Rebellious's Poetry

[rebelliousscot]

I hope this is the right place, it seems to be, so here I go. If not mods can delete.

Please review or give suggestions in comments.

The Stranger Borne From Ego

There came a time once
long ago, through future
present and past. He moved
his name was known, his
talent refined. With agressive
ease and astounding cleave.
A decade was reformed.

Many names he was known
many claims were brought
but of those you can say
were are of naught.
His name was old but
but new. He spoke little
yet much. History met
him day in and day out
through battle fields of
valour to wars and revolutions.

Dictactors knew him
kings worshipped him
Religion call for him.
books spoke of his greatness
lands feared his rage
children hated him
Statues were built to him
but he thrived on inaccuracies
and fallacies. He lived for lies
and propaganda.

Living through ages
and millenia, he struck
with a pen and razed
history, with
undeniable strengh.

Erasing, robbing
eating and ridding.

He still lives to this
day, battles are forever
unknown, people forever
forgotten, we can thank
him we can hate him,
but he'll never not
exist.

Today he stands
a testament to
our ego.

The Rewriter.

[SimSim]

Good poem, beats anything I could write.

[Jebediah]

I really like this. It's really well written and has a nice flow. I look forward to more.

[Sandafluffoid]

Actually I really liked it, which suprises me because normally I tend to skip over serious poetry and just read Mcgonagall wannabes, but this is actually very good.

[rebelliousscot]

Thank you for all the kind words, I'll continue .

Shellshock Dreams

Shrieking with furious madness
a spinning top, dizzy with sadness.
A condition of the human spirit
to kill one self for country and.
In trenches where young boys
sobbed. Ducking for cover
and hurrying over. Over the top
over above. Into No Mans Land.

This madness that rules men
to master the Weapons fit,
to destroy a land, and history
too. Welcome to wars own tomb.

Fields of Poppies dancing with guilt,
growing where, a dance began, where
indifference lay. Blown softly, while
limbs and life are far below.

Whizzbangs whistling
in memories of old. Joking
and singing to sound of fear.

The silent killer drowning the soul
your body gasps, coughing and spluttering.

Shellshock and trauma, these men faced.
They sunk into the quagmire of Ypre and more.

Legless and blind, the boys fought on
trenchfoot and rats, they destroyed
innocents one by one.

The gurgling and coughs wracking
and wrecking these young men.

Dead souls, as shells echo falling fast
explosion, shaking the ground and reaping the
earth. Blinding and deafening.

Nothing is heard, lots seen,
as through broken glass.

Ringing.

Bodies torn and strewn
around. The blood and gore,
vivid in mind.

The smell the ungodly
stench raping the nostrils.

Inhuman sounds
and terrible bawling.

People vanishing as they fall
under foot and mud, unable
to stand. Crushed by automaton
empty shells. The innocence
of the young and old, rocked
by it all.

Mud and blood,
the limbs rotten.

You remove your boot
to shake it dry, out comes
toes. You weep and scream.

Death cries and yells, as chaos
reigns, all men cower like babes,
hoping it to end. But oblivious
to the rot and wounds, hurting
them.

Gun firing.

Firing fast, loudly
while the ringing continues and
bombs fall.

A man you know lays in mud, gripping
the stumps and weeping hard, rotten
carcasses surround.

Carrying a bag, over mud and marsh,
groaning with the weight. No light
in the dark, a sniper shot, another
mate dead, but if it's all the same.
Now you are alone and insane.

No more faces of friends or
foes. They're blank and empty
shaking with fear.

Thud.

That one, it's getting close.

Thud.

Getting much nearer,

A man
you know only by rank, makes
a cross.

Thud.

The ground shakes as
you turn white.

Thud.

You pray.

Whistle blowers, time for to die
up the ladder and over the top.

Boys you joined up one by one
over by Christmas, they swore
they sung. But here you are
at the western front, surrounded
by comrades, surrounded by
death. It's all too quiet on
the Western Front.

