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First poems

AngelsPeak

Wanna play?
Do you remember or have the first one you ever wrote hidden away somewhere? It's funny to look back at something you thought was so fabulous then, and realize how silly it seems now. This is my very first poem, written when I was 14. I memorized it because I was soooo proud of my writing skills.:rolleyes:

Share yours so I don't look like the only doof!:nod:

The Love game

Love is a game, winner takes all
A guy and a girl in love they fall
They have a good time then it's over and done
The girl thought that she was the only one
As they sit and watch the stars in the sky
The girl looks at him and softly asks why
He tells her it's the way it has to be
He's found someone else and wants to be free
Deep in his heart he'll always care
If she needs a friend, he'll try to be there
One dark stormy night she feels all alone
She calls up her friend but he isn't home
It isn't true, he wasn't there
Now she knows he never did care
She gets into bed and lies there awake
Deep down inside, she feels her heart break
The girls she knows what must be done
She'll end it now and won't have to run
She takes all the pills lying there
and dies that night with one last prayer
"please dear God tell hime he won, the game of love is finally done"

:lol: The sad soul of youth.
 

KissThis

New Member
What is love in this day and age
to many, it's a heart, locked in a cage
To others it's love, understanding, support
Yet others it's laws, made in a court

I was around 14. Corny, punctuation and apostrophe overload...but I was 14!
 

SuiGeneris

blue 3
I don't have it saved anymore and I don't remember everything, but my first poem ever written had my teacher talking to me after class for weeks before feeling that I wasn't going to commit suicide. It was just a bit depressing, but I think thats what most 13-14 year olds write about now a'days heh
 

Chaos

Epic Gamer
V.I.P.
I have mine somewhere around my house. It's so old that it's not even saved. In fact it predates even my first PC. :lol: If I recall, it was about the man in the moon. I remember that it was a song about loneliness and solitude. I'll type it up some time when I dig it up.
 

KissThis

New Member
I don't have it saved anymore and I don't remember everything, but my first poem ever written had my teacher talking to me after class for weeks before feeling that I wasn't going to commit suicide. It was just a bit depressing, but I think thats what most 13-14 year olds write about now a'days heh
Nearly all my poems during my teenage years were dark, morbid, sinister and revolved around death, disappointment and pain.
 

Chaos

Epic Gamer
V.I.P.
Nearly all my poems during my teenage years were dark, morbid, sinister and revolved around death, disappointment and pain.
All the best poems are. The most moving poems are never about happiness and contentedness, they're about pain and loss.

Mine are still almost all about lonelines and loss, but that's why I like them, because they let me vent those emotions.
 

KissThis

New Member
Mine are still almost all about lonelines and loss, but that's why I like them, because they let me vent those emotions.
I can relate here as well. While do not write "poems" anymore, I'm an avid journal writer. And I tend to write when I'm depressed, lonely or have a problem nagging. It's has helped me get to sleep at night most definitely.
 

Tucker

Lion Rampant
I dreamed last night of a maiden fair
With nuclear breasts like twin reactors
She had jelly beans in her underwear
And a half-price special for retired actors


...fortunately, I've forgotten the rest. :lol: :paperbag:
------
All the best poems are. The most moving poems are never about happiness and contentedness, they're about pain and loss.
I'm not so sure. It seems so in those days when such tones resonate, but love's cheerleader Big Willie Shakespeare may disagree, as does Tennyson in "Maud":


COME into the garden, Maud,
For the black bat, Night, has flown,
Come into the garden, Maud,
I am here at the gate alone;
And the woodbine spices are wafted abroad,
And the musk of the roses blown.

For a breeze of morning moves,
And the planet of Love is on high,
Beginning to faint in the light that she loves
On a bed of daffodil sky,
To faint in the light of the sun she loves,
To faint in his light, and to die.

All night have the roses heard
The flute, violin, bassoon;
All night has the casement jessamine stirr'd
To the dancers dancing in tune;
Till a silence fell with the waking bird,
And a hush with the setting moon.

I said to the lily, 'There is but one
With whom she has heart to be gay.
When will the dancers leave her alone?
She is weary of dance and play.'
Now half to the setting moon are gone,
And half to the rising day;
Low on the sand and loud on the stone
The last wheel echoes away.

I said to the rose, 'The brief night goes
In babble and revel and wine.
O young lord-lover, what sighs are those
For one that will never be thine?
But mine, but mine,' so I sware to the rose,
'For ever and ever, mine.'

And the soul of the rose went into my blood,
As the music clash'd in the hall;
And long by the garden lake I stood,
For I heard your rivulet fall
From the lake to the meadow and on to the wood,
Our wood, that is dearer than all;

From the meadow your walks have left so sweet
That whenever a March-wind sighs
He sets the jewel-print of your feet
In violets blue as your eyes,
To the woody hollows in which we meet
And the valleys of Paradise.

The slender acacia would not shake
One long milk-bloom on the tree;
The white lake-blossom fell into the lake,
As the pimpernel dozed on the lea;
But the rose was awake all night for your sake,
Knowing your promise to me;
The lilies and roses were all awake,
They sigh'd for the dawn and thee.

Queen rose of the rosebud garden of girls,
Come hither, the dances are done,
In gloss of satin and glimmer of pearls,
Queen lily and rose in one;
Shine out, little head, sunning over with curls.
To the flowers, and be their sun.

There has fallen a splendid tear
From the passion-flower at the gate.
She is coming, my dove, my dear;
She is coming, my life, my fate;
The red rose cries, 'She is near, she is near;'
And the white rose weeps, 'She is late;'
The larkspur listens, 'I hear, I hear;'
And the lily whispers, 'I wait.'

She is coming, my own, my sweet;
Were it ever so airy a tread,
My heart would hear her and beat,
Were it earth in an earthy bed;
My dust would hear her and beat,
Had I lain for a century dead;
Would start and tremble under her feet,
And blossom in purple and red.



Great poetry can be about overcoming, too, as we see in Kipling's epic "If":


If you can keep your head when all about you
Are losing theirs and blaming it on you,
If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you
But make allowance for their doubting too,


If you can wait and not be tired by waiting,
Or being lied about, don’t deal in lies,
Or being hated, don’t give way to hating,
And yet don’t look too good, nor talk too wise:


If you can dream–and not make dreams your master,
If you can think–and not make thoughts your aim;
If you can meet with Triumph and Disaster
And treat those two impostors just the same;


If you can bear to hear the truth you’ve spoken
Twisted by knaves to make a trap for fools,
Or watch the things you gave your life to, broken,
And stoop and build ‘em up with worn-out tools:


If you can make one heap of all your winnings
And risk it all on one turn of pitch-and-toss,
And lose, and start again at your beginnings
And never breath a word about your loss;


If you can force your heart and nerve and sinew
To serve your turn long after they are gone,
And so hold on when there is nothing in you
Except the Will which says to them: “Hold on!”


If you can talk with crowds and keep your virtue,
Or walk with kings–nor lose the common touch,
If neither foes nor loving friends can hurt you;
If all men count with you, but none too much,


If you can fill the unforgiving minute
With sixty seconds’ worth of distance run,
Yours is the Earth and everything that’s in it,
And–which is more–you’ll be a Man, my son!


Is what I think, anywhy.
 
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Chaos

Epic Gamer
V.I.P.
True, but I guess I always found the slightly more depressing kind more moving because they're typically more realistic, people can relate to them more. In light of that the more cheerful poetry seems somewhat cliched and out of the loop.

I guess it's solely down to individual interpretation, though.
 
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