What’s the most random poem?!

hahaha I made up the word squeetious and squeestiously. To hold someone and squeeze them the perfect amount lol

@Adam Gary I didn't even think to mention making up words. I forget that I can do that as a writer. I do it all the time in real life lol

I literally just posted my poem in Share Your Poetry. That aside, @Marc Brimble , 'They used flowers' is beautiful!

@Rachel Glass That poem sounds very wholesome.

Would love to read it,if you love to share.

@Bendy Nguyen I haven't shared a poem on here for a while. I'll post it tonight in celebration of our birthday!

@Adam Gary Ooo, shall I post them all here? It'll be a looooong-a** comment so I'll ask first :P Or I might just compile them into one file and attach it here if that's ok? I might post the perfume poem in the 'Share Your Poetry' thread because I don't think I've shared that here yet!

@Shen Friebe That would be great! Can't wait to read them Shen! However you feel is best to go about it

@Adam Gary Thank you for requesting to read these poems ^_^ I couldn't attach the document to this comment without getting an error so... I've added them all here :P It's a long list so absolutely no rush to get back to me soon! (some of these you have read before so you can give them a skip :P) They're just here for your reference. Hope you enjoy!

EDIT: That dog gif made me lol 😂

Submarines Make Me Shiver

Submarines make me shiver.

Lifeless man-made monsters,

Bolted together with plates of matte metal for skin.

Built to drown,

Sinking slowly into the sea until the gaping wet oblivion swallows it whole.

My internal organs shrivel at the thought of standing beside a black rocket fallen on its side,

Imposing, at the port,

Like a deformed cruise ship corrupted by the shadowy riptide it was sucked into.

This hideous mechanical thing is functional in secret ways,

Howling like a whale as it plunges towards the centre of the Earth

Martyring itself to a bottomless pit,

Yet fearless and powerful.

It is guaranteed to collect the jungle vines of the ocean's bed;

Algae and seaweed latching onto its body like strands of hair upon wet skin.

A horrifying thought, that these cold weeds will soon rise on the back of this metallic tortoise shell

Failing to glisten under the marigold sun

Like veins that refuse to part from a carcass.

This wretch, filthy demon thrives in enigma,

Pursuing the unseen omega,

Imprisoned by the ocean,

Manipulated by captains,

Damned to discover creatures more horrifying than the tales that make sailors quake.

Rumbling lightly as it swims slowly in pitch black hollow silence,

Waiting for the gates of hell to open.

To a Cup of Tea

Tears of the Earth,

Steam from the sea,

The blood of the bark,

And of the tree leaves.

You are a dancer in hot spring water,

The smoky, the bitter and the sweet.

Housed within a chalice of clay,

Your warm blood and my cold hands meet.

When in winter, you bring summer,

When in sadness, you make me slumber.

When in spring, the flowers are pink,

Some I will pick and some I will drink.

A world of flavour you have gifted to me,

Of Chai and Earl Grey and of Jasmine Green Tea.

A world to my lips you have granted to me,

Black tea from Russia and cherry from Turkey.

Your soil sinks to the bottom of my glass,

Then rises to my lips with each ravenous sip,

Every drop of your hot blood is liquid gold

Into my mouth and heart you will drip.

To My Perfume Bottle

An evening dress graced with a string of pearls

Or a pair of slacks fastened with a velvet belt.

Sometimes, a fresh sheet of skin should not be dressed in anything

But the fragrant perspiration of the earth.

Aromatic liquid passion detained in a small urn of glass,

Relieved by the push of a finger

Discharged from the smallest of cavities

To decorate my skin moments before it is draped in flattering textile.

Bathe me in the oils of Spring,

The tears of Summer and the dust of Autumn.

Sprinkle the sins of Winter all over,

Moisturise my body with the blood of nature.

Cinnamon, the carnal sugar and spice of the human body (suffocate me in your chalky cloud).

Woodfire smoke, the heady steam wistfully floating in my lungs.

Midnight orchid is the night sky compressed into a fist-sized chalice.

Black rose is the sultry sadness that trickles from the cracks in my heart.

Patchouli and sandalwood remind me of fractured romances past.

Magical oud is a sensual gift passed down from my ancestors of the desert.

The fine hairs brushed down my arms and up my legs are dainty vetiver.