[disgruntledcolonel]

Very good in a war poets style - reminiscent of Owen, Brooke, Sassoon, etc.

[Sandafluffoid]

If Seamus Heaney wrote poems like this then my GCSE english paper would not have used the phrase "insult to the english language".

But your poems are actually seriously good, which is quite a complement coming from someone who lists unemployed as a synonym for poet.

[rebelliousscot]

This one is a little more personal. I figured time to show one about me.

Escape from Insanity

Surreal landscapes in minds eye
tattered remenant of magic sky.
A prison I was in, between reality
and fiction. Calling with silence
screaming with mind. It was long
ago you met me, while taking a
consitution through my brain,
driving me insane. Sky filled
with a glaring gash, tore open
by my inhuman cackles.
Strapped into some Saw-esque
device, placid, though vacant
and dead.As the hypodermic lowered
more and more to my eyes, as faceless
cadavers in sexually compromising position
played in front. My left hand moving vigourously.
The needles falling and falling as the sight, grew
more and more vulgar.

This was how you met me. Not waiting
a moment longer you threw yourself at the device
ripping the wiring with such fury, and dare I even
thought love. Wrenching it to pieces and pulling me free.

Stumbling and being dragged, I watched
myself leaving the void, leaving the creatures to taunt
another.

You held my close, checked I was fine,
then unshackled the hand from it's
ghastly job. Only then I looked up
and saw an angel cry.

[SimSim]

Damn man, sounds like some kind of terrible dream.

[rebelliousscot]

I'm an anarchist and this my beliefs. RR would have had a heart attack if I knew I believed this .

End the Divide!


There a thin line, we won't cross,
where we drop this oppressive idea,
terrible shame, where we frown
upon one, inflicting the belief, that
we as the people are not one but
two, three, four, five.

We're not seperate, we're not countries,
we're not flags, we're under this belief,
that borders are real.

When all you do, is drop those shades,
stare and you'll see, we talk, we breathe,
we sing, we dance, we're all cultures
yet, can you say, we're not one but two
is race a construct, is it real, is it not?

Patriotism, dividing the few, the general
has called, we're to stand and be many, not one.

Being proud of a country, and not of us
truthfully it seems, that this thin line
has cut too deep, we need to stand,

Be one

As human. be people not races, end the
division, stand out by many, for these
constructs we have built to comfort the majority
but leave us to think and worry and sing.

Take down the borders, burn the flags,
build up the belief, we're all humankind.

[theamericancowboy]

Your poetry is horseshit, rebel. Learn to write some meaningful lyrics.

[rebelliousscot]

Apr 19, 2009 8:41:29 GMT -5 theamericancowboy said:

Your poetry is horseshit, rebel. Learn to write some meaningful lyrics.

Ya know just because ya don't agree with the point, doesn't make the poetry crap. Please say something constructive or nothing at all. I've seen ya poetry, ya can talk.

[SimSim]

Good poem RS. I agree with the idea that we are all the same regardless of nationality. Race is a construct, we're all one species, just with minor variations in bones and skin color.

[theamericancowboy]

rebel, damn right I can talk. Even from a technical standpoint, your poetry has some issues; very few, if any of the words, actually rhyme. They sell rhyming dictionaries that can be pretty useful in writing lyrics or poetry (I use one when I write for my country western band, Young Blades). Give it a looksee and see if it helps.

[crazalus]

Apr 19, 2009 9:08:01 GMT -5 theamericancowboy said:

rebel, damn right I can talk. Even from a technical standpoint, your poetry has some issues; very few, if any of the words, actually rhyme. They sell rhyming dictionaries that can be pretty useful in writing lyrics or poetry (I use one when I write for my country western band, Young Blades). Give it a looksee and see if it helps.

Oh noes... there's a lack of rhyme in this poetry...


Dumbfuck... most poetry doesn't fucking rhyme. Figures you wouldn't know anything about this as well...