cunting bollocks, computer world, dosent work , makes you hurl,
fucking buttons, slow as shit, makes me want to, smash it

I don't need to attack buses anymore. I dont need to
punch and thrash at their broad red sides, I don't need
to bruise my knuckles on the glass.
I don't need to trip on potholes anymore, or drown,
or lurch around looking for an easier way
and finding none.
I don't need to keep all the shells and the coins, or
pluck out the hairs, or scrub and scrub
at indelible striations. I don't need to explain to anyone
that they are indelible.
I don't need to fold up tightly to save space, or keep
out the water, or keep out the sand.
I don't need to stand up any further.

I don't need straighten out the roads
or the hedgerows that follow the ditches
where they all lie, impassive, lost.
I don't need to mark this moment.
I don't need to turn the tables round, or tell people
where to sit, or to sit, or tell people to relax
and start without me, I don't need to wait,
I don't need to start. I don't need to relax anymore.

I don't need to tell the truth anymore. I don't need
to look so earnestly at all their faces–
they don't need to know–
I dont need to watch what I say or be present or
polite or taciturn or rude, I dont
need to lie anymore.
I dont need to scratch until it bleeds anymore,
I dont need to bleed anymore.
I don't need to climb the hill with the trees or
stay there or go home or even look at it.
I dont need to come down
from the trees anymore.

Wow, that's so full of great images and feeling. It would be amazing read out loud.

I have to confess, by the end of it I wanted to ask "What DO you need?!" :)

I came here to post this but having read your poem William, it seems a bit crass :/

Still quite amusing - not an obvious post-Baywatch career move... http://www.theguardian.com/books/shortcuts/quiz/2014/jul/11/poet-pamela-anderson-sylvia-plath-quiz

^^Thanks mate. What I DO need are my bikes, and a coffee, and a cigarette.

Dip a strip of rag in spirit
Thread it through each link of chain
Spray black grease over the carpet
Spray from hours of sticky rain

Stick black sticks into the ground
Stretch a canvas overhead
Scatter ash as your head pounds
Take off your boots and go to bed.

Growing Up

I've become a lot more like my Mother
as I've got older. I need less sleep now,
I wake up before dawn and go down to
plan my day, listen to the birds and write
poetry. I work very hard on the
garden, I do a lot of weeding and
have developed muscular forearms which
my girlfriend likes. Recently I've started
wearing dresses and borrowing Mother's
car, meeting her friends and going to the
theatre. I'm much better at keeping
in touch with people now, I often ask
my Father round for lunch, we have a drink
and reminisce about how we first met.

Here are a couple I wrote recently:

About Love

While we laugh
And tease
And play
I know that there is a day

A moment when I’ll walrus snore
Repeat myself become a bore
And though it hurts to say
You’ll grow sick of me

It will come
As sure as sleep follows wake
So all I hope for both our sakes
Is that it’s met with love

A kindness to see beyond
But still care
Still know that I am here
And you are there

Next one:

Some Job

The hardest job you’ve ever done
With no retirement and no pay
And rarely any bloody fun

But how on earth were you to know?
What having kids would really mean
All those sodding years ago

You did your best to muddle through
Until you quietly walked away
Dad, I really do not envy you

Nice. I've been working on a similar theme.

I Think I'll Sleep

I think I'll sleep on the floor tonight, feel
the cool floorboards against my cheek and steal
long glances at the particles of salt
and grit, the clumps of dust and hair we moult
that catch the dim lamplight in ways you can
only see close up. I'll lay down there and
look sideways through the silhouetted chair
and table legs, trapping scraps of wall where
skirting meets the bowed horizon of the
floor, where our repeating feet pass over
leaving the wood dark and worn. It will
be peaceful here, a different space but still,
I could sleep somewhere else or even, yes,
the garden, whatever you think is best.

I have almost finish a HTML5, CSS3, jQuery, project for my web design portfolio, it's all in Lorem Food Lipsum text, it's a fantastic responsive design with plenty of sections, one of those it's about me and doesn't need to say anything too specific, obviously. All i need is a poem of five to seven/eight lines and it needs to start with Me, myself and I. Any help would be much appreciated.

Me, myself and I
Shout our poems at passers by
and sing folk songs when we're on our bike
which is how we know what it is we like
and if something's wrong, what it is, and why.

Perfect
The more I read it and the less I can stop
The more I want?
I myself and me would not be enough
Singing songs and shouting by it is why.

x

Please forgive I was feeling very down when I wrote this.

Where the cold wind blows
Bleak, sometimes I wonder will it end
A penance yet I wait for divine intervention
Standing cold waiting for her forgiveness
Ravaged by a memory for told by a past

I held beauty I held it in my hand
A saviour a sinner a lover a kindred
Drowning in fallen tears I search
But you can never walk back in time

Now I see her face once it was her soul
And I would give my life for one more day
Crawling on my knees I cross this baron land
Desperation only leads to desolation

Stench of burning how I burnt her wings
And that masquerade could have killed us both
Children play but there’s no substitute for the heart
And the my story is, is the tale of the living ghost

And when that cold wind blows
The only serenity will be the echo of her name
And when that angel falls I will burn her once again
My curse never forsaken my curse I bear

Borges.

