55 TYPES OF POETRY FORMS

(Haiku)


Pubescence

dancing young flower
newly blooming in moist soil;
the frost is not far

(3 Haiku style)

WATER
One million faces.
Reflected on the surface...
Each day,someone new.

I'M SORRY
I cannot help you.
Dreams will never be the same.
Murder will bring peace.

GREY
Forget the sun's rays.
Stay inside the grey today.
When everyone hides.

A.D.H.D. (revised)


God, I hate infomercials. "Only 3 easy payments of $29.99. But wait, if you order now, you can get the Shim Sham Rama Lama".....ring.. ring.. Jimmy. Not wanting to talk to anyone right now. Not exactly the social butterfly... gotta do something...walk into the bedroom, man...what was it.. I came in here for something...oh well.. I'll remember later.. my head hurts...I wish this hang nail would go away. Hand in pocket, and pain. Snag on my jeans... bathroom!! Stupid black heads. 30 years old, I shouldn't have to battle with zits. Puberty ended years ago...why was I looking under the sink? Phone out, facebook news feed. Why do I even bother? I don't give a rosy rat's patoot what Joe Shmoe from wasteland bible belt is doing at 3:30 in the morning...man it's getting late, I need to get on a normal sleep schedule...is my gout flaring up? I hope not. I can't handle that searing pain on top of all this stress. This is going to suck when I get older...I hope I don't end up with arthritis.  Dad has it. So does grandpa...I wonder if grandma is feeling better. She said that Josh called the other day. Landon is getting bigger...I miss my babies so bad. So does Katie...I'm concerned for my queen. Depression and stress...stress so bad my hair is prematurely turning grey...starting to look my age. Getting older really sucks...I hope I don't get arthritis...ASPRIN!!! That's what I went in the room for!! I wish this headache would go away..."to order now, call the number on your screen. Be the first fifty callers, and get two Shim Sham Rama Lama Ding Dongs for the price of one!! Order now!!!"



Free Form

A cry for help


Lost in transit, my thoughts start to race.
From my mind to my soul, time is replaced.
With a pause, time stops,
I'm overcome with rhyme.
Not much matters. Upon paper, I creative lines.
Stress induced artwork, you like to read.
My lost sense of sanity, you plant the seed.
A mad man's nonsensical,  starts to take form,
Tight scrambled nonsense,  from my mind is torn.
Your words spark pain, which triggers a thought.
When I'm hurt, I should write, or so I'm taught.
Hurt feelings inspire, in a much painful way.
My pain becomes literature,  you cling to what I say.
Deep seeded cuts, of the verbal sort,
Cause and effect, my art is my retort.
Your anger inspires pain, that I can't deal with,
My depression makes me write, a much sought after gift.
Sometimes I don't want it, I get lost in myself.
I'd rather just stuff it, upon that shelf.
Leave it for later, not to speak of.
But then I transform, to the person I was.
Locked deep inside, this mind of mine.
Unable to relate, to get through to my wife.
Close to losing you, is where I was.
You asked me why I bottled, I said just because.
I don't want to lose you, so I'd rather talk,
To stay my wife, will my writings be lost?


Couplet Verse

Forever a dunce.


Across the way, on the merry go round in the park, is a boy of scrawny stature. Picked on, and beat up, bullied to the point of tears.
               8 years old, this boy wanders without guidance. No adults to look up to, no parents to love on him. Wandering aimlessly, he is on a search. For right and wrong. The good examples to follow.
              Ever wandering, in the Dust Bowl, Ghost Town, Whereverville USA. In the tiny pocket, packed away deep, in the deepest crevice of my mind. Hidden in the safely and confines, where, not a soul can inflict harm, upon him.
             Adorned in holy sneakers, big toe protruding, dusty blue jeans, worn and dirty from a lack of wash, his grey tee shirt and ball cap. Musty and tattered, an overall lack of hygiene,  for nobody taught him. Skinny, and starved for love and affection.
             To look upon his brown tinged face, the river beds of tears, sandwiched by dirt, from years of neglect. Face ever wet, this boy knows nothing of happiness. A hug. A kind word of positive reinforcement. A handful of fingers, ran through his hair; just a small token of affection, showing that someone cares.
            As he walks from the park, across the broken, pot holy street, a loss of footing causing him to twist his ankle in the most excruciating of ways, and yet, just a small whimper. A lone tear rolls a new groove in the dirt, turning to mud before it hit his chin. "Toughen up Jason, you can't show weakness." The words reverberate through his fragile, yet damaged, medicated mind. The after thoughts of a wasted youth.
           Limping along, as though oblivious to his pain, sore ankle and all, he struts across the street. As he gripped the door knob, he directs gaze behind him, skyward, as the dismal grey, dust stormy horizon, and he drops another tear, muddied fast, by the grime on his pain wretched face.
           Heaving a long, sorrowful sigh, he turns and walks beyond the threshold, back slumped and shoulders dropped, by the weight of depression. "You'll regret that bad posture, later in life." Nobody told him, ever, as he meanders, heals dragging across the dirty, black, hardwood floor.
           To the far corner, of the would be dining room he goes, ever reminded of the dinner table that was never there. The family dinners, that he so craved, to quench the emptiness in his heart, and always humgry soul.
           The thirty year old, wrapped 8 year old boy, back against the corner, he slides down the wall, until plop. Butt on floor. Arms wrapped around his legs, he ewaches for his only memento of familiarity. His one token of a life past.
           He puts his dunce cap upon his head as his torso slopes, and he begins to sob.


Imagery

A Time to Harvest

Willing hands on harvest go
Weeding weeds between the rows
Sheaves reaped from what I sow
I feed the scraps to hungry crows

The golden orb that heat the soil
Cracked without the water flow
Needless labour spent in toil
Sweat that fell behind the plough

For the furrow is barren once more
Awaiting the falling of the snow
Winter in here and there as well
To return encumbered by the fall

Dream I always of spring eternal
Where youth yield fruits some more
Where childhood innocence is a shield
So I may enjoy the seasons forever

*Lyric poetry*