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Emotional Outlet

A Smattering of Poetry

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A little information. These are poems I wrote my senior year of high school, before I joined the military and my mind and will to live slowly started to rot. I never titled these, so I am going to give them ridiculous titles. This is not the full collection of poems I submitted to that class, because I didn't start typing them until later. Some are just lost forever.

Constructive criticism is welcome, but I honestly cannot say whether I will pick up poetry ever again. These poems were not edited. Maybe when I regain my will to live will I delve into my love of language and manipulation of words.

If you have learnt anything about me based on my posts, then you will be correct in anticipating some of these being long. Also, I would like to reiterate these were written years ago. I am not, for better or for worse, still a high school senior.

Please don't steal my poems, for I like them and it would make all sad and things.


This is a poem about a lime. No adjectives, prepositions, or adverbs. Everyone whined about the assignment being too hard, so I went all Asian on them and got a 500%. Because I can, that's why. This is my second favourite poem.



The lime sits, and its flavour we await.

Confectionaries relinquished,

We desiderate its astringency,

Potency that revivifies.

Comfits and confits—superfluity,

Flooding, overpowering senses

With sugar and chemicals—limes renew,

Have propensity to strengthen.

Acridity, piquancy we yearn for,

A taste to electrify us,

To sting our mouths and bring tears to our eyes,

Remind us of reality’s rancour.

We scrutinise the lime, its complexion,

The fruit we neglect for its bite,

The brackishness, tartness it possesses.

A taste we covet and deny.


This was the first poem I wrote for this class. It is about a woman.



Oh, dulcet voice of hers--

It leads all men astray.

And when they fall to her,

They fall within the day.

And fall to her they must--

Soft eyes, red lips, warm hands...

One kiss is all they ask--

A love so sweet--unplanned.

Against this spry, young lass,

My wife--she stands no chance.

Dear wife--I love her well...

But youth! A new romance!

For years, my troths I kept;

Never was I untrue.

Temptation mocks me now!

Whatever shall I do?

Were I again her age--

Oh, dulcet voice of hers!

I pine--I long--I yearn!

My wife... at last, a blur.


This is an ode to winter. It is comprised of four sonnets with a rhyme scheme of my choice. You will be amazed when you discover what it is. This is my favourite poem.



The broken dreams--the shattered souls all weep,

All search for respite, freedom from distress.

Their cries, they fall upon aloof deaf ears.

Their blood, it spills ignored around blind eyes.

Homogenised to be as one, as none,

And her soul, his soul, your soul--each the same,

All tattered, every one destroyed by pain.

Oh, dare to dream of purity maintained--

The snow, it falls! The flakes abate their shame.

So bright and clear--catharsis has begun.

So cool and crisp, this succour. Hear their sighs!

Their breath released as winter frore appeared.

When silence drifts serene with peace express,

Oh, broken dreams restored for now in sleep.

A cowl upon the town, a gelid shield,

An aegis, thick with frost and pallid snow--

The piles collect, creating mountains tall

That clear a troubled mind and cloak the earth.

A moment left to think, a moment dear,

Reflect and feel the sting of life so cruel,

Of truths that pierce, with subtlety forgone.

A chance to cogitate, to be withdrawn,

And see it markedly, depraved men's rule.

As curtains close and blankets, drawn so near,

Begin to warm, and air is dense with mirth,

The world outside has froze. Through trees, fresh squalls

That faze the weak alone with naught but woe,

For Boreas will rage upon the field.

The doors will close and lock away the chills,

Occlude the bitter maw of wind so keen;

So closer pull your love to you--and breathe.

The gentle flames do flicker--light will dim,

The sun will set. But lingering always,

You feel her warmth--the world, for now, it fades.

Your troubled heart's discord forgotten soon.

Outside, the clouds of snow obscure the moon

And dusky lamps are lit--oh, what charades!

A light so pure cannot be matched by grey,

By beacons tarnished, lamps without its vim.

And tucked away, you fail to see storms seethe,

The moon demure--you only see her mien.

A kiss. A tender flake. The wind is still.

As snow continues fluttering around

And set'ling on their heads, their hair, their clothes,

They gaze upon the flawless fields of white.

A moment brief and hope returns to them.

