an attempt at a poem

[Marklar]

working up north on an oil rig, today walking around bored thinking about how fucked all the pollution is i wrote this

its from the point of the rig itself if it knew what it was being made to do

cheers for reading if you do!

 

only sea surrounds me,

i am all thats here,

in a flowing organic world,

a giant stationary square.

all i do is spread pollution,

around the world far and near.

i leak oil into the ocean,

as my black smoke fills the air,

present in my creators conscience,

the earths health wasnt there,

man made from her womb,

not an element left spare,

only made to destroy her,

ironic sad and unfair.

my operators are human,

revenue thier only care,

so my occupation will not cease,

nor will my despair,

so here i will remain,

until ive stripped the ocean bare.

 

 

[tipz]

I like it cory, you should enter it into quills competition. There is a cool prize.

[Foo]

Not a poetry man myself, but i like it.

You did good kid

[Marklar]

cheers guys!

the only thing ive written before is shit to my mates about how much they suck on fridays waiting for the siren to go haha

[Bretloth]

Nice work, like the flow

[Sheather]

I wrote this just then, don't know if it deserves its own thread, so I'll stash it here I think. The thread title seems oddly appropriate.

It's not in verse or anything, but here goes I guess.

Angry child with issues, raging, argues with a worn out old man. The man, tired and put upon, who has worked his whole life, and raised said child, steps lightly, lest the muscular youth's aggression turn physical. The altercation goes on for some time, neither party truly listening to the other, constant soliloquy rationalising their faults. Perhaps both parties will learn from their encounter, but suspicion lies that just one will. It is a terrible shame, to see such dispute, and to know that somehow one participant will never recover from the verbal lashing they have recieved; that which was not their due.

I now fear, with what I think is good reason, for the spark of life in a man. For that which makes him more than an automaton, a husk of the old self, dejected into everyday tasks. I am terrified, and terribly saddened at this, perhaps driven to the brink of despair, for what point of it all, if we are to end in such a manner?

EDIT: To clarify - the resultant monologue after an argument between my brother and my father.

Edited November 29, 2011 by Sheather