what is your favorite poem?

[FoJaR]

if you have one, post it here, and i will make fun of it/you.

not really, but it might end up happening.

edit: just so it's fair, i'll post my favorite poem first.

The Fisherman

ALTHOUGH I can see him still,
The freckled man who goes
To a grey place on a hill
In grey Connemara clothes
At dawn to cast his flies,
It’s long since I began
To call up to the eyes
This wise and simple man.
All day I’d looked in the face
What I had hoped ’twould be
To write for my own race
And the reality;
The living men that I hate,
The dead man that I loved,
The craven man in his seat,
The insolent unreproved,
And no knave brought to book
Who has won a drunken cheer,
The witty man and his joke
Aimed at the commonest ear,
The clever man who cries
The catch-cries of the clown,
The beating down of the wise
And great Art beaten down.

Maybe a twelvemonth since
Suddenly I began,
In scorn of this audience,
Imagining a man
And his sun-freckled face,
And grey Connemara cloth,
Climbing up to a place
Where stone is dark under froth,
And the down turn of his wrist
When the flies drop in the stream:
A man who does not exist,
A man who is but a dream;
And cried, ‘Before I am old
I shall have written him one
Poem maybe as cold
And passionate as the dawn.’

W.B.Yeats

[whorlichan]

I have two that I love more than anything else...

Stopping By Woods On A Snowy Evening

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.
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.

- Robert Frost

and...

anyone lived in a pretty how town
(with up so floating many bells down)
spring summer autumn winter
he sang his didn't he danced his did.

Women and men(both little and small)
cared for anyone not at all
they sowed their isn't they reaped their same
sun moon stars rain

children guessed(but only a few
and down they forgot as up they grew
autumn winter spring summer)
that noone loved him more by more

when by now and tree by leaf
she laughed his joy she cried his grief
bird by snow and stir by still
anyone's any was all to her

someones married their everyones
laughed their cryings and did their dance
(sleep wake hope and then)they
said their nevers they slept their dream

stars rain sun moon
(and only the snow can begin to explain
how children are apt to forget to remember
with up so floating many bells down)

one day anyone died i guess
(and noone stooped to kiss his face)
busy folk buried them side by side
little by little and was by was

all by all and deep by deep
and more by more they dream their sleep
noone and anyone earth by april
wish by spirit and if by yes.

Women and men(both dong and ding)
summer autumn winter spring
reaped their sowing and went their came
sun moon stars rain

- e.e. cummings

[FoJaR]

whorichan you get a B

B+ for content and C for following directions.

i hope you'll pay more careful attention on your next assignment.

[Lightknight924]

I can't find the lyrics but my favorate poem is that NFL poem about the fall.

[Neonatrias]

Hey, Whorli. You know that "Stopping By Woods On A Snowy Evening" is all about considering suicide, right? Frost was like 20 and had no will to live when he wrote that.

I'll probably return to this thread once I get home today and post mine; I need some time to think about it. Just thought I'd pop that in there.

[whorlichan]

Hey, Whorli. You know that "Stopping By Woods On A Snowy Evening" is all about considering suicide, right?

Dude, anyone with a 5th grade English reading level knows that. It doesn't mean it's not beautiful in its own right. Besides, I can relate to that sometimes.

[blahblah18]

"Death Be Not Proud"

DEATH be not proud, though some have called thee
Mighty and dreadfull, for, thou art not so,
For, those, whom thou think'st, thou dost overthrow,
Die not, poore death, nor yet canst thou kill me.
From rest and sleepe, which but thy pictures bee,
Much pleasure, then from thee, much more must flow,
And soonest our best men with thee doe goe,
Rest of their bones, and soules deliverie.
Thou art slave to Fate, Chance, kings, and desperate men,
And dost with poyson, warre, and sicknesse dwell,
And poppie, or charmes can make us sleepe as well,
And better then thy stroake; why swell'st thou then;
One short sleepe past, wee wake eternally,
And death shall be no more; death, thou shalt die.

[gonzo4life44]

ok this poem is from stephen crane its called, A man said to the universe.

A man said to the universe:
"Sir I exist!"
"However," replied the universe,
"The fact has not created in me
A sense of obligation."

Short and sweet. If you dont know much about him, he was a naturalist. If you dont now much about the naturalism time period, you wont get the poem.

[GuidoHunter]

I'm not really into poetry. In fact, I loathe most of it. But here's a good poem that's been in my bathroom ever since I was four. Wise words, they are. The second poem is one that I don't consider a poem but was in a book of poetry and is funny.