Amber is the sweat and oils pressed from the apertures of my skin.

When I want to travel but have no access to a plane,

I dim the lights and play rock music all night,

Drenching myself in lingering bergamot and cedarwood,

Summoning an everlasting hot spring of the most bitter and sweet nostalgia.

The Cosmic Latte

We are matter.

Matter comes from atoms, and atoms turn brown.

Programmed to decay.

Brown in our coffee mugs and brown on the ground.

Brown is the colour of fur and all excrement that comes from matter.

It is the pigment of the universe in a blender.

The unification of all to become the palette of space and time.

Matter comes from atoms and atoms turn brown,

Forever preserving life.

Hot pinks and electric blues bleed together, becoming murky waters,

Murky rivers, muddy waters,

Precipitation married to dust we are forbidden to touch and ingest.

Muddy puddles, the remains of a world slowly falling apart

Then oozing back together to solidify.

Muddy gunk some find nourishing upon the skin and soul.

Mud that stains our garments like the burdens that spoil and toil the soul.

Much of this mud we turn into terracotta,

To build empires and hardened warriors,

Attempting to replicate another world upon the old and natural Earth

Browner and harder, so no wind can tear down our clay mountains.

Mountains to guard beings that fall under the broad spectrum of brown,

To become their homes and their protection from other warriors and empires.

Beckoning and brittle clay mountains so volatile they burst like sienna supernovas when they explode.

But not all browns are so harsh,

Add some sugar and it becomes cream,

For coffee or for comfort,

But with more dirt it burns to umber,

Deep and rich like Belgian confectionery

Like the fine fibres coiling to make hairs on a head.

Brown of skin, beige to bronze,

Copper to mocha.

A gradient of bodies changed by the climates that enclose over them

While the ground below holds them all up on the same dusty plane.

Brown!

The colour of woodfire burning in a secluded cabin away from gravel paths and sirens.

Hot chocolate by the fire,

The aroma of burnt toffee in the air.

We sit on the floor, grounded and away from the ambitions that await us above,

We sit on a floor of dirt.

As the food we eat dances and churns in our gut,

Churning and turning into the cosmic latte,

That pours in and out of us,

As it did in the beginning of time, and as it will when the world caves in,

And matter is no more.

She's Running Late

She's running late, like Yellowstone.

The party has already started but she is late.

My Express to sanity and sanctuary has halted.

I am left to wait another hour before she arrives.

She will pick me up and we will attend the party together.

But for now, I must wait at my placid station,

With no more than already read books and completed home duties.

No desire for tea and not enough desperation for a G&T.

So I exhaust this generous window of time by writing.

I tell myself this is not a distraction; time and space is best allocated to art,

Inconvenience is the coal for my train of thought.

My impatience is red and my solitude a cool blue.

I can put these to good use, and as always, I do.

So I better use up these colours before they dry,

Otherwise I will sit here and be tempted to cry.

So I rail and write,

Some creations I may publish, some I will keep to myself.

I will keep writing until I have reaped the smallest of berries from the tree of life,

To chew, sip and above all, be as merry as I can be with what-

With everything I have.

But for now, the party waits.

Like I,

Awaiting text messages that will never arrive,

A night-blooming cereus to crack open at day break,

Or a deep-source eruption that will draw me riches...

But for now, I look out the window as the world passes by,

Sometimes in high-speed.

So I paint the notepad on my laptop with latinised symbols while I wait.

And wait.

So I will write.

Forever writing.

Red Leather Couch

Goodbye, my love.

Goodbye to the mornings our eyes will never open to together.

Goodbye to the stroll down the beach we will never take in sunny weather.

Goodbye to the teary 'I do' you will never hear me say.

Goodbye to the 'I love you's' exchanged every Valentine's Day.

Goodbye to the anticipation of seeing your face again.

Goodbye to your inner-city one-room studio den.

Goodbye to the curly-haired babies I aborted before conception.

Goodbye to the money we gift our grandchildren from our pension.

Goodbye to the softness of your lips when yours meet mine.

Goodbye to a magic kind of love that was once in a lifetime.

Goodbye to the sound of your voice and laugh that complete me.

Goodbye to illusions of things that were never going to be.

In the end, it was just a romance doomed to fail,

Separated we will now be from every breath we wail.

