Gengar’s Free Verse
15 posts in this topic.
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Whoopdee doo, poem spot!
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The Empathetic Monster
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I stand here motionless, with
wicked horns and cloven hooves, as you
collapse to the unfeeling concrete below. I
do nothing as your tears fill the room and
soak my clothes in your misery.
I stand there, my face blank as you’re
kicking, screaming, drowning in yourself. you
grasp onto me like a life buoy, but when you
look into my eyes, you see not a glimmer of
light, not an ounce of compassion. it is then you
realize: I could care less. you mean nothing to
me. I am a monster.
though my face moves not an inch, I wish
that you could see what lurks beneath this
demonic masquerade I am trapped in.
somewhere in my soul, a newborn flame
sparks, then dances, then blazes at the
very sight of your distress. somewhere
in my mind, tender-hearted thoughts bubble like
effervescent soda just waiting to burst.
but the flames are snuffed out before they can
even burn bright. the soda goes flat before it
is even drunk. I feel so deeply, so sorrowfully, so
empathetically, but nobody hears my kind words as they
are all painfully extinguished before they leave my mouth.
so I just stand here, motionless, with
wicked horns and cloven hooves, as you
suffocate.Spoiler
This poem is about empathy. I care so much for others but I have trouble expressing it, so people often assume that I just don’t care.
I didn’t do a ton of editing on this, but I like when poetry is raw like that. Also I did a neat thing with the flow of the poem because yes -
Aweeeeee I feel so bad for this character and you! Hopefully, you’ll meet someone in your life who can slowly guide you out of your bubble or you can heal slowly and break free yourself!! This is wonderful and great metaphorical language!!!
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This poem is amazing, Grengar ^^ I really relate to this and I feel like you captured the feeling perfectly
The flow is nice and the raw feeling is just *chef’s kiss* Great job! ^^ -
I wrote this in the potato jam, it's about a vegatable farmer who likes edm and there'sdancing vegetables in it too. I didn't proofread this lol
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here were few comforts in the
laborous job of a vegetable farmer;
this, the farmer knew all too well.
but through it all, in rain or shine,
in famine or harvest, through blood and sweat,
his greatest sense of peace came from music.
the moist soil tugged at the farmer's boots today,
and the sun beat down on his hunched back.
in one hand, he held a rusting shovel,
in the other, he held a speaker.
for hours he toiled in his field,
tossing dirt and wacking weeds
--checking leaves and unearthing beauties.
and through it all, the one thing keeping his mind afloat,
was the music belting out of his speaker.
you'd think him a fan of country music,
with solemn guitars and sorrowful melodies,
but really, he liked dance EDM.
when the sun went to bed, the moon shone bright
as if to apologize for her brother's wrath.
when the farmer felt her imbrace
and spotted her friends, the stars,
he knew it was time to go home.
but in his fatigue, the farmer failed to notice
the speakre still lying in the dirt.
the remaining vegetables, out of the farmer's sight,
could finally open their eyes and stretch their limbs.
on most nights, it was only them and the silence of the night.
but the music sounding through the fields
was so bouncy, so bubbly, so efferescent and so melodious
that the vegetables couldn't help but dance.
they shimmied and they swayed,
they jumped and they spun.
they shuffled and they conga line'd,
they moshed and they waltzed.
all through the night did those veggies dance,
nobody but the moon to watch them. -
NO THERE'S A TYPO THE FIRST WORD WAS SUPPOSED TO SAY "there"
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I love it <3
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The Promised Land (is a lie told by telephones to commit genocide)
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if the promised land
is real, tell me why I hear
screaming from above.Spoiler
Context:
this haiku is about a game called Splatoon. It's a game that takes place in a futuristic, post-apoctalyptic version of earth where anthropomorphic marine animals took over. The most common one (and the one you play as) is inklings, which are humanoid squids made of ink. There's also octolings, which are like inklings but octopuses, but these are mostly seen as enemies in the campaign mode because they've been brainwashed.