The Man in the Glass
Author unknown

When you get what you want in your struggle for self
And the world makes you king for a day
Just go to a mirror and look at yourself
And see what that man has to say.

For it isn't your father or mother or wife
Whose judgment upon you must pass
For the fellow whose verdict counts most in your life
Is the one staring back from the glass.

You may be like Jack Horner and chisel a plum
And think you're a wonderful guy
But the man in the glass says you're only a bum
If you can't look him straight in the eye.

He's the fellow to please, never mind all the rest
For he's with you clear up to the end
And you've passed your most dangerous, difficult task
If the man in the glass is your friend.

You may fool the whole world down the pathway of years
And get pats on the back as you pass
But your final reward will be heartache and tears
If you've cheated the man in the glass.

---------------------------------------------

The Hopping Poem
by Ethan Coen

****
****
****
****,
That
Hurt,
****
****

--Guido

http://andy.mikee385.com

[FoJaR]

gonzo = n00b.

guido = poopy face.

blahblah = wolf

[MalReynolds]

He Wishes for Cloths of Heaven

W. B. Yeats.

Had I the heavens’ embroidered cloths,
Enwrought with golden and silver light,
The blue and the dim and the dark cloths
Of night and light and the half-light,
I would spread the cloths under your feet:
But I, being poor, have only my dreams;
I have spread my dreams under your feet;
Tread softly because you tread on my dreams.

-

Mal

[esupin]

There's no way to choose a favorite poem for me, but I read this recently and liked it:

Dudley Randall

The Ballad of Birmingham
(On the bombing of a church in Birmingham, Alabama, 1963)

"Mother dear, may I go downtown
Instead of out to play,
And march the streets of Birmingham
In a Freedom March today?"
"No, baby, no, you may not go,
For the dogs are fierce and wild,
And clubs and hoses, guns and jails
Aren't good for a little child."

"But, mother, I won't be alone.
Other children will go with me,
And march the streets of Birmingham
To make our country free."

"No, baby, no, you may not go,
For I fear those guns will fire.

But you may go to church instead
And sing in the children's choir."

She has combed and brushed her night-dark hair,
And bathed rose petal sweet,
And drawn white gloves on her small brown hands,
And white shoes on her feet.

The mother smiled to know that her child
Was in the sacred place,
But that smile was the last smile
To come upon her face.

For when she heard the explosion,
Her eyes grew wet and wild.
She raced through the streets of Birmingham
Calling for her child.

She clawed through bits of glass and brick,
Then lifted out a shoe.
"O, here's the shoe my baby wore,
But, baby, where are you?"

[msbrunnettemickey]

Immortal
by Daniel James Burt

She is forever standing
at our secret pond
beneath our loving tree.
Welcome late-spring breeze
lifting summer dress and hat
ever so slightly.

She is dropping a rose
frozen forever in time
it cascades from her hand.
Around her, the pond,
the cat-tails, the bird song,
all captured deliciously.

She is smiling playfully
as rose follows petals
to rest amidst lily-pads.
A buzz of bumblebee,
breeze dancing leaves above,
mid-morning sun seems to kiss her.

She laughs hearing her name
turns with anticipation
burned forever is the sight.
Even as life continues -
for that split second
her beauty is immortalized.

[ayanepuck]

Besides something well-known, like Sonnet 130 or The Raven, I would have to say I am stuck between three:

Richard Corey
*"Whenever Richard Cory went down town,
We people on the pavement looked at him:
He was a gentleman from sole to crown,
Clean favored, and imperially slim.
And he was always quietly arrayed,
And he was always human when he talked;
But still he fluttered pulses when he said,
"Good-morning," and he glittered when he walked.

And he was rich - yes, richer than a king,
And admirably schooled in every grace:
In fine, we thought that he was everything
To make us wish that we were in his place.

So on we worked, and waited for the light,
And went without the meat, and cursed the bread;
And Richard Cory, one calm summer night,
Went home and put a bullet through his head."

--Edwin Arlington Robinson

---Or---

To the Whore who took my poems
"some say we should keep personal remorse from the
poem,
stay abstract, and there is some reason in this,
but jezus;
twelve poems gone and I don't keep carbons and you have
my
paintings too, my best ones; its stifling:
are you trying to crush me out like the rest of them?
why didn't you take my money? they usually do
from the sleeping drunken pants sick in the corner.
next time take my left arm or a fifty
but not my poems:
I'm not Shakespeare
but sometime simply
there won't be any more, abstract or otherwise;
here'll always be mony and whores and drunkards
down to the last bomb,
but as God said,
crossing his legs,
I see where I have made plenty of poets
but not so very much
poetry."

