Best Screenplay Poems
tell me what you were thinking.
i want to know what ran through your mind.
as you packed all your bags and left me behind.
you left without even the simplest form of sentiment.
you had the best of me.
now i feel like nothing more than the protagonist in a tragedy.
a screenplay consisting of empty words.
you are nothing but a liar.
i write this with you in mind.
i wonder what you were so afraid of.
i wonder why you would abandon love.
the acts of a traitor.
i wish i could rid myself completely of you.
don't you know that i would have never left you behind.
this is the thanks i get, for always keeping you locked in my mind.
falling for every word that you spoke.
sinking like a ship into a sea of falsified hopes.
if i had known, i would have packed my bags.
and left you long before you left me.
now i lie in this bed, writing letters never to be sent.
releasing my mind from this torture and torment.
i can't let this keep wearing on my heart.
i'll give anything to escape this place.
as i finish writing this letter, i turn in my bed.
Sleeping with a ghost.
How could you let go?
it's been said,"to give is better than to receive."
i've given my all to you.
i set myself up to receive nothing but failure in return.
why can't i just rid you from my mind?
you were the one who left me behind and let this burn.
i just wonder what crossed your mind as you crossed that line.
i wish i didn't care about you.
BIO MODIFIED – CONCEITED IMPOSTER
Conceited
A poet a playwright, an actor and dreamer.
I love my reflection, a challenge, applause.
I’ve thought of a screenplay, a sit-com and novel.
I feel I am perfect, a genius, appealing.
I fear I’ll be wrong on all three of those feelings.
I’d like to write music, to sing and to dance.
A resident of dreamland, I don’t have a chance.
Imposter
31st March 2020
Bio Modified contest
Sponsor - Dear Heart
I just want five minutes, just to pitch
My killer screenplay for a killer film.
The hunt for a serial killer
By glamorous profilers, nothing grubby
Or exploitive. Some partial nudity,
(Only if required). There’ll be a sexy
Enigmatic hero. First a, er, sexy
Sombre saxophone sighs; on a soccer pitch
Lies the first victim. Tasteful nudity
Reveals one poignant nipple. Open eyes film
Over, dead as moon craters, her grubby
Legs disposed like spoons. She was our killer’s
Anonymous mouse. Our glamorous killer’s
Eyes showed her useless terror. Our sexy
Hero runs a slow hand through his grubby
Hair (Cares too much to wash.) Things touch fever pitch
When the next is abducted. We will film
Her wide eyed writhings. Classy nudity
Perhaps. Some brief tenderness; nudity
Of course; our hero and his wife. (While killer
Stalks a frail, thinly sketched female. We film
From his point of view her private sexy
Underwear clad body.) I want this pitch
To emphasize our Fincheresque grubby
Vision is totally unique. Grubby
Walls connote moral decay. Nudity
Is not exploitive. Our hero pitches
An unorthodox solution. The killer
Is secretly his cross-dressing sexy
Partner. Twisty eh? Never seen on film.
Dressed to Kill? No. Nobody’s heard of that film!
(Who remembers the 80s?) In a grubby
Climax, the mousy cross-dressing, sexy
Basement stalks saxophone solos. Nudity
Washes its private underthings. Killer
Underwear is arrested. That’s the pitch!
Contains grubby scenes of sexy violence.
Contains killer nudity and mild scenes of extreme peril.
Contains high pitched screams and discarded spoons.
6 Second Trailer
OMG
Did you see it?
OMG
Its...
I'm...
Oh
My
God
It's a fantastic flick
This is...
OMG
The full trailer?
It's coming
It's coming
OMG
So am I
Did you see her...
His...
Its...
Oh
So sweet
Gotta tweet
Gotta sleep
Don't ya love it
OMG
Who wrote it?
The screenplay?
Who cares?
Opening?
Premiering 2015
Bit early, eh?
What, the trailer?
Ya think?