In the second game, there's a DLC that lets you play as an octoling named Agent 8 who has lost all their memories. Octolings are kinda like a minority group in the lore, and they've been trapped in this underground metro system for all their life. But there's this sentient telephone who comes along and says that he will take octolings to "The Promised Land" if they complete a bunch of levels and gather pieces to a machine. But plot twist! The phone guy is evil, and the machine is a blender, and he blends octolings alive and uses their remains to "sanitize" (lobotomize) other octolings to use as his soldiers. And sometimes in the background of the game you can hear blender noises and screaming, so that's where this haiku came from
This DLC made me cry. Because it was sad, and also because it was really hard. -
Take Me Down to Oogie's Lair
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as a child I’d sleep with feet tucked in,
not a toe peeking out of the layered blankets,
in fear of what horrors lurked below.
all those oogie-boogies and creepie-crawlies,
which prey on the minds of anxious children,
drag them by the ankles to an inky abyss.
now I sleep with feet uncovered,
hoping that wherever those monsters take you
is anything better than here. -
Blood-Stained Petals
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oh dear Anemone,
whose rouge hue is sure to catch eyes,
how do you feel when you are picked,
planted, sold, or admired?
is it pity or anger that you feel
from the ignorance of humans?
will they ever look past your dainty exterior,
and learn of the blood staining your petals?Spoiler
In Greek mythos, Adonis was a mortal man loved by many women, including goddesses Aphrodite and Persephone. One day, he was killed by a wild boar and died in Aphrodite's arms. His blood mixed with her tears to form the anemone flower -
untitled space poem
you're a twinkly mass of wonder in an inky black sky,
and I'm stuck in a space station's buffer zone.
but t-minus someday, I shall break free from this gravity
and hold your light in my hands once more.Spoiler
A poem i thought up while in a space station buffer zone. i don't know what any of this means so take it how you will
Originally written on August 30, 2024 -
of earth angels and gorillas
every sticker planted, every word scribbled, is a love letter to this great big beautiful world. every stroke painted, every zine hidden, is a flashing neon sign saying "hear my message, let it sink into your soul, if only for a little while at least."
my work goes unmarked, unrevealed, anonymous, but rest assured, I will not die with nothing to my name. somewhere, an old man is surprised to find a letter covered in stickers and doodles addressed "for you." someplace, a child points excitedly at a horse poster wheatpasted to the wall.
every unseen smile, every unheard laugh, every day brightened and every spark ignited is enough evidence that I was there. enough of a dim spotlight for me to comfortably stare into. enough of a purpose for me to fulfill.Spoiler
It's been a while since I've made a prose poem. I got struck with sudden inspiration after going down a pinterest rabbit hole.
This poem is about Guerilla art. It's something I've done for a while but only recently found the name for. Basically it's leaving little art pieces out in public spaces without attaching a name to it. This can be stuff like sticky notes, posters, yarnbombs, zines, leaving notes in books, etc.
I started this practice back when i was really into zines. I'm a very creative person, maybe too much so. I'm always coming up with amazing ideas that I need to execute the moment I get them (sometimes it works out well, sometimes it doesn't). I like to leave sticky notes with doodles and zines in public, and I want to try out other things too, like leaving letters with stuff inside or inserting things into books.
I've always had this inner conflict where I want to share my creations with the world, but I am so scared to because I'm scared of how toxic the internet can be. I find that people in art communities are obsessed with perfection, and will bash anything that doesn't fit the bill. And not to mention, it can pull people into addictive loops of attention seeking.
But the guerilla art form kind of evades all that. I don't know who sees my art or how they react to it. I'm not recognized in any way, except maybe by my initials. And I like to think that, by doing this, I get to add just a bit of joy to someone's week, day, or maybe just their hour. I don't think I can make the world a better place, but I can certainly make someone's world a better place, even if just for a little while.
If you could, I would highly recommend this. just don't do anything illegal -
I May Not Be an Angel, But Can I Be Yours?
I may no longer be ablaze with holy inferno,
hypnotizing flames warping all space and time,
but I’ll turn on my porch light when you knock late at night,
and I’ll roll my eyes and smirk at your tardiness.
I may no longer hold knowledge inconceivable to man,
or deliver divine wisdom to trembling mortals,
but I’ll help you study for Friday’s math quiz,
and I won’t judge you for forgetting basic division.
I may no longer sprout pairs of pure feathered wings,
big and gentle enough to hug the entire world,
but I’l lend you my favorite hoodie when you’re cold,
and I’ll pretend not to shiver, just to see your smile. -
An unfinished poem I found in my notes app
TW for death, gore, violenceSpoiler
how long does it take
for us to stop living?
when do joyous smiles
become bones crushed under tires?
how do bright futures
become brains splattered on the wall?
how long does it take
for us to stop caring?
when do horserace headlines
fade into yesterday’s news?
when do we stop saying their names
—letting them die once again?Spoiler
This poem is about tragic events--specifically, asking at what point do we stop caring. When do tragedies stop being newsworthy? When do once-beloved people fade into obscurity, tainted by their fates?
The last few lines are based on something I was told, which is that a person truly dies when their name is said for the last time (I was told this at a community service event I did where we placed christmas wreaths on the graves of veterans; we were encouraged to say their names again so that they may live again). And that idea has stuck with me
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