dick head loud mouth' (my specialty) trying to cover up their weaknesses instead of working with people, that do care about you, and that do know much more about generally everything, on improving why you are so resentfull and quick to assume people think that they are smarter then you or better at things. For instance, I know there are way better poets, doctors, engineers, janitors, bums out there right now smarter then me, richer, happier, who fucking knows! any thing and every thing, should that make me not care, care more, worry? hate myself? love myself? what? Blame the moon, beef jerky, Jesus. Please. Get ahold of yourself man. Don't be silly. Open your ears and shut your mouth. You'll go farther faster with better results then the mouth full of chirping nonsense and a petmonkey that can't stop jerking off and throwing shit you're currently equipped now. Now, poetry, yours, I do not hate it, hardly. I do feel that it can be drastically improved and that there's a glimmer of hope somewhere. We have all been there, maybe not as bad as this, but in the vicinity. Okay three big things, out of a hundred things wrong, because the other 97 are always going to be there, even the best of the best have the unshakable 97 blues, but three things to get back on point. 1)It contradicts itself to death, even to much for poetry, and that's a lot. 2)It asks some embarassingly stupid and pointless questions to nothing in particular. 3)Leaves the reader with the feeling of "well atleast he's dead and well. .. that's a relief, and that my friend is not good when you should be angling for empathy and love, or confusing destruction, but commit to something. In a nutshell, it's like you were 'trying to sound smart' and you failed miserably and with absoloutely, may i add, no grace. At least if you want to suck. Suck with grace, or don't go through the motions, because if you do, every poet will laugh, and every moron will be like "hey man, sweet poem dude" and what that means is "what is this asshole trying to sound smart or something" Therefore, you can either ask for help, and improve, or stay dead. Now, that said. Wanna fuck? lol. Thank you for visiting my workshop. Come again. We take visa, mastercard and american express. We even trade brains for poetry.