(Post Your) Incredible Poems (Here!)

[modularblues]

An Ode:
- Jalapeno Garlic Tilapia
At Johnny Carino's

Reminds me of the Buy 'n Large from WALL-E Fantastic and whimsical couplets!

The Pigeonhole Lymerick

Put n holes in a number of pigeons
And if the pigeons add also to n
.....Then the next shot you make
.....Though great pains you may take
Means a pigeon's been pierced through again.

(Boards wouldn't let me indent, which is why the dots.)
Enjoy!

Nice twist on putting holes in pigeons instead of the other way around... like Jon Swift's essay on eating babies.

On It Goes (Time)

Silently listen- Mother Earth stopped snoring,
And she whistles through the trees,
And the sun sitting beside me on the leaves,
My tiredness free,
Letting my self be- be just me.
And now I stay.

Yet eventually I must wander,
Leaving myself, leaving the trees, and the leaves,
And Dawn has ended, as time began,

I really like the nomadic feel of this.

But soon I will depart
Soon I will no longer be the latest product
Of a family of scars.

Wish you courage and best of luck on the journey.

[Felstaff]

(Boards wouldn't let me indent, which is why the dots.)

If you want to see posts well-presented,
And to leave your dear reader contented

I must therefore insist
Find the button called "List"
And voila! your lines are indented.

[Exclusive Blend]

A Call to Apathy: A poem written purely for procrastination.

As we sit awake at night, textbooks open on our laps, waiting for the sweet repose of belated sleep to free us from our endless toil, we should pause for a moment of pure procrastination...thinking nothing, doing nothing. Ah what peace we have in this realization...that were our brains scrambled like eggs with cheese on a plate in front of us, nothing could be more delicious. If our brains are truly fried, then surely this is Nirvana.

Procrastination: the sound of distant thoughts of being productive. No, the sound of nothing... Procrastination is the consideration of having distant thoughts about maybe being productive... but I don't think I'll have those sort of thoughts. Not today. Not tonight.. and probably not tomorrow. The day after that isn't looking good either.
To Procrastinate: To do nothing.. to hear nothing... to be oblivious of all things. Therefore procrastination is the sound of nothing, because procrastinating makes no sound. Sound requires movement and effort. and I don't think I'll make the effort to move. Not Today, not tomorrow.. next week isn't looking good either.
Procrastination: Surely this is Nirvana.

To go or not to go.. That is the question
Whether it is nobler in the mind to get out of the house and go to class..

or to sit here and enjoy being in my jammies.

What sweet, sweet misery, this dilemma set before us. None can say what we might learn today by showing up on campus...
However, the reverse is true,
that staying home might further our education far more than sitting in a classroom.
Where, oh will, is your power to make decisions?
Why, oh mind, cant you think?
A pox on my fried brain.

Today I sat. first in class, then I came home and sat some more. How I wish i could sleep, but alas, it would interfere with my sitting.
It is said it is a waste of time to sit and do nothing, but I beg to differ. In doing nothing I have learned that I have retained just as much information while here sitting.. as I would if I were to study.
Nothing enters my brain. Everything goes over my head. Those scholarly words are so boring.. I'd rather not read them.. From textbooks I've learned nothing. In sitting here I've learned nothing. A waste of time they say.. I beg to differ. The outcome of both is nothing.

To read or not to read.. that is the question..
We have found that it is indeed nobler to do nothing.
Procrastination at its finest.

[Microscopic cog]

There once was a baker and he baked
a lot of pies and cakes and muffins and every now and then he baked
a good old pancake for his wife in the morning when he woke up but one day his wife did not
( wake up or maybe she was dead ) he didn’t know he was just a baker he baked
a pancake and his wife wasn’t ( awake ) and the pancake kept baking and this feels kinda good really anyway the pancake baked
and the wife was ( sleeping or dead ),
not like anyone cares about that and the baker baked
as well but not like the pancake the baker went upstairs with his pancake and he saw his wife and he his heart filled with warm stuff and all those things, no need to describe the pancake was to be set down at the little nightstand next to the window as the sun was pouring in and it was all shiny and now the pancake’s brown crusted top was enlightened and it lay there in the warm sun to be baked baked baked forever in baked and baked and baked and baked and baked
and nothing more to use that guy because maybe he is ( sleeping or not awake ) as well
we don’t know he was mad and poor and weird and who’d want to have anything to do with him if he didn’t write words and
does it matter if I bake or if the pancake is baking next to the wife who is ( sleeping or might not be sleeping or might be dead or might not be awake ) or might not be in
denial because you see they were happy and baked for life and some
street thug reading this in his literature class might laugh at this choice of words but nothing fits better than what’s there and it’s baked
so I think the thug should shut the fuck and go fuck himself and his mom and his mom’s face because you won’t ever be any good and
writing is shit and he is shit and the wife is shit and the baker is shit and the sun is shit and I am shit but the pancake is goddamn baked and baked things aren’t shit they’re baked.

[adho]

A Call to Apathy

I am studying Hamlet now, it's a wonderful play. I like the way you write.