--Charles Bukowski

---or---

Mirror
"I am silver and exact. I have no preconceptions.
Whatever I see, I swallow immediately.
Just as it is, unmisted by love or dislike
I am not cruel, only truthful –
The eye of a little god, four-cornered.
Most of the time I meditate on the opposite wall.
It is pink, with speckles. I have looked at it so long
I think it is a part of my heart. But it flickers.
Faces and darkness separate us over and over.

Now I am a lake. A woman bends over me.
Searching my reaches for what she really is.
Then she turns to those liars, the candles or the moon.
I see her back, and reflect it faithfully
She rewards me with tears and an agitation of hands.
I am important to her. She comes and goes.
Each morning it is her face that replaces the darkness.
In me she has drowned a young girl, and in me an old woman
Rises toward her day after day, like a terrible fish."

--Sylvia Plath

[CarianStorm]

It's terribly cliche and terribly normal. But I love this poem...




Edgar Allan Poe's "The Raven"
Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak and weary,
Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore--
While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping,
As of some one gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door.
"'Tis some visitor," I muttered, "tapping at my chamber door--
Only this and nothing more."

Ah, distinctly I remember it was in the bleak December;
And each separate dying ember wrought its ghost upon the floor.
Eagerly I wished the morrow; --vainly I had sought to borrow
From my books surcease of sorrow--sorrow for the lost Lenore
For the rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore--
Nameless here for evermore.


And the silken, sad, uncertain rustling of each purple curtain
Thrilled me--filled me with fantastic terrors never felt before;
So that now, to still the beating of my heart, I stood repeating
"'Tis some visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door--
Some late visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door; --
This it is and nothing more."


Presently my soul grew stronger; hesitating then no longer,
"Sir," said I, "or Madam, truly your forgiveness I implore;
But the fact is I was napping, and so gently you came rapping,
And so faintly you came tapping, tapping at my chamber door,
That I scarce was sure I heard you" -- here I opened wide the door; --
Darkness there and nothing more.


Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there wondering, fearing,
Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortal ever dared to dream before;
But the silence was unbroken, and the stillness gave no token,
And the only word there spoken was the whispered word "Lenore!"
This I whispered, and an echo murmured back the word "Lenore!"
Merely this and nothing more.


Back into the chamber turning, all my soul within me burning,
Soon again I heard a tapping somewhat louder than before.
"Surely," said I, "surely that is something at my window lattice
Let me see, then, what thereat is, and this mystery explore--
Let my heart be still a moment and this mystery explore; --
"'Tis the wind and nothing more!"


Open here I flung the shutter, When, with many a flirt and flutter
In there stepped a stately Raven of the Saintly days of yore.
Not the least obeisance made he; not a minute stopped or stayed he;
But, with mein of lord or lady, perched above my chamber door--
Perched upon my bust of Pallas just above my chamber door--
Perched, and sat, and nothing more.


Then this ebony bird beguiling my sad fancy into smiling,
By the grave and stern decorum of the countenance it wore,
"Though thy crest be shorn and shaven, thou," I said, "art sure no craven,
Ghastly grim and ancient Raven wandering from the Nightly shore--
Tell me what thy lordly name is on the Night's Plutonian shore!"
Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore."


Much I marvelled this ungainly fowl to hear discourse so plainly,
Though its answer little meaning-- little relevancy bore;
For we cannot help agreeing that no living human being
Ever yet was blessed with seeing bird above his chamber door--
Bird or beast upon the sculptured bust above his chamber door,
With such name as "Nevermore."


But the Raven, sitting lonely on the placid bust, spoke only
That one word, as if his soul in that one word he did outpour.
Nothing farther then he uttered--not a feather then he fluttered--
Till I scarcely more than muttered "Other friends have flown before--
On the morrow he will leave me, as my hopes have flown before."
Then the bird said "Nevermore."


Startled at the stillness broken by reply so aptly spoken,
"Doubtless," said I, "what it utters is its only stock and store
Caught from some unhappy master whom unmerciful Disaster
Followed fast and followed faster till his songs one burden bore--
Till the dirges of his Hope that melancholy burden bore
Of 'Never--nevermore.'"