Their souls are filled, their frigid hearts do melt,

And plaintive cries are heard, the blood is seen--

Oh, stains that ruin, haunting ever more!

They come together, proving kind rapport,

And splendid stars illume, a soft pale sheen.

And men, who, once before, alone had dwelt

In homes austere, and there contempt had stemmed.

But here, among the frost, a pleasant sight,

A blissful harmony. Their hatred slows,

For winter's earnest clemency is found.


SPOILER. This poem is about a murder.



We all have our desires, ideals, dreams--

Something we hold dear, hold in great esteem.

Don't you think that way, that there's more to life,

Laden though it be with hatred and strife?

When you hear her laugh, does your heart not fill?

When you see her smile, feel you fulfilled?

You seem to hold much in your mind, so come.

We'll walk until you speak--riant, not numb.

I often wonder about things beyond,

About things that, to our cries, don't respond.

Things so perfect, mirthful, so devoted

To rules celestial, which once before floated

In the minds of men, and kept them honest,

Kept them faithful to love, helped men persist

In adversity. These things, out of reach...

But so often of them I do beseech,

Seeking meaning, a guide through quandaries--

Such a thing I frequently need, you see--

And the pith to best beguilements untold.

Look upon the ocean--the sun burns gold.

The setting sun does set at ease my mind,

But think you not that most men be unkind?

You know her smile is very sweet indeed.

Were all as gentle as her, you'd agree,

There'd be no deceit, no philandering,

Hollow violence be not recurring.

To have a woman like her, so patient...

You know, men like you I do not resent.

Walk down the pier--together we shall dredge.

That won't do at all--stand close to the edge...


This is... a poem. About education.



Wealth of knowledge resting soundless,

Hidden low beneath the welkin—

Empyreal wisdom therein.

Inculcation regulated,

Governed anxiously by man’s law.

Teachers—just as students be—flawed,

Ignorant of chasms, hollows,

Rifts obscured by brightness exhaled,

Personal endowments, strengths frail.

Cloak from youth the stars so numbered—

Youth will see the facts divulged so,

Fail to seek beyond—the skies flow,

Mountains shiver, oceans surging.

Yet their minds are closed, their eyes dim,

Knowledge out of reach—oh, such whim,

Downcast eyes espy but little,

Choosing silence, minds so clouded,

Brittle, tempered sloven, shrouded,

Voices mute, opine but never.

Sacrifice—the heart is mindless.


This is a silly poem that had different requirements for each line. It doesn't make sense. The Latin translates to "When you speak, you think of others; in your mind, I am not first--I will never be first."



A new life is a blank notebook, waiting to be filled with your experiences.

My life ran away, currently living now with the staples of love.

Dolphins leap about, gossiping in high pitched tones, crashing into the ocean.

The Red Tide sets in and strangles your nostrils with its pungency.

As you look up, mouth gaping, a seagull passes by,

And drops a clawful of fish eyes into your mouth.

Beneath the pine tree, you run your hand through the cool sand,

Letting it drop, grain by grain.

The sun, momentarily obscured by clouds, sits low on the horizon,

Pink and tangerine, a sky lemonade.

The crashing of the waves leaves a bitter taste,

Like the sight of her voice makes my teeth scream.

Caffeine at hand, Jeff terrorises Alberta with an army—

A formidable, horrifying army of chainsaw-wielding robots, no taller than a cat.

It was actually quite easy to kick them aside and they were kind of cute—

In a dangerous way.

A hidden crack in the coffee pot quietly releases its contents,

Until there’s nothing left but dregs, never again adimpleated.

The crack was there, you see, for Martha had recently torn her pantyhose,

And she had cried, “Are you insinuating I have the soul of a clam?”

The phantasmal arms of procrastination loop around us all,

Bitter caresses tracing across us, deceptive sweet nothings in our ears.

Wading through life, drenched as the Gobi, frigid as the Sahara,

Martha plucked a cloud from the sky and rode upon it across the globe,

Flying high into space, touching the moon with a delicate finger,

So as not to upset its orbit around Earth.

Poor Clarence, poor Bunny—what was she to do, so unhappy and earthbound?

Stars will fall from the air, no longer will the night sky sparkle and glimmer,

The heavenly bodies will descend to Earth,

Dark flames, leisurely burning, draped around their middles.

The true worth of a tissue is its ability to withstand the forces of a waterfall.

Ubi loqueris de alia cogitas; in tuo animo non prima sum--numquam prima ero.

Clothing stretches, sighing as it contemplates another day of braving the weather.

A blank notebook rests upon the shelf, waiting, waiting for the pen to click.


This was part of a class project in which everyone's poems all tied into a single story. It is kind of dumb.



There was that letter about the four of them,

And she told me all she could

After confessing her lack of blood ties.

It’s hard to care when I don’t know them,

Hardly know their faces or their voices.

Wish I could say I’m maladjusted,

That not knowing whose child I am

Tears me up inside and makes my heart ache—

All the same, I carry on.

Aspasia and Geraldina may be off in the Amazon,

Reclining in their trees,

And Camilla may be out on the ring,

Knocking out some teeth,

But my place is here, staring down,

Forever down at tiny building blocks

Built from miniscule strings,

Vibrating in beat to a cosmic melody,

Resonating across the galaxy,

Reaching through space,

Wrapping the infinite, unifying and elegant—

That my spirit vibrates in unison with his,

A silent harmony with the universe’s song,

My essence in tune with its voice.

Radioactivity, fission, and fusion,

Bombs and black holes

Pacemakers and energy,

My life devoted be to these small items,

Neither evil nor good, merely existing—

Potential be not reality.


This is about cherry blossoms. I used to live in Japan.



I was but a child when they fell last—

Now sixty long years have since passed

And still I remember how they look,

How, in the breeze, so slightly they shook,

The way it made the sky look ablush.

Days would pass and, at last, a hush—

Blossoms dying would descend,

Oh, the gaiety it would portend!

Made of petals toothsome confection,

Procured as fresh—‘t’was perfection—

And garments silken they would wear,

No false guise, rapport beyond compare,

Celebration of a life brief ‘til the coming year.

Days to weeks, weeks to months, again drew near,

And still the trees were bare, nary a blossom seen,

We waited patiently and a year turned to fifteen,

Fifteen to thirty, now forgotten by the youth,

Cherry blossoms regarded as less than truth,

Simply a fact, images in books, flat and bland.

Nature’s beauty they’ll never understand,

Wrapped up in a world murky and brassy,

Mechanical and carnal, their eyes glassy.

Though the cherry blossom’s descent

May be lost upon you—oh, my lament—

Imagine them flutter to the ground,

As gusts of wind whirl them around,

And the air feels crisp, not draining,

Light—not heavy, mind constraining.

Even the comfits, so typically leadening,

Would be invigorating, not deadening.

Sixty years since the festival prior,

And the memory’s lost in history’s mire.

How young I was, how fatuous,

Ingratitude—how deleterious.


I don't know what this pretentious poem is or what the assignment was. I think I had just read Brave New World and I was all angst and rage.



Assertions that perfection is found within luxury,

Within ease, within slovenly behaviours that corrupt,

That appeal to naught but base desire, wants ignoble—

How quick we are to relinquish our dreams, our duties all,

And so justify it with rationale nihilistic,

Neglecting responsibilities in favour of sport.

A life void of meaning, of passionate sacrifices,

All in the name of entertainment, simplicity skewed.

Oh, to minify the importance of self-denial

In order to realize a treasured dream well-hidden,

Lost beneath the weight of banalities so forced on all,

Forced by society driven mad by puerility.

To whom would we look without the minds of others illumed,

Serving as beacons, as paragons to aspire to?

Without manifold opera of authors inspired;

Without honeyed melody of songstresses blesséd so;

Without chemists toiling away on beakers abundant;

Without athletes swift of foot, endowed with pith astounding;

No utopia worth its salt would be without these all,

No sane man would dare imagine an absence of them all.

A fantasy world functions best in imagination,

Lying deep within subconscious, brought to light infrequent.

The chemist is bewildered in the dreams of the songstress,

The author feels amiss in the world of the star athlete.

Their ambitions, though separate be, are united here,

And across the globe, accolades are spread by all for each.

For all, there is to praise a hero, nearly deified—

Yet for all, the hero is not the same, if any be.

Riddle me this, tell me true—be there a utopia,

A world immaculate that you can imagine just so,

That accommodates individuality, thoughts, dreams—

None of which be yours to hold, to achieve—but hers and his?

Put aside your self-seeking thoughts, and for once, see the world—

See it as it is, and the people who tread upon it.

The civilisations built and collapsed, dreamed and founded;

The people born and dead, the legacies they spread and share;

The emotions that ran high, tears that flowed, blood that had spilled.

Days of old never to be lived again, just as it was,

With people of yore, just as they were before they had passed.

Think only of yourself, imagine a world for yourself,

And you exclude a wealth of insight for your amusement.

To forfeit history, eccentricity and qualities unique for ease—

Teeming knowledge and wisdom bountiful is lost on you,

Should you so feel that these are worth absolute surrender,

To attain the world you feel is worth so much more than this.


This is another poem based on a project. We had to create a hundred flash cards with different categories of words on them ("fifteen verbs", "ten verbs for walking", whatever). And then we were told we had to create a poem using those words.



Stroll into the tenebrous—

Lurid soul thus stalk,

Otherworldly voice wailing so,

Echoing cacophony—discordant, grating.

Putrid air, foetid corpse,

Decaying wall, shrill crescendo.

Dilapidated floor gives way—

Fall, fall!—far gone.

Flames rhythmic, pungent smoke,

Morality faded, confession forgotten.

Pulsation entrancing, body obfuscated,

Ethereal—saunter on, on.

Trapped within and tense,

Upon these lips—ambrosia.

Honeyed whisper, heavenly deceit—

Vile trace, solitude indulgent—

Traded away your intimacy

For a taste luxurious.

Chains drop—oh, wander,

Wander down the hall,

Hair albescent, skin taut,

Sweat dripping, eyes wide—

Vivid light flows in.

Blood filled puddle glimmering,

Rancid and salty, uneasy.

Circle ‘round the room,

Just try to escape.

Bone pulverised and pain,

Pain redolent of—Pith!

Pith! Drag yourself up;

Oh, pull yourself together.

Explore this no longer,

Musty underworld, stately Hell.

Bitter fruit leaking juice,

Delicate seed slither down.

Perfumed flower beckoned so,

Pulchritudinous, symmetrical in shape—

Dash away—oh, flee,

Linger no more, sweet.

Drag yourself up here,

Away from the tenebrous.

Breathe the balmy air,

Harmonious song—majestic, exquisite.

Luscious trees, gentle sun—

Fruit no longer astringent—

Oh, but savoury, sumptuous!

Tiny seed, flesh sweet—

Peppery leaf flutter down,

Aromatic, sensitive and fractured—

Flutter to your feet,

No longer fragrant—vile!

Shattered! What is wrought?

Fruit be saccharine, syrupy—

Dulcet song become strident,

Trees burn away, odoriferous,

Bearing scent acrid, overwhelming.

Staunch entitlement—cursed seed…

Seed! Cost your life,

Palatable seed—lacklustre seed!

Body tense, mind impervious—

Heart severed, melodious sob.

Balance restored—identical seed!

Ambulate away—perambulate away,

No goal in sight—

Oh, fate—but inflexible.


This is a sonnet or something about how awesome I am.



Your behaviour—crude and careless.

Think you not of your ascension?

Rise above inane contention—

Stray from dangers true of excess,

Strive to live as not an abscess.

Leeching, stealing—both declensions;

Faith and honour—twain preventions.

Modesty is truly progress.

Foolish youth, your soul be leaden,

Crushed beneath all sundry falsehoods—

Hatred, envy always fester.

Morals lost and conscience deadened,

Granted by you there is one good:

As it seems, you are a jester.


And now for something completely different! This was written when I was fourteen. It is a work of art. Art, I say.



Writhing in pain

—Or was it pleasure?

It was nothing I could dare measure—

On the silk on which I had lain

Your cool skin, moist with sweat,

Feeling you in me—

So hard to believe I’m with enemy—

I’m caught up in your wicked net

Screaming, moaning, clutching the sheets—

A single night of sin—

Oh, how it caused such a din—

Our voices never as loud as the heat

I want the war to be over—

I now surrender to you my self

A night of shame for wealth

A night of shame for her

Edited by Emotional Outlet

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