Your Favorite Poem?

The Will to Win

by Berton Braley

If you want a thing bad enough

To go out and fight for it,

Work day and night for it,

Give up your time and your peace and your sleep for it,

If only desire of it

Makes you quite mad enough

Never to tire of it,

Makes you hold all other things tawdry and cheap for it,

If life seems all empty and useless without it

And all that you scheme and you dream is about it,

If gladly you'll sweat for it,

Fret for it,

Plan for it,

Lose all your terror of God or man for it,

If you'll simply go after that thing that you want

With all your capacity,

Strength, and sagacity,

Faith, hope, and confidence, stern pertinacity,

If neither cold poverty, famished and gaunt,

Nor sickness nor pain

Of body and brain

Can turn you away from the thing that you want,

If dogged and grim you besiege and beset it,

You'll get it.

Emoetry - EmptyTank

Here I am again...tired from not sleeping...Sad from not loving.
I feel miserable again...here on this plane...Here on this earth.
I've done it again...I stayed out all night.
I feel it again...I dred this flight.
Why?
Because I'm sick...Sick of being owned...
I write because I'm sick...Sick of being known.
If I was normal...Would she like me the same?
If I was just a stock boy...Would she still enjoy my name?
I'd like to think she does and would...I believe in her and believe in me she should.
I'm gonna lean my head against this window...Close my eyes and go to sleep.
I'll wake up in the next town...With thoughts beyond deep.
The days will go by as I will just act.
As the days go by I can only look back...At the good times...the fun.
At the bad times...the fun.
I wonder if she misses me as much as I miss her...I wonder if she waits to see me...I wonder if she waits?
I'd like to think she did and would...I believe in her and believe in me she should.
My hear is so curious...My mind is so blank...Without you I'm lost...
I am an empty tank.

This is by Charles Bukowski

Van Gogh writing his brother for paints
Hemingway testing his shotgun
Celine going broke as a doctor of medicine
the impossibility of being human
Villon expelled from Paris for being a thief
Faulkner drunk in the gutters of his town
the impossibility of being human
Burroughs killing his wife with a gun
Mailer stabbing his
the impossibility of being human
Maupassant going mad in a rowboat
Dostoyevsky lined up against a wall to be shot
Crane off the back of a boat into the propeller
the impossibility
Sylvia with her head in the oven like a baked potato
Harry Crosby leaping into that Black Sun
Lorca murdered in the road by Spanish troops
the impossibility
Artaud sitting on a madhouse bench
Chatterton drinking rat poison
Shakespeare a plagarist
Beethoven with a horn stuck into his head against deafness
the impossibility the impossibility
Nietzsche gone totally mad
the impossibility of being human
all too human
this breathing
in and out
out and in
these punks
these cowards
these champions
these mad dogs of glory
moving this little bit of light toward us
impossibly.

One time in the bathroom

I saw a scary thing

and I thought it was you

So I shot it

And it bled to death

It was cool

By: PickGlove243

uhhh.....not much of a poetry fan...unless we were to consider the lyrical writings of Jim Morrison as "poetry". In such a case, I'd say "People Are Strange". If not, then...Beowulf? That is a poem, right?

People are strange,

When you're a stranger, faces look ugly, when you're alone,

Women seem wicked, when you're unwanted,

Streets are uneven, when you're down.

When you're strange, faces come out of the rain,

When you're strange, no one remembers your name,

When you're strange, when you're strange, when you're strange.

People are strange,

When you're a stranger, faces look ugly, when you're alone,

Women seem wicked, when you're unwanted,

Streets are uneven, when you're down.

When you're strange, faces come out of the rain,

When you're strange, no one remembers your name,

When you're strange, when you're strange, when you're strange.

When you're strange, faces come out of the rain,

When you're strange, no one remembers your name,

When you're strange, when you're strange, when you're...strange.

Simply beautiful, and so true (for those of you who are...strange :P)

This is by Charles Bukowski

Van Gogh writing his brother for paints
Hemingway testing his shotgun
Celine going broke as a doctor of medicine
the impossibility of being human
Villon expelled from Paris for being a thief
Faulkner drunk in the gutters of his town
the impossibility of being human
Burroughs killing his wife with a gun
Mailer stabbing his
the impossibility of being human
Maupassant going mad in a rowboat
Dostoyevsky lined up against a wall to be shot
Crane off the back of a boat into the propeller
the impossibility
Sylvia with her head in the oven like a baked potato
Harry Crosby leaping into that Black Sun
Lorca murdered in the road by Spanish troops
the impossibility
Artaud sitting on a madhouse bench
Chatterton drinking rat poison
Shakespeare a plagarist
Beethoven with a horn stuck into his head against deafness
the impossibility the impossibility
Nietzsche gone totally mad
the impossibility of being human
all too human
this breathing
in and out
out and in
these punks
these cowards
these champions
these mad dogs of glory
moving this little bit of light toward us
impossibly.

quiglythegreat

Bukowski is a great choice. Nice man.

Fitter Happier by Radiohead (ostensibly a song, but there really isn't much melody to it...)

Mary had a little lamb because my uncle would sing it to me before we went to bed

Because I'm sick...Sick of being owned...Hinata237