But the Raven still beguiling all my sad soul into smiling
Straight I wheeled a cushioned seat in front of bird, and bust and door;
Then, upon the velvet sinking, I betook myself to linking
Fancy unto fancy, thinking what this ominous bird of yore--
What this grim, ungainly, ghastly, gaunt, and ominous bird of yore
meant in croaking "Nevermore."


This I sat engaged in guessing, but no syllable expressing
To the fowl whose fiery eyes now burned into my bosom's core;
This and more I sat divining, with my head at ease reclining
On the cushion's velvet lining that the lamp-light gloated o'er,
But whose velvet violet lining with the lamp-light gloating o'er,
She shall press, ah, nevermore!


Then, methought, the air grew denser, perfumed from an unseen censer
Swung by Seraphim whose foot-falls tinkled on the tufted floor.
"Wretch," I cried, "Thy God hath lent thee--by these angels he hath sent thee
Respite--respite and nepenthe from thy memories of Lenore,
Quaff, oh quaff this kind nepenthe and forget this lost Lenore!"
Quoth the Raven "Nevermore."


"Prophet!" said I, "thing of evil! prophet still, if bird or devil!--
Whether Tempest sent, or whether tempest tossed thee here ashore,
Desolate yet all undaunted, on this desert land enchanted--
On this home by Horror haunted--tell me truly, I implore--
Is there-- is there balm in Gilead?-- tell me-- tell me, I implore!"
Quoth the Raven "Nevermore."


"Prophet!" said I, "thing of evil! - prophet still, if bird or devil!
By that Heaven that bends above us - by that God we both adore --
Tell this soul with sorrow laden if, within the distant Aidenn,
It shall clasp a sainted maiden whom the angels name Lenore --
Clasp a rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore."
Quoth the Raven "Nevermore."


"Be that word our sign of parting, bird or fiend!" I shrieked, upstarting--
"Get thee back into the tempest and the Night's Plutonian shore!
Leave no black plume as a token of that lie thy soul hath spoken!
Leave my loneliness unbroken! --quit the bust above my door!
Take thy beak from out my heart,and Take thy form from off my door!"
Quoth the Raven "Nevermore."


And the Raven, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting
On the pallid bust of Pallas just above my chamber door;
And his eyes have all the seeming of a demon's that is dreaming,
And the lamp-light o'er him streaming throws his shadow on the floor;
And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the floor
Shall be lifted--nevermore!

[Mindfields]

O Captain! My Captain!
Walt Whitman

O CAPTAIN! my Captain! our fearful trip is done;
The ship has weather’d every rack, the prize we sought is won;
The port is near, the bells I hear, the people all exulting,
While follow eyes the steady keel, the vessel grim and daring:
But O heart! heart! heart!
O the bleeding drops of red,
Where on the deck my Captain lies,
Fallen cold and dead.



O Captain! my Captain! rise up and hear the bells;
Rise up—for you the flag is flung—for you the bugle trills;
For you bouquets and ribbon’d wreaths—for you the shores a-crowding;
For you they call, the swaying mass, their eager faces turning;
Here Captain! dear father!
This arm beneath your head;
It is some dream that on the deck,
You’ve fallen cold and dead.



My Captain does not answer, his lips are pale and still;
My father does not feel my arm, he has no pulse nor will;
The ship is anchor’d safe and sound, its voyage closed and done;
From fearful trip, the victor ship, comes in with object won;
Exult, O shores, and ring, O bells!
But I, with mournful tread,
Walk the deck my Captain lies,
Fallen cold and dead.

Heard it in 6th grade while at Alternative School. They put me in Advanced 8th grade English class, so now two years later I look forward to doing the same poetic stuff that we did 2 years ago. I'm in English 1 (High School class), however, and doubt that the curriculum features poetry in it...

[Triking]

My favorite poem?

The apparition of these faces in the crowd:
Petals on a wet, black bough.

