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Best Poems Written by Dylan Frost

Below are the all-time best Dylan Frost poems as chosen by PoetrySoup members

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Who Is Me

Who is he? Who is She? Who is me?
Questions so easily asked, but often frail and weak. 
Today i was asked who am I and why?
I had no answer as my brain crashed and my mind fried. 

Well you see I am me, Simply put i'm what you see. 
I am so unique it would be an insult to label so frivolously 
Reputation is something we work on till the day we die.
To expect me to explain when my actions speak aloud is a crime. 

I suppose if i were to explain myself in order to entertain. 
I'd keep my answer short simple and plain. 
With my mind fried and an answer made harder than needed to be
Quietly i mutter I am my actions and the rest is a mystery.

Who am I, and what makes me, Me? 
Well dont ask me, just watch and observe carefully.

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Beware the Storm

My manic thoughts storm my mind
Dark Fantasies feed my febrile body language left broken and bereft, borderline psychopath.
Damage from adulthood infecting my Creative adolescent mind.
The inchoate storm is still too young and weak, but maturing quickly.
with an insatiable apatite always hungry selfishly feeding on my conscious, sucking out the nutrition it needs.
Claiming my conscious as home base, without my permission and rent free.
      The Storm rages on deep in my conscious
Growing bigger and meaner, turning me unpredictable and out of control.
I missed all early signs and symptoms all the subtle changes in my 5 senses.
How did i miss the coulours becoming washed out faded and dull?
  I cant even remember what fresh air smells like, the feeling of freedom in the summertime. Gone.
What happened to all the good sounds? Now techno s in my ears.
All these subgld changes no matter how small, collect to became the overwhelmed adult mind.
Taking all the colour and fun leaving a dark gray world.
I didnt watch the horizon, i didnt head my mothers words.
"stay young while you can." shed say. Now i feel creative-less and responsibility comes before fun.
I didnt watch the horizon, and now the inchoate storm
is fully formed.
And my Youth has grown old with age.

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Who Am I

Who am I? 
A question with a purpose and so very deep,
One could go on and never touch bottom.
The search for the answer can be compared 
to that of Homers The Odyssey.
Its an outlandish adventure filled with Highs and Lows.
A mission that tests all that is human,
By end ones pride will be broken and rebuilt.
Who am I? is a lead question heavy and cruel to ask.
  Who are you? Who am i?
 Why, why, why, why.... WHY!
I'm yet to know, how do i know,
Did you know? Tell me who am I?
Cause i cant even begin to describe!

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Dear Mr Selfish

Dear Mr selfish,
   To the ungrateful little prick
Swinging dead, cold and pale by the neck. 
I am the void I am death, and i will joyfully
Eat every crumb of hope you had selfishly left behind. 
   

          Sincerely; SUICIDE

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A Poet

There's a poet in my attic
All she does is write,
     There's a poet in my attic
Crying day and night.

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Listen

I listened to you.
I put on your shoes,
Walked a couple miles.
Mimicking you mannerisms and style.
I saw what you see
It's obvious life is cheap.
I listened to you,
Put thought in your critique.
Now I'm lost more than before.
I'm in need of help?
Do you not hear my screams.
Can you ignore cause you can't see.
I listened to you.
Now can you listen to me

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Famous For a Day 2

Were all famous for a day,
Popular or not i will be recognized.
People convene and celebrate my life.
I will be noticed by others the day i die.
  My very face will crease and waste paper,
Ill be an excuse for some to get off work.
Like me or not you'll celebrate my life 
Its all about me the day i die 
 The day I'm allowed to be conceited.
The day people will laugh and cry, all for me
The day all my mistakes and wrong doings are forgiven
We're all famous for a day.
The day we die.

Details | Dylan Frost Poem

Questions Asked

Why do we talk, the words we speak only mock.
like a parent she's harsh and informative.
Like a kid he's careless, and calm with inane childish mannerisms
Opposites attract they say, yet reality claims they pull away.
They both trekked the odyssey innocent young and without thought
Why do they speak, when the words only mock.
Why are they together when not high they're angry and bitter
o.c.d she's fastidious in every aspect of life.
Unkempt he's never organized his feelings he hides
His friends in awe of her as they unravel together.
They both ignored the rumors and gossip agreeing that others opinions matter not.
Why are they together when not high they're angry and bitter.
Why this? Why that? Everyone wants answers.
Knowing all seems proactive, but be careful known to be negative.
with knowing all you'd be prepared also unintentionally killing surprise.
No euphoria can be felt no tree on christmas life would become dull.
Why This? Why that? Do we truly want answers to every question asked?

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Yes No I Don'T Know

Lately,
Not sure, I don't know.
Wait,
Ya I do, I know
Hold on,
I'm confused, can't choose
Why all the contradiction,
Who am I? I thought I knew me,
Turns out theres not one but two persons,
Which ones Dylan, fighting for control,
All day the two voices yell and scream.
I'm an asshole a nice hyoocrite,
Don't ever ask things of me, you'll leave lost,
Not closer, but farther from right and truth.
The two personalities in battle for a voice,
Help me, what is me, I'm losing grip,
Or don't it's up to you, I can't choose.
I'm cracked, it's up to you, pass the glue?

Details | Dylan Frost Poem

Inner Waste

Feel the knot feel the knot
twist and turn, back and forth
nausia gets worse much worse
whats happening
bloated belly a force full relief

first times good, seconds a high class blended treat
a smelly brownish stew
my stomaches waste and rejection
consisting of unwanted vegetables;
cluttered with partial unwanted tainted meat
Yellow pasty stomach vial
bloody broth, colourful fibers
piled in front of me unhealthy toxic relief
mysterious yet obvious pungent odors
spread about through hot steam as would with stewed beef
a work of waste a work of art radiates and exubes from the unhealthy me...