Yeah, but
WTF
YOLO
Slaves of wages for generations
long forgotten in history’s screenplay.
Each hand for a moment has held
the torch.
The people are waiting in lines.
All toilers have resisted.
All skins have felt the blaze of blood.
The people are waiting in lines.
While trash still clutters the streets,
while starving stomachs
roam like rabid dogs.
The people are waiting in lines.
Our tears have been cleaved
and parceled,
sold like floodplain to the blind
by corporate politicians,
while the people are waiting in lines.
We are lured to live among the cushions,
to rest here where the river rises.
No markets can be called free
while hosting inequality.
The people are waiting in lines.
We medicate to escape,
numbing to the barbarization.
No economy can be called just
without democracy.
The people are waiting in lines.
We shall watch for clues.
We will know the signs.
Every torch shall rise.
The people are waiting in lines.
Published: Dissident Voice, August 2, 2020
Masticate this thought for me, reader.
Basic stories of characters with settings and plot.
Occasional works of obscure fiction written in flamboyant diction.
Maybe television shows or whatever media your mind chose.
Why does life and fiction have similarities?
We’ve apparently became parodies.
Archetypes, tropes and plot devices according to our script.
Except it seems the audience is all applause and standing ovation.
Supposedly great ratings or bestseller.
You haven’t heard our success? Well, you’re a bottom-dweller.
Oh! You suggest a rewrite? A script change?
You'll be written out that can be arranged.
As Jaque said,
“All the world’s a stage, and all the men and women merely players.”
However, a rewrite can add layers.
Yes, dear reader-
You can be the writer!
Evolve a scene to make it brighter!
Sadly, ideas and influence are the base of your personality.
Unjust is this reality but that’s the duality.
Determine which truth is yours to follow.
Even if it’s slightly hollow.
Plot holes will continue to exist, because we can’t resist the perfect screenplay.
The poet of this musing is in the same boat as you.
He didn’t produce this particular piece.
You pondered enough you can cease.
There will be no riddle to guess.
It’ll only become a mess, you’ll be stupefied by the stress.
I used him as a medium to establish a connection;
a ploy of deception call it misdirection.
I am Death!
I’ve been around for centuries,
I’ve guided many souls to the afterlife.
The past is behind…
The present is set…
The future is unclear…
The end is nigh…
Remember:
Your health will deplete or an event will happen down the line-
Never forget that your soul is always mine!
I would answer by saying that it is the absence of your fathers earthshaking glance at the dawn of an unpredictable night. I would answer by saying that it is the acknowledgment of the neglected truth, that life is nothing but a series of scenes in an indisposed screenplay. And that death is the anticipated protagonist, a patient gift disgustingly disguised underneath the smiles of all that which we think brings us happiness.
The ringmaster left
but the carnival stayed in town.
Erect, proud, empowered people
stride by living the Crayola dream.
Awash in color, characters in the screenplay,
the scene played with aborigine like dream walkers.
No surface left to its utilitarian plight,
all stroked and stoked with the creativity
of the artist, all crooned to by boombox
and skateboard smack, or the concrete
slap of a mariachis’ feet.
The burnt bright white light shivers
to a Hendricks strum, and the caffeinated come
one by one hooked in to hook up,
to the juke boxes sixties twang.
Children play on Aztec snakes rising
from a soft foam of green with
mosaic skin and glass eyes
freed from the restrictions, the confines,
the confounded, gay, straight, bi, free
bleeding poetry.
We hardly remember the truth
Victims of the Great Forgetting
We hardly recognize that history is popular culture
A screenplay of the past written by the victor
Just look at Thomas Jefferson
Author of the Declaration of Independence
With his quill scribing the words, "All men are created equal."
