Long Bad poetry Poems
Long Bad poetry Poems. Below are the most popular long Bad poetry by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Bad poetry poems by poem length and keyword.
Clinging to the angry gnashing teeth of gods,
Cursing the thousand misfortunes there endured
Yet in mortal terror of letting go,
We suffer.
A dying multitude,
We listen to drizzling turbines
Muttering darkly in the earth,
Turning the seasons in mindless procession.
We listen for the word of affirmation,
Declaration of purpose.
The muttering continues.
Born to pain,
Raised on affliction,
Aged in despair,
We go...
Screaming kicking clawing
We make our way to the grave...
Afraid of the Reaper,
We deathgrip our agony,
Clutch it to our hearts
And pray
For one more day.
Forswearing mortality,
Some are driven to the sanctuary of a creator
While others vomit up bad poetry.
"Bedouin"
I stand here
holding time in my hands
for you yet you remain hidden
watching
black sands on closing air
bedouin messages written
in code invisible to most
it blooms you open
the envelope silently spits
words, they escape into you
you breathe what's left quietly in
consider the path between
dreams and reality
I hijack your solitary cells daily
you’re a Skinwalker like a Selkie
shedding freedom for a bad marriage
the godless god
considers you not worth
a conversation, like a stalker
he follows you silently
without speaking
swallows what’s good
from the black buzzard perch
he sets the trip wire
unknown in the dark
there he sits
hidden in his vestry
shuffling the bad poetry parishioners
he weighs your worth
smirking he
watches on
turns your music off
(LadyLabyrinth/2021)
https://youtu.be/WU8m9m58XFI
We rape summer,
then wonder why she bleeds into winter.
(skipping fall completely).
We were hungover through her serial morning glories.
Ignored the sun as if it were a filthy yellow ball in a childless gutter.
We walked by her streams of Indian paintbrush and violets.
While we trapped ourselves in sunscreen, strip malls, and bad poetry.
We raped summer, left it crying at the church steps.
Diamond and lace put to a spinster blaze
a pair of blue blanks.
Staring at the ripeness of our selfishness.
Now we face the fangs of winter.
Broken flowers and dead streams.
All the while thinking about the time,
we raped summer completely.
Humpenscrumy Bubblahoot ruttletoo
Gulping chomping vayvaycrootoo
Nostrils flaring bumpun fiddle trung
In the holtapolta garden flicker mung
Wags and woofs crimba tungee moss
Trabble fongslulu around wastry gross
Scratching terthy cangs of drigglyfrock
Zinging away buggly condrax chucrock
Trouble drouble lumps of quundoo drip
Chonky tinkhiss phantals gotsog flip
Naughty Hoodlecuttu blurglur changqa
Doodle goodle cups of hot pot fangqa
Weary treary shall I picksert quartee you
Or my nimbla golta rasdinga suits two
Gobberwarts of gargle entralunk hunfdy
Bhronking daddan goodbye fat wunfsy!
*Written by a really sad emotional Vogon dog owner when his Bubblahoot vayvaycrootooed.*
May 23, 2020
Vogon Poetry (really bad poetry) Quoopisk Poetry Contest
Sponsor: Team PoetrySoup
Twas in the waters, I waborn from flames and lust
Ripped from the stars and the zoding fust
Cast into the salty and swirlin mesty sea
Twas in the sky, I was as a cloud in the sky and condsing for life to jofully cry
Cast to be a waste washed down from the batle between eunonia and phoslo
I fel as rainwater into the sea as the lively seuma wished so
Twas on the earth, that lively seuma minted me like coin with din
The zoding fust doctrines and counsels are tattoed into my skin
As a watery mirrection of the heavens above
Twas here, I was moulded to be an iron fetter for the ceel of stars kind of
If the bright demons go up, I drag them bak down to dardtars
If the eunonic angels descend to earth, I chase them back up to nothigness
Though I am unwilling and forced to dothis duty
Twas here, I was crafted to be a distiller between pure and impure
To be gatherin place al substances on Gai-tan
To release the light back into the heaveabove the skierms
Though I am unwilling and forced to dothis duty
Twas here, I was designed to be a spong that washes awa dirt from the bere
Just as the ten cies are cleaned through the three turbing wheels
Though I am want dardtars and eunonia to destro all
Though I am unwilling and forced to do thijob
(The sea giant from Manichaean theology)
Word is
You have to write bad poetry to learn from your mistakes.