[SethSquall]

I couldnt tell you a favourite. One poem however, that has stuck with me for a long time is "The Rhyme of the Ancient Mariner" by Samuel Taylor Coleridge. I remember my grandad was a huge fan of his. He used to always read me his poems. The rhyme of the Ancient Mariner stood out the most to me. That poem has many values to me after he passed away. I read it out at his funeral in honor of him. I would love to post it but its so long. So i surgest if you are generally interested it wouldnt be hard to find on google. However i will post a another poem i am fond of by Sir Samuel Taylor Coleridge. Its called "The Dungeon"

And this place our forefathers made for man!
This is the process of our love and wisdom,
To each poor brother who offends against us -
Most innocent, perhaps -and what if guilty?
Is this the only cure? Merciful God!
Each pore and natural outlet shrivelled up
By Ignorance and parching Poverty,
His energies roll back upon his heart,
And stagnate and corrupt; till changed to poison,
They break out on him, like a loathsome plague-spot;
Then we call in our pampered mountebanks -
And this is their best cure! uncomforted
And friendless solitude, groaning and tears,
And savage faces, at the clanking hour,
Seen through the steam and vapours of his dungeon,
By the lamp's dismal twilgiht! So he lies
Circled with evil, till his very soul
Unmoulds its essence, hopelessly deformed
By sights of ever more deformity!

With other ministrations thou, O Nature!
Healest thy wandering and distempered child:
Thou pourest on him thy soft influences,
Thy sunny hues, fair forms, and breathing sweets,
Thy melodies of woods, and winds, and waters,
Till he relent, and can no more endure
To be a jarring and a dissonant thing
Amid this general dance and minstrelsy;
But, bursting into tears, wins back his way,
His angry spirit healed and harmonized
By the benignant touch of Love and Beauty.

[KiwiChick]

Ayanepuck gets lots of cool points, because Plath and Bukowski are brilliant poets. (No I'm not going to post my favourites, because there are too many.)

[FoJaR]

plath was a fraud who offed herself because she couldnt stand living in her husband's shadow.

[xiron]

Not technically poetry, but the lyrics to the Every Time I Die song, Floater.

To my mistress the bridge, I don't feel well.
I'll be leaving, you can't stop me.
We've been carrying on too long.
I'm sorry, but I'm gone. I've got a bad reputation to think about.
I've been dirty, I've been wrong.
Maybe someday they'll find that I've washed up.
I'm stepping out to clear my head.
I'm breathing in to fill my lungs. We're all dead.
Farewell scenic highway overpass.
It's better this way anyways.
My lover, the river, makes a better soldier than a bride.
But I left my heart at the side of her bed and she's got the warmest body that I've ever had.
Drag the lake, you'll find it full of love.
Bring the children to the water, and let them see what heartache did.
This matrimony needs a witness, and you can teach them to swim.
You can teach them all to swim.
Don't let your dreamers grow up to be dead men. Drown us at birth, save her some time.
Drifting on romantic holiday, breathless as her cold arms cover me.
Drag the lake. You'll find it full of love.

[bill_clinton]

Five Meals
By lord carbo

Today I have strangely
been in the mood
To eat a hill
a mountain of food

A breakfast for four
Makes me want more

Lunch for a king
Is hardly a thing

An elephant snack
I gorge and attack

Dinner is big
I eat like a pig

Yet a small desert
Makes my tummy hurt

[ayanepuck]

plath was a fraud who offed herself because she couldnt stand living in her husband's shadow.
How was Plath a fraud? I love her poems, I have read The Bell Jar close to 22 times, and I have yet to find what is fraudulent about her....so please, enlighten me.

[GuidoHunter]

Uh, SethSquall? You love that poem so much yet you don't know it's not "The Rhyme", but rather "The Rime"?

--Guido

http://andy.mikee385.com

[QreepyBORIS]

The Rime of the Ancient Mariner is excellent. My personal favorite, though, is A Dust of Snow by Robert Frost, mostly because it's short enough for me to have (kind of) committed to memory. Here goes:

The way a crow shook down on me
A dust of snow from a hemlock tree
Has given my heart a change of mood
And saved a part of a day I rued

Haven't heard it for about 3 years, though, so that might be a bit off.

[SethSquall]

Uh, SethSquall? You love that poem so much yet you don't know it's not "The Rhyme", but rather "The Rime"?

--Guido

http://andy.mikee385.com

Yea your right, my mistake. Thats annoyied me >__<. Shouldn't make that mistake. It's is on my bloody wall as well. I can be such an idiot at times. Anyway. I do love that poem so much.

edit: Seems the quote thing is not working, either that or it just shows how html wise i am ...o.O

[FoJaR]

plath was a fraud who offed herself because she couldnt stand living in her husband's shadow.
How was Plath a fraud? I love her poems, I have read The Bell Jar close to 22 times, and I have yet to find what is fraudulent about her....so please, enlighten me.

sorry, fraud was the wrong word. i should have said "sorry excuse for a human being".