We hardly think of him slinking back to his slave plantation
Grabbing one of his African slave mistresses
and having his way with her
His love puppet
Of which he had a harem
My ninth grade teacher (whom had tenure)
whispered from the side of his face
The only thing Columbus discovered
Was those people he called Indians
Which we now call Native Americans
were savages in the sack
And the only thing he brought back
from the New World was syphilis
We hardly look at the big picture
which is that we are destroying ourselves
We cannot continue to keep living
the way we are living
And not expect civilization to collapse
We are so short sighted
We hardly see history repeating itself
We are Rome
And quite sadly Nixon is our Nero
Hardly a hero
It won't be long before
The clock strikes zero
By: Joseph DeMarco
I comprehend the days when rays do shine and Ra does set
When inner soul and façade connect, 24 hours in one day gave me breathe, that’s 1,440
seconds closer to death rather than oxygen left. Aspire to build that dream shape that
atmosphere, win a Nobel peace prize, become Man of the Year
Build homes in the smog inner city ghettoes, where blocks and countenance of lost souls
decay and rust, maybe spread poetry and love as well as a monumental philanthropist,
raise seeds that spread, root, bud fruit, then trees, then yield juice to saturate the Earth
with only sweet organic humanity
Turn impossible into “Can it be” then push shriveling raisons of doubt into the fathoms
of Davie Jones’s locker, to the depths of no man’s land where oxidation and sea level
pressure crush submarines into aluminum cans, cans where can’t conforms to can,
starve doubt and feed your faith, slow and steady wins the race, but more than
anything,, remember without tree-shaking fear, find that passion and equilibrium, killing
opposition and the antagonizing meniscus, swiftly remember that life through birth is not
a boomeranging discus, life never comes back so dream, execute, relax and become
life’s subtle screenplay until the script and its cast wilt into debris of cremated urns
holding dreams, aspirations, and the well worked remains of me.
The Moby Dick Reunion
One hundred fifty nine years have passed
Since Melville published his novel.
Seven hundred twenty pages in length
Some say it was much too nautical.
All of the characters have gathered.
They’re going to have a reunion.
Rumor has it, they say, that Herman himself
Is making a huge revelation.
Ishmael is the first to arrive,
And it’s he who was telling the story.
That’s only right, in the book he survived,
He deserves to get all the glory.
Fedallah and Moby were next in line,
Just in from the Dr. Phil Show.
Their friendship had grown a lot lately.
The harpooner was psychic you know!
When he and Phil studied the big fishes mind,
They found out his reason for anger.
The fact that he was albino
Had burned in his mind like a canker.
Ahab, it seems, was equally mean,
And caused a lot of his stress.
He’d cornered the whale with harpoon boats,
And offered no way for egress.
Moby’s life has been changed forever.
He’s hitched to a really cute killer.
She’s working part time at Sea World,
Seems they needed a sub for their “killer”.
The pub where they met was named Starbucks,
In honor of the owner.
The first mate was rich as a pirate.
He could even afford to buy toner.
Then through the door entered Ahab,
With a prosthesis and brand new pipe.
He finally learned to be happy,
And enjoyed a simpler life.
With him was Herman Melville,
A screenplay under his arm.
One thousand pages he’d written,
About whalers who lived on a farm?
The crew didn’t give their attention.
By now, they were tanked up on rum.
He said he was going to Hollywood,
And if they were smart they would come.
But Ahab and Moby were sobbing.
Tears falling into their mugs.
After all of their trials they found friendship
In the bottom of a jug.
Herman begged them to go make the movie.
But, their lives were happier now.
They all had families to care for,
And no urge for taking a bow.
It seems that while Melville was groveling,
Pip and Ishmael had stolen the play.
They put it in Queequey’s coffin,
And watched it float slowly away.
That was the end of the reunion.
They all went home that night,
Happy with the realization,
That their lives were all just right!
I remember that valley, Samson.
I warned you then—I don’t like cocky-boys,
so you worked in that right amount of modesty.
And those sturdy looks could conquer hearts
and Philistines; if they wanted to, when,
they wanted to.