If you cannot think of anything to write right now…
Then wait.
Inspiration will find you and take over your spirit.
Just give it a second. Try and you will feel it.
The immense wave of goodness, filling your soul with joy or anger.
Hold it in or let it go, but do not just let it pass you on by;
That would be called dropping a clanger.
You may never think of a better line,
So write like it’s the only poem you have ever written;
The best thing from your time.
This is no time for nonchalance.
Dive on in;
See what you can find beneath the surface.
Write it now or never word it.
The choice is yours.
I chose how to word this.
(C)2018 Aa Harvey. All Rights Reserved.
That’s not poetry. This is poetry.
That cannot be poetry. It is not iambic pentameter.
That is a calamity; this is outstanding.
Out standing in an alley, behind a dumpster kind of writing.
We cannot agree for we do not have the same ideas.
And this is why poetry cannot be deciphered, understood or dissected
by anyone’s brain; it must be felt by your heart.
The poems I throw onto a page are my own feelings and thoughts.
Sometimes not clear to anyone but me,
other times they appeal to many.
I am compelled to write because I cannot fathom not writing.
I have a daily “quota” for myself,
not caring about anything but the number.
This means that some of my stuff is great, most of it is not so terrific,
And a few of the things I toss onto a poetry site are truly bad poetry.
My philosophy is this: Poetry is a numbers game.
Poetry contests are a numbers game.
Words and numbers holding hands, swinging hands, enjoying each other.
I laugh when I read some of the comments.
All of the tips I get on how to improve my poetry are from the newbies.
Newbies who have written less than three poems usually are full of tips.
I think this is hilarious.
It makes me laugh.
Everything about poetry for me is fun,
and so are tips from newbies.
That is my poetry philosophy for today.
And here is my only advice – go with your heart.
Some of the poems I read are so metaphoric I do not understand them with my mind.
However, my SOUL loves them, my heart adores them, and they give me joy.
Keep writing until the pink flamingos roost on your head.
In school, we had to memorize
A poem from time to time.
Of course, back then, most certainly,
It was a verse in rhyme.
Joyce Kilmer’s “Trees” was one of them.
For years I wondered why
The poet’s name was Joyce when
We were told he was a guy.
But I digress – for recently,
I read about a match
Where would-be poets vied
To write an awful poem from scratch.
It takes place at Columbia
And yes, it gets its name
From A. Joyce Kilmer, he of “Trees,”
His calling card to fame.
Professors pick the winner,
And the choices are diverse,
From all other contest entries
To find one which seems much worse.
I wonder what Ms. Klasowitz
Would think about a prize
Given to a poem as bad as that
She had us memorize!
I’m no good at staying in one place,
I’m a man that needs to roam around.
Ain’t no good at raising a family,
or growing some crops out of the ground.
I’m no good at long relationships,
you can ask any of my ex-wives.
I’m not capable of telling the truth,
and I’m no good at telling you goodbye.
I’m no good at sharing my feelings,
sometimes I think my heart has a crack.
So don’t give me any of your love,
I am no good at giving it back.
So, I guess when you get down to it,
I’m no good at even being me.
but,
I’m good at making crappy country songs,
and writing some really bad poetry.
Yes, there’s some things that I’m good at,
things like ruining other people’s lives.
I’m good at always running away,
I’m good at only telling you lies.
I’m good at handing out broken hearts,
and pretending to be what you need.
And,
I’m good at making crappy country songs,
and writing some really bad poetry.
I’m no good at sharing my feelings,
don’t go placing any trust in me.
Don’t give me any of your sweet love,
I have to keep myself wild and free.
So, I guess when you get down to it,
I’m pretty good at just being me.
and,
I’m good at making crappy country songs,
and writing some really bad poetry.
from he'll
to hell
from she'll
to shell
well we'll
see how
deep it is
a dash
is a walk
but two or
more dashes
makes
me
run
a colon is
a man's gland
a gee spot
poked fun at by
a rubber covered
proctologist's
finger
a semicolon
however is
not in
any sense
of the word
a medical
condition
but as all
bad poetry
must end
and so
there
is the
period
it seems
a simple
dot not a
comma
nor a
comment
but an end
yet
for mi
Musa she
sees it as a
new beginning
to an end of another
month's cycle that she
with the moon
stays in tune
always a
blood
moon
but
i
realize
that though
twenty five the
twenty nine and
a half days that pass
make her entire being
whole
.
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