1 Attachment

Sorry for poor quality ^

Oh my mental illness
loving to be cured
curing is a working progress, a progress of substances
substances of joy orally injected and swallowed.
Am I making progress?
Taking care is my mission
myself will be better soon
soon enough for dropping nectar
for the joy of the zombies I will cure myself
witnesses of my shadows they will be.
To be for them is not to be enough
and being so good on that…
All together they are killing their useless time
A time of an era of loss and mental regression
all wrapped and covered in what will be remembered as
The New Happy Chemical Smiling Subs Slaves

Break and infringe with spanks of joy
really is the only reason why
to keep myself alive
instead of
lie.

All the rest can fucking die.

I like the oddities of your use of English, whether or not intentional. Good use of repetition too.

Lose 'just' from the last line :)

'just' has been removed, cheers :)

The oddities are not intentional, as is not intentional for me to be an odd thing, I born like that, I didn't became; and i never tried to change it. I do what I can for improve it and be proud of it until I die.

Anyone on here hate poetry? I'm reading at this next Friday.

http://www.richmix.org.uk/whats-on/event/fraff-scottee/

Has anyone on here come across a series of poems by Arthur Waugh entitled legends of the wheel . They were written in the late victorian era and I have found them quite amusing.

Photographs

Remember when we had nothing to prove and left
our beds unmade and stuck the walls with pins and lists
to show where we had been and you were funny then, you
found me funny then and I have photographs to prove it.
They have holes in the corners. They document in some
detail how much you laughed in the kitchen on the lino
with your face and it wakes me up at night,
the sound of your face on the lino, laughing, it echoes
off the floor and I will never forgive you for that.

I knew what you all thought and I played up to it,
I pretended I was worse than you suspected, I kept you
up, late, pretending with the window open, faking it
out into the night. The carpet could be soft as fur, rough
as our fathers' faces. It was never a question of who
was worse although I kept the shoes that marked me out
as troubled, they need re-heeling. And I could tell
it meant much more to me than you when I made
that joke about the empty jar and I still smile when
I remember jars and I still struggle to forgive you for that.

It's like those pictures on the news of people missing
in disasters, sometimes with the faces of their
friends blurred out, so the ones who in real life are fine
are missing from the picture. I was the only one
who watched the news and you all left me to it but
when you came through and saw my face
you could have heard a pin. And it wakes me up
at night, the sound of pins on the lino, the sound
of my face, dropping, and I never blamed you
once for that but still.

There was a time when we had nothing to prove, my
hair was longer then, we pinned each other to the walls
and wiped our sleeves across our faces. But now you
cross the street and pretend to bend to pick things up
so as not to meet my gaze. Look, here's me on the ferry,
here's you at the station, there's everyone with the hats
we made that time, I still have mine. You pinned a peony
in the brim for me, the pin went through into my scalp
and you assured me it was clean.
And here's you picking pins up off the street.

Chuck-out

There are points in our lives when we chuck things out
It's hard painful and light, its depressing and bright
Some things are easy to say goodbye to
No second glance nor thought
Some strain the heart and break the mind,
They rend and rip your soul apart

Photos, hazy people deceased and loved, past loves, younger selves
Those broken loves, places and faces, some digitalised, perhaps go easy
Mums Dads, Grans and Sons will stay today

Clothes are easy for a simple man
Two or three are all required, (plus more socks and pants)
To fill one shelf and a draw, no more

Books of subjects once loved, still love, read, unread, most go
"Move on" voice says, there's new stuff to know, and libraries
Gifts of books, harder still unless one wants to forget the (for)giver

Things accumulated, bric-a-brac, pretty, ugly laden with meaning
Useless, dusty meaning-lost or vague are binned
leaving lazy, charity-shop ebay pounds of guilt

Papers, ex-love letters ,cards with kisses, bills of rights and wrongs
Thoroughly sifted (as if), to rescue those required to exist
Poems scrawled and sketches doodled to be recycled as toilet paper

Entertainment format now obsolete, (will never buy a betamax player)
But cassettes, -old playlists, VHS, family super 8,
A vinyl countdown to death, It's all on-line, free streaming all the time

And you can't take anything with you when you go!

There are points in our lives when we chuck things out
It's hard painful and light, its depressing and bright
Some things are easy to say goodbye to
No second glance nor thought
Some strain the heart and break the mind,
they rend and rip your soul apart

Awesome.

http://www.theguardian.com/books/2016/mar/18/poetry-coffee-pay-with-a-poem-cafes-world-poetry-day

Halloween

My love's dead mother came to us one halloween
in the form of a crab,
picking her way through the synthetic spiders webs
draped across the windows of the bar.
She blew bubbles. Her tiny eyes
didn't recognise us.

The place was heavily themed,
full of pirates, ghosts, in-patients.
My love wore drops of blood on her cheeks.
"What have you come as?"

I said. Outside she wept like the sea,
I held her, kissed her on the cheek
and found she tasted of plastic.
"Flotsam" she said
and we drifted into the night
like polystyrene packaging
our skin white and dimpled in the cold.