She's in my head, and I don't know why
She's in my bed, but I had to lie
Tell your sister, I'm sorry, I don't remember
I don't know why, I don't want to hurt her
We were once lovers but not in that way
We never gave a fuck what they had to say
Or so we said, late at night
Fuck the world, hold me tight

Ah, teenagers.

[mago]

“Stars”

I look up; and there is darkness
and in the darkness; stars.
Millions; nay; billions of years underway
and they have reached me.
And through my eyes,
a tiny speck of them has entered me.

But in truth, the stars have always been with me
For I am of the stars.
I have come from blinding light and power.
A star, in the throes of death,
Throwing life across the universe,
in great clouds of gas and dust
before, again, becoming stars,
stars and planets, rocks, floating on the darkness
From the light of that star
and from dust and water of one of those planets,
I grew, and I grew great.

And yet! I am older still!
for those stars, from which I arose
they are as old as anything
and older, still, than light
older, even, than any star;
older than anything but energy
and as old as everything.

And as I look up, across vast darkness
across incomprehensible distances
I am challenged by the stars, giants of old
“Who are you?” they ask
“Compared to us, old and great”
and, with a twinkle in my eye;
a twinkle they have given me
I readily reply:
“I am you, of you, from you.
And in the end, one of you will consume me
and I shall return to you.
but for now, I burn brightly”

[Colin Fiat]

There on my screen I see some dirt:
A smudge, some marks, and smears.
I tried to clean them with my shirt;
One sticky bit adheres.

The corner of my eye does catch,
A speck, a spot, a stain.
But if I pick it will it scratch?
A scrape and score remain?

I wiped it with a cleaning cloth;
This dust, this muck, this grime.
But this damn thing will not come off!
It’s bound in bond to bind.

I clicked the mouse to scroll the text,
In web and site of mail.
The dot it moved! I am perplexed:
A glitch, a fault, a fail...

[modularblues]

This is where my bagel reference comes from. Existential zen haikus...

[Jacque]

I'm fairly sure this is the right board, but please move to general/art if I'm mistaken.

I took upon myself a personal goal of writing poetry or short stories after reading alot of Hemingway and Frost. I just want to know what you guys think, what your reading of the poem was, what I could do better with, what i did okay with? (Im not sure if the formatting in my post will translate).

Only today's stay
could tire him so.
A competition of--
What?
He supposed he could continue.
He must.
It was required.
At first, arising from the chair,
and then changing his mind.

As he eased, into the chair,
support was found in a wayward table,
whose hues of walnut remained.

Here's what I was thinking, please don't read until after you've responded, as after all the birth of the reader is the death of the writer anywho.

Spoiler:

I Drew a great deal from Robert Frosts idea of semantics in a few lines. "Only todays stay" was intended to create confusion and ambiguity for the upcoming competition, seeing as how the pronunciation of today's stay is lost without intense enunciation. Also, "whose hues of walnut" is a permutation of that. The phrase requires carefull enunciation but rewards it not with confusion, but a feeling of resolution and structure. "He supposed...required" is intended to emulate a quick and chaotic thought process. In fact, the entire first stanza is based on the confusion surrounding his activity(hence why I left the activity ambiguous) and the responsibility it creates. The second stanza is the dawning realization of there being order wherever the character decides it should be, like the "wayward" table. This poem is simply the characters realization of how is desire to end his own futility (standing up from the chair) is futile (sitting back down), but also his comfort in that fact (the support offered by the table). *Sorry if this last bit is inchorent I'm incredibly tired, also theres more in this poem, but thats all I plan to type.

[matilda]

Here is a poem
About and also all female mathematicians, scientists, and women who have broken down gender barriers before and since.

she keletons roared thundrous
as cross each apter they saw
a thought in telligent direction, go
far from the way it went before

she keletons roared furious
to hear her tell a graph
"i am a vector of flesh and bone,
why and ex acting,
i am fast as a particle
clear as any quation."

she keletons roared amorous
rumpled hell with their clamour and clatter
the fire has spoken: "I matter to the air,
I am athematical, analytical, algorithmical;
and I am here to stay."

she keletons roared sonorous
the paper had tamed them
she termined curses would keep more pain than ghosts
decided answers could be found
overturned then ormal ways
and she keletons roar thundrous
at the sound of her name

I know I'm rather late to this, but I would just like to express my love for this poem. <3

[ArchaicHipster]

I hope I'm not being irretrievably naughty by posting here, since the thread appears to be inactive, but I checked and there seems to be nothing against necromancy, so here goes!

Season of Fire and Fog (with my best "not ripping off Keats at all, honest" face on)

Autumn is coming again.
I can see it in the rigid lines on the field
the green coding of new shoots.
I can feel it in the banks of leaves
around each wounded tree, its red life-blood
spilling out on the icy ground.

Soon will come wool weather
and orange shovels the only colour
on a blank canvas.
Quiet will fill the whole of my soul.
Trees black, ground white, air grey and full of silence
pushing down on me as I walk through the woods.

But there is another world before winter.
Appreciate autumn as far more than fall
not just the shedding of summer’s green garb
but also the donning of a brief, fiery shawl
and an air with more than a little barb

and the crispness of windfall apples
and the slow sound of rot after rain
walking through these woods again
with the ghost of summer on my arm.