[Boxorox]

My personal favorite is "Epigram" by Samuel Taylor Coleridge

Sir, I admit your general rule,
That every poet is a fool,
But you yourself may serve to show it,
That every fool is not a poet.

Actually, I have a second favorite, from Alexander Pope's "Essay on Man"

Know then thyself, presume not God to scan,
The proper study of mankind is Man.
Placed on this isthmus of a middle state,
A being darkly wise and rudely great:
With too much knowledge for the Sceptic side,
With too much weakness for the Stoic's pride,
He hangs between, in doubt to act or rest;
In doubt to deem himself a God or Beast;
In doubt his mind or body to prefer;
Born but to die, and reas'ning but to err;
Alike in ignorance, his reason such,
Whether he thinks too little or too much;
Chaos of thought and passion, all confused;
Still by himself abused or disabused;
Created half to rise, and half to fall:
Great lord of all things, yet a prey to all;
Sole judge of truth, in endless error hurl'd;
The glory, jest, and riddle of the world!

[chickendude]

And this is the way the world ends
not with a bang but a whimper

P.S.
Quotes aren't working with some accounts

[ayanepuck]

plath was a fraud who offed herself because she couldnt stand living in her husband's shadow.
How was Plath a fraud? I love her poems, I have read The Bell Jar close to 22 times, and I have yet to find what is fraudulent about her....so please, enlighten me.

sorry, fraud was the wrong word. i should have said "sorry excuse for a human being".

And why exactly would that be? Oh wait, let me guess...she was a strong, assertive, independent woman with a wonderful mind, a beautiful imagination and a a great knack for putting her feelings and thoughts down on paper. You are so right. I can see how you would think she was a "sorry excuse for a human being." My mistake.

[sockwars11]

hey hey hey
smoke weed everyday
- dave chappelle

[Lightknight924]

FFR

A website of fun,
As long as you don't act dumb.
Then you should be safe.


Flash Flash Revolution And I

It began on that one fatefull day,
When I went on the computer to play.
Excited and happy, I was.
For I was going to play a game.
My brother Ryan had said it twas' not lame,
So I hopped off of AIM and hopped onto a game.
This game was called Kingdom of Loathing.
I joined this game with my bro,
And joined a clan playing about and fro'.
This clans name was FFR.
I did not know what FFR was,
untill my brother showed me.
I was kicked out of the clan of FFR.
For giving a page of spamming.
Angry and cursing and damning,
I began to think of some planning.
I joined the site of FFR in the year of '04
I said to them that I was there to stay,
And they basically knocked me to the floor.
So I made up another name,
As I was given the same result.
So I mad up another,
And another, and another and more.
Until the year of 2005.
When I made up my final diguise.
I called it the Lightknight, my name as alias.
And showed FFR that it was me.
Except I stayed anyways.
I grew more and more enemies and recieved the name n00b.
Hated and banned I was.
Until I decided that this was it!
I decided to post my final post!
To show the host that I am no ghost!
That I'm real with feelings as well!
Except! No matter what I tried I was always repelled!
So this is it? This the end?
An end of my life, on the internet?
Then fine! Then fine!
Quit, I shall.
This is my last poem!
This is for Mal!
The one who had understood my point of view!
And treated me like he has treated all of you!
So this is it?
This is the end?
Shall I be forgiven? Ever again?
If I submit this will people notice?
Or will they skip it and post one of their own.
So I may be forshawdowed in the darkness alone.
Now this is it.
This is the end.
I am leaving FFR.
If I return it will not be me.
Soon, you shall see what I mean.
I swear to you.
To all who are.
That I am the Lightknight,
Knight of the light.
Pride is Life.
And that is my final advice.
Farewell to you all.
I am not returning.
When I do, it will not be the Lightknight you remembered.
For you will lose the LK that once was,
Into the darkness,
Into the lost.
Thank you Mal for sticking up for me.
Now it is my turn to pay you all back.
Never again shall I burden you all.
Fare thee well RaiRai, Fare thee well to all.
Farewell.
I am the Lightknight,
.....Of the Fourth Age.

Prikas ik Life.

[Farka]

I think you should try another website forum because it seemse they don't like you very well from what you say.

[dontcareaboutmyid]

quoth the server, "404"

do a google search, I don't know if I can post it here. It's humorous.

Otherwise, I'm not to keen on reading published poetry.

[aperson]

This Be The Verse by Philip Larkin

They **** 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 ****ed 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.