You remember that valley, Samson?
When you listened
to whatever I had to say.
We went out for dinner or drinks.
Samson and Delilah…
We ruled on every corner like Kings.
Forever! Inked on our arms
instead of rings.
I never asked you to promise me
the things men do when all they want is
taking advantage of you.
Why is God always on the side of men
like you? And I loved this hair, Samson,
good thing it’ll grow back.
Character: Delilah
Samson and Delilah (1949 film)
The screenplay, written by Jesse L. Lasky, Jr. and Fredric M. Frank
Poem by Mike Butler
Caste of language and literature to the eyes
You embrace the culture of Bodos
The Bodo race in the world to introduce
Sweet stories you wrote
Great race and all of the fields to watch
You are the emperor of the Bodo short story
The poem of you bikram
Like brush many your creativity
Your poem in the blooming flowers
Does embrace thousands poet
You are screenplay writer of Bodo films
You wrote Alayaron in 1986
You have written for 2002 film Songali
Wonder how much of you creation!
Takes only your creations
We are lose you!
Just said to me your philosophy
Can human effort and can be successful
Come on friends, let us go to try
Caste and country for advancement
Drama
Crashes, collisions, stealing, killing, lying, living and dying--
When I thought of the drama
I felt compelled to sniff the storms
After with I no longer wish I wasn't born
The whipping seemed happy entrusting drama
Drama
I heard a shocking, documentary hitting
All my soul within me outfitting
With such a passion for fitting
I had dreamed of quakes submitting
The whipping seemed happy entrusting drama
Drama
I heard a narrative, right slamming
The melodramatic melodrama mouthing
My mind always strays to volcanoes
Back into my memories thrusting
The whipping seemed happy entrusting drama
Clasping and clasping with my collage
And the screenplay never chipping honors
My mind always strays to aurora picture perfect
That palate plate tectonics, that palate plate tectonics
The whipping seemed happy entrusting drama
4/28/19
Penelope Alecknavage nee perskin whose death aye assay
to comprehend, this son of the late Harriet Harris -
November thirteenth 2016 marked her eighty first birthday
if she still lived these last eleven years - instead met crossway
where grim reaper awaited - though my mum sought to delay
futility to accept Pyrrhic outcome - homage pep rally
thru poetry n essay
writing, and finding cadence of words
helps me (with powder milk biscuits)
gather courageous foray
and means to grapple with demise
of a loved one, and hence my gray
matter sifts thru childhoods' end,
where remembrance of hooray
amidst claque of chattering aunts, cousins, and uncles
the fuzzy interplay
of Penny racing at dog speed across lawn of family home
cordoned off via a jackstay
looms in forefront of my mind,
vulnerable to grief most people sad - me, oh kay,
reckons cessation of life = equalizer of sorts
when significant person without breath doth lay
Tom foolery deft hands of motley crue prestidigitation
playing game versus sobbing as corpse
driven to graveside viz motorway,
where belief at such stark catastrophe - nay
numbness pervades next of kin survivors
especially when passing occurs pre-holiday,
yet no matter whence one departs
bobbing along River Styx to unreachable quay
mourning iz broken with nary sunny and Cher full ray
to warm earth, wind and fire - seeking soul asylum,
trying to blink away ill logic cheap trick re: acceptance,
but inxs of tears for fears begs scene 2b screenplay
not hard rocking coldplay accursed reality
terminal illness ushers helplessness cuz part of ourselves
agonizingly rent asunder, which psychic tearaway
far exceeds any physical pain, and will underlay
the immediate future, which bodes hollow
with the sounds of silence
despite informing musicians or veejay
to lighten moody blue -
boot invariably bono fide, green day,
Lady gaga emitting beat,
per the human league (plus the culture club
of heart felt village people affiliated with goo goo doll
traversing into nirvana)
creates clangorous discordant ringing
increasing nostalgia for loved one lost before yesterday!