[Felstaff]

"not ripping off Keats at all, honest"

I'm convinced.

Here's a poem! I wrote it a while back. Contains naughty words and ne'er-do-wells.

We found the word scrawled, in black, on the wall
A gaggle of giggling girls down the hall
Graffiti, vandal, political, art
Written in malice, or written by heart

Four simple letters; one combination
Three consonants, one vowel, in blunt notation
Perhaps it was not penned out in meanness
This vulgar term for the cleft of Venus

Perhaps it was anger, thrust at the world
Through powerful language, emphatically hurled
Perhaps it was joy, or mere celebration
At coarse and crude sarcous information

Only the artiste could explain meaning
Insult, offence, political leaning?
Whether to cogitate or simply shock
One student piped up: "why not just write cock?"

"He coloured it in!" "Oh, I disagree;
How did you know that the artist was 'he'?
Am I the only one here who objects
That this single-word can divulge the sex?"

"It is barbaric, disgusting and crude!"
"I say evocative, daring, and lewd."
"I find it quaint, lovely, and charming!"
"Powerful words can be so disarming."

So many voices, so much persuasion
How one single word caused such abrasion
The hullaballoo of one simple stunt
Can cause such outcry; it only said 'cunt'!

[ArchaicHipster]

I like that a lot, Felstaff - the rhyming couplets really help get the humour across. One question - what does "sarcous" mean?

[Felstaff]

sarcous sar·cous (sär'kəs)
adj.
Of, relating to, or consisting of flesh or muscle tissue.

Not sure which of those the human lele pertains to, so I'mma stick with 'flesh'.

[ArchaicHipster]

Fair enough.


A Song for the Self-Conscious

To show you yourself, I give you memory.

A girl in a hall, one spotlight
on her fingers darting on the neck
of a violin, playing away the night.

Morning on flatland,
a city of green canvas and flags,
and a girl, stretching herself awake.

A brown, warm coffee-shop
and outwith, in different points in time
two people wait for one another.

For you are a person worth singing to.


Please critique, tis much appreciated.

[Natty]

It's far too early on a Sunday... why am I on the xkcd boards reading poetry?!?

Some questions may never have answers. Anyway, here is one I wrote a couple years ago.


Cubicle Hell
by CJ Nackel

I sit upon my simple chair
forever in my dreary cell
with deadened eyes and vacant stare
I wallow in my corporate hell
I stare up at fluorescent lights
and long for skies of purest blue
as preludes to the starry nights
that I could spend, inside of you

[The Moomin]

Once upon a time, I decided to write a sequel to Through The Looking Glass. I've long since stopped trying to write a full story as my mind tends to wander. I did manage a sequel poem to "The Walrus and The Carpenter" though.

The moon was shining on the sea,
Silver on inky black.
The sand of the beach was bone white,
Marred by a single track.
The Eldest Oyster left the sea,
To bring her children back.

The Walrus and The Carpenter,
Had took them on a walk.
These two upstanding citizens,
Had stopped to have a talk.
And right beneath the midnight sun,
Done deeds to make you baulk.

The oyster children were no more,
Am sorry to relate.
The Walrus and The Carpenter,
Had piled them on a plate.
And wolfed them down fast as you like,
Their appetite to sate.

After the walk and such a meal,
They took themselves a sleep.
And like petrified butterflies,
The shells were in a heap.
And here the Eldest Oyster came,
And sat herself to weep.

She wailed and cried and cried and wailed,
Her tears fell to the ground.
A steady stream started flowing,
Down the beach seaward bound.
Then the water started rising,
And greedy walrus drowned.

Hearing coughing and spluttering,
The carpenter awoke.
Went to the wailing crying sound,
And with old oyster spoke,
And as she told of deaths and woes,
The carpenter was broke.

He went to the weeping willow,
And cried there with the tree.
And proposed a memorial,
For all that passed to see.
So all could see his true regret,
And set his conscience free.

In sand he dug a thousand graves,
In which the eaten lay.
And carved for each an ornate cross,
That stood there on the bay.
Exhausted he collapsed and died,
He’d nothing more to say.

The eldest oyster left the beach,
And returned to her bed.
The sand of the beach was bone white,
Marred only by the dead.
A thousand crosses cast shadows,
The moon silver overhead.

[selfassembled]

It's far too early on a Sunday... why am I on the xkcd boards reading poetry?!?

Some questions may never have answers. Anyway, here is one I wrote a couple years ago.


Cubicle Hell
by CJ Nackel

I sit upon my simple chair
forever in my dreary cell
with deadened eyes and vacant stare
I wallow in my corporate hell
I stare up at fluorescent lights
and long for skies of purest blue
as preludes to the starry nights
that I could spend, inside of you

I like this, what is there to think about but sex anyways? The last line is a great surprise.

I wrote one one a while back. I think it actually got me in bed with someone wonderful.

The truth is that your life is but a shadow of your dreams
barely seeming in the profundity of who you are at depth
Your activities and relationