Hi Admins, I posted a poem last night on this thread and it didn't get posted...I know a lot of other comments/threads have been posted since then, so I was just wondering! Thank you! :) 

I deleted a poem last night that I thought was too severe for Chatterbox. It may have been yours. I hope you understand.

Admin

It's such a push-and-pull

To get anywhere with you.

Everything wrong about the ocean

Lies between us when we speak.

Greasy tides, polluted by years of abuse,

Salt thick in our mouths when we disagree;

Words slick and superficial, yet sharp to the touch,

Undertides of swirling violent emotions beneath our surfaces, 

Eyes and cheeks that sting like a jellyfish's touch

After one of us has stormed off, 

We will never be able to breath the heavy air between us.

You are a prowling shark, and I the prey;

You bite and slash and hunt at the scent of blood, always on the attack

Trying to snatch a bite to sate your unquenchable hunger 

And I become hardened and spiky and resort to the underhanded

To escape your fangs and furious rampage.

We will never see eye to eye, on that we agree,

And yet time and time again we clash, like waves upon a shore

Locked in eternal conflict.

We thought etching all our knowledge

Into silicone and glass

Would preserve our minds forever.

We thought we could be digitally embalmed

If only we were to try hard enough;

If only our servers and hardware and RAMS could shoulder

The burden of billions upon billions of bytes,

Imaginary 1's and 0's that spell our existence.

We – such foolish things we are – thought we could be saved. 

And yet, in our fruitless attempt to secure immortality

We have driven ourselves to an early grave —

Expended what little the old goddesses had left to give,

And destroyed our home and planet, along with any hope of survival.

Now we must pay for our impertinence;

We must become the oblation we refused for so long to properly give.

Perhaps after all these years, the old deities have become sick

Of our pathetic scrapings and carvings –

Sculpting is the art of torturing stone, as they say,

And it is now our turn to be sculpted and molded

Into a form we no longer recognise.

We are just dust, after all:

From dust we were created,

And to dust we shall fall once more.

Indeed, our great spires of metal will not last

Any longer than our failing flesh and bones;

Not when even the roads seem to hold their breaths

And the sky looms close, coming ever closer.

In time we will realise,

Our glass towers and golden lights

Were never enough to protect us.

Perhaps, for a single moment

Before we are nothing

We will all be equal;

When our sanctuaries of light and stone are breached,

Perhaps it will be a relief knowing the stars will grind us all 

Into the same sand,

Dead powder scattered upon the cosmic sea.

Perhaps we will fear not in that moment –

The shower of shards, the volley of steel

As the air itself shimmers for what seems like eternity.

All that will remain is the non-memory of

Our false gods, false blood, false flesh.

Our false love, false hope, false pride.

Our false soil, false soul, and false sky.

None of it is real.

Not anymore.

So this kinda came from my mindspace following me watching a video-essay about Kitty Horrorshow by Sagan Hawks. A lot of the language, settings and ideas struck me in such a poetic way, which drove me to synthesise this. If you are at all interested, remember that many of the ideas/phrases have been pulled from that, and I would encourage you to experience it yourself.

One weak link

Will break the chain 

Shatter it like glass

And render everyone's work useless.

Futile. 

Who is that link

I think you know;

The useless one,

The one beyond saving. 

Some say there is no such thing

Everyone is redeemable, 

They just need a little more work 

Than everyone else.

A voice deep down tells me that its a lie.

I am left to wonder.

Can you be saved?

Or have you sinned so greatly

There is no hope of redemption. 

I need someone else's words

To fill my head,

To mend the gaps born of meds 

Choice, there is none

When the ringing buzzes louder than ever

And I yearn for music

To swim in, replace the silent static

But perhaps all the rest are dead

And alone does deafness fill

The ears of men.

Wear and tear

The edges of books

They crinkle as if

Put next to a fire

Over time after so many

Hands have touched it

Have used it

Have read it

And have loved it

Well-worn is

What they call it

Well-loved is

What you call it

Old

Is what I call it

The book rests on

The highest shelf

Dusty forevermore but

Well-worn

Well-loved

And old

Like the leaves that

Wither away as autumn

Descends upon us

But in the spring

New leaves will grow

New books will be bought

And we too

Will regrow again 

---

I tried writing a poem straight out without thinking beforehand 

Crickets

In a lone forest

Tall, dark, shadowy trees

The ground littered

With plenty of leaves

The sky dark as black ink

With a sprinkle of stars

A lone owl hoots

The only sound in the night

No other creature in sight

Except for a faint, repetitive

Chirping sound that echoes

Across the forest night

No one really hears it

Since none are seeking it

Except for one

One who does

Notice the sound

So naturally,

They ask the rest,

“Do you hear the

Crickets chirping?”