A Poet's Lament

[SmilingLez]

Poets
bleed
ink.
Unseen.
Unheard.
Unsung.
Our
words
rot.
Unread.
While
novels
dance
unapologetically.

 

[Xenofidelity78]

Words are wondrous yet unwieldy things. Often used for that which their authors did not intend. This place and its utility is subjective yet leans a particular direction. One that poetry unless written as smut doesn't qualify.

 

[Cosmic_Soul_Survivor]

The Lament ...

Breathe Deep The Gathering Gloom ...
As Watch Lights Fade From Every Room.
Bedsitter People Look Back & Lament,
Another Day's Useless Images - Spent!

Impassioned Lovers Wrestle As One ...
A Lonely Man Cries For Love - and Has None!
A Young Mother Picks Up & Suckles Her Son ...
Senior Citizens Wish They Were Young.

Cold-Hearted Orb That Rules The Night ...
Removes The Colors From Our Sight.
Red Is Grey & Yellow White ...
Yet We Decide Which Is Right,
And Which Is An Illusion !!!

[ NB: Kudos To Moody Blues For The Inspiration ... ]​

 

[UWERETHINKINGIT]

Inspired.

A daydream takes flight.

Unshared.

It dies on the wing.

 

[SmilingLez]

I am not very good with rhymes. Whenever I write rhyme, I think of magic spells or Dr Seuss (and giggle), so I've decided to make this my sandbox and attempt to create a story out of rhymes.

My first stanza;

In a flat with black walls and a white porcelain floor,
Silence dripped slowly from the hinge of a door.
Jayne wore tight latex - the shade of old bones,
while Debbie kept her heart in a box of cracked I‑phones.


Feel free to add a comment even continue the rhyme and make it a chain erp/srp rhyme. Literotica rules apply, no minors, no animals, and consent is a must.

 

[SmilingLez]

In a flat with black walls and a white porcelain floor,
Silence dripped slowly from the hinge of a door.
Jayne wore tight latex - the shade of old bones,
while Debbie kept her heart in a box of cracked I‑phones.

Been thinking, I am adopting Josef Albers' Homage to the Square, in my own work. So this is my Homage to the Rhyme. Different variations on the same theme, with the possibility of creating many rhyming poems versus just one. The second variation of the first stanza -


In a fifth-floor flat where the ceiling leaks,
And the walls are tattooed with mildew streaks,
Ms. Jayne sits sharp in leather so black,
A saint of ruin with a riding crop’s crack.

 

[SmilingLez]

I am not very good with rhymes. Whenever I write rhyme, I think of magic spells or Dr Seuss (and giggle), so I've decided to make this my sandbox and attempt to create a story out of rhymes. My first stanza;

In a flat with black walls and a white porcelain floor,
Silence dripped slowly from the hinge of a door.
Jayne wore tight latex - the shade of old bones,
while Debbie kept her heart in a box of cracked I‑phones.


Feel free to add a comment even continue the rhyme and make it a chain erp/srp rhyme. Literotica rules apply, no minors, no animals, and consent is a must.

 

[SmilingLez]

Been thinking, I am adopting Josef Albers' Homage to the Square, in my own work. So this is my Homage to the Rhyme. Different variations on the same theme, with the possibility of creating many rhyming poems versus just one. The second variation of the first stanza -


In a fifth-floor flat where the ceiling leaks,
And the walls are tattooed with mildew streaks,
Ms. Jayne sits sharp in leather so black,
A saint of ruin with a riding crop’s crack.

And yet another homage to the rhyme. Don't know which one I like best or if more will come. Interesting rabbit hole I am exploring.


In a VW bus painted bright with peace,
Where the air is thick with the scent of release,
Jayne tokes freely, her spirit laid bare,
A warrior of love with a flower in her hair.

 

[SmilingLez]

Continuing with the 1960s theme, Here is my second stanza.

Jayne sees Debbie, a spark in the air,
Fingers brush lightly, a forbidden affair.
Their moans are loud In the darkest of nights
Two wild souls lost in erotic delights.