But one cost you paid to compensate for all your vices,

A red leather couch, that could not compare with all my sacrifices.

The Flies

I came home one summer's day feeling invigorated

For earlier that day I mustered the strength to speak frankly- without any hesitation- about a particular matter.

For the particular matter mattered not

As speaking frankly about anything was a great conquest in itself

And that is why I recall this very day so vividly.

Upon entering my private quarters, I discovered that a swarm of little flies had infested my room.

Little flecks of black zig-zagged and danced above my bed,

Eventually gathering up against my window they took for their sanctum.

To my inconvenience, my window was open, thus it was impossible to coerce them to leave the way they came in,

For they were just flies and I could not humanly ask them to leave.

I could not shoo them out, nor brush them away with my hand and attempt to negate their existence,

I also had no fatal bug spray to disperse safely throughout my domain.

So I grabbed a slipper with a hard sole and killed them.

One by one.

Repeatedly.

I squashed them against my windows

A whack here and a press there.

Over and over.

Their little bloody bodies smeared all over the glass.

Blood so human red.

Wings and legs flattened and pulled apart.

Guts so tiny I was convinced they had none, or were completely liquefied in the culling.

Slowly, yet surely, the task was being completed.

Bang bang bang.

Bang.

Eventually, there was one poor stray soul, whizzing about,

In ignorance or in fear, I could not tell,

But what I did know was that it needed mercy so I gave it to it too.

Then silence.

Relief,

But ultimately, silence.

Little flies in the summer.

Under the soles of my shoes.

Pressed up against my windows.

Where they remained on display for days.

Holy Word

God lives on the southern slope of a peak in a coastal mountain range,

A white puritan stretched atop a lush bed of sacred green shrubbery

Overlooking cool lagoons, sand dunes and winding azure rivers,

And all kinds of human activity imaginable.

God is made up of white words written by old fashioned dead men

Upheld by metal balustrating and wild human culture.

Children across the lands and seasons will cross seas to visit the American Mecca

And kneel before the great diverting monument

Thankful for everything momentarily wonderful in this world.

It is, apparently, impossible to conceive a visual representation of God

But that is simply untrue.

Our God can be measured and is 45 ft tall and 350 ft long.

They say God cannot be built nor birthed as He always was- but that is simply untrue,

Our God was designed by dreamers and rich men who wanted to manufacture their own Promised Land

Accommodating ambitious pioneers and uninhibited libertines who write their own rules

Who live in a dichotomous land where saccharine fantasy coexists with immeasurable excess.

God's name was not passed down from His Father, or His Father's Father.

But He does sit upon a mountain named after a local car dealer and radio station owner.

The path to God is a simple yet often treacherous one;

One must hike the Santa Monica Mountains and find the Mount Lee peak

And there, one will find the great sign that divides the hills from the city.

A giant totem towering over a refuge that is home to addicts and victors, perverts and the forever young.

Climb up the H of the Hollywood sign and see the world through God's eyes.

To stand where He stands and overlook an epitome of Paradise together, what do you see?

Surely, it is everything that warrants this terrain as heaven on Earth

A city of angels and a jungle of demons coexisting,

A union that is uncomfortable, yet meticulously fitting and even, completely comprehensible.

Los Angeles is the eternal hotbed of social warfare,

A city dismantled by victims of modernity and willing villains

Then revitalised by enchanting dreams and tropical palm trees

Silver screens and empty cocktail glasses

Painted smiles and overdoses.

Tragedy is not a narrative for heroes to overcome, but masochists to exploit,

They join the thousands of martyrs who sacrifice normality for unruly eccentricity

And ultimately, all become strangers to seclusion and rebels to anonymity.

Maybe hell is God's kingdom too.

Six Roses

A potent cold sweat

Sent him straight to bed.

A few weeks later

The fair king was dead.

He walks with a slouch

With a banner of a pig

Before he takes the throne

Two small graves he will dig.

But the king who was promised

Slayed the white boar.

Treason still followed him

Was it worth the war?

If he only knew

His son would be worse

Entitled and mad

Put two wives in a hearse.

I LOVE that Suchita!!!

Ah man that's so cool. Isn't under the ocean? I'd think it would be really special to visit

@Adam Gary It is somewhere off the coast!

@Rachel Glass Our coast!?