Put together the first two stanzas:

In a VW bus painted bright with peace,
Where the air is thick with the scent of release,
Jayne tokes freely, her spirit laid bare,
A warrior of love with a flower in her hair.

Jayne sees Debbie, a spark in the air,
Fingers brush lightly, a forbidden affair.
Their moans are loud In the darkest of nights,
Two wild souls lost in erotic delights.


Edit - wild souls vs free spirits. Change or not? hmm...

 

[Stephie02]

Continuing with the 1960s theme, Here is my second stanza.

Jayne sees Debbie, a spark in the air,
Fingers brush lightly, a forbidden affair.
Their moans are loud In the darkest of nights
Two wild souls lost in erotic delights.

Put together the first two stanzas:

In a VW bus painted bright with peace,
Where the air is thick with the scent of release,
Jayne tokes freely, her spirit laid bare,
A warrior of love with a flower in her hair.

Jayne sees Debbie, a spark in the air,
Fingers brush lightly, a forbidden affair.
Their moans are loud In the darkest of nights,
Two wild souls lost in erotic delights.


Edit - wild souls vs free spirits. Change or not? hmm...

I know we're not talking anymore, but I like wild souls, sounds better to me and a less common usage. I still love your writing.

Of course I'm not a writer and definitely not a poet, so sounds matter, just my opinion though.

 

[SmilingLez]

I know we're not talking anymore, but I like wild souls, sounds better to me and a less common usage. I still love your writing.

Of course I'm not a writer and definitely not a poet, so sounds matter, just my opinion though.

Why aren't we talking anymore?

 

[Stephie02]

Also wild souls feels like it has a different meaning. Like there's an urgency, a hunger; something more like instinct to it, like a force of nature or something. And from what I've read of your poetry it fits your writing better, at least the things I've read. Oh I know, wild souls feels like there's more intent to it; I think of free spirit and I think of someone that goes with the flow, like whatever, goes anywhere, fits in everywhere. Wild souls feels like someone who's an outsider and knows it, but doesn't care, an internal knowing that a free spirit doesn't have.

Wow there's something you could turn into a poem maybe didn't know I had that in me

 

[Stephie02]

I'll talk about the other thing later, privately probably but gotta run for a bit.

 

[SmilingLez]

My first stanza;

In a flat with black walls and a white porcelain floor,
Silence dripped slowly from the hinge of a door.
Jayne wore tight latex - the shade of old bones,
while Debbie kept her heart in a box of cracked I‑phones.

Finally got the second stanza out of my head and onto paper. During my writing as always, random thoughts pop like kernels in my head. 2026 I hope will yield a prose about pre-Castro Cuba. The colors, the textures, the joy, the flirt of the trumpet...the richly seasoned marinara sauce over plain pasta, making taste buds tingle. Now I am hungry LOL


They met on an app, a wink and a dare
Jayne typed "I bite". Debbie "I don’t care."
Jayne arrived in pearls and a knowing grin,
Debbie breathless, invited Jayne in.


Edit -

In a flat with black walls and a white porcelain floor,
Silence dripped slowly from the hinge of a door.
Jayne wore tight latex - the shade of old bones,
while Debbie kept her heart in a box of cracked I‑phones.

They met on an app, a wink and a dare
Jayne typed, "I bite". Debbie,"I don’t care."
Jayne arrived in pearls and a knowing grin,
Debbie breathless, invited Jayne in.

 

[SmilingLez]

Been thinking, I am adopting Josef Albers' Homage to the Square, in my own work. So this is my Homage to the Rhyme. Different variations on the same theme, with the possibility of creating many rhyming poems versus just one. The second variation of the first stanza -


In a fifth-floor flat where the ceiling leaks,
And the walls are tattooed with mildew streaks,
Ms. Jayne sits sharp in leather so black,
A saint of ruin with a riding crop’s crack.

Decided to edit this first stanza before coming up with a second. Flow improved, soon a second stanza, maybe

In a fifth-floor flat with a ceiling that leaks,
Walls are tattooed with black mildew streaks,
Ms. Jayne sits sharp in leather so black,
A saint of ruin with a riding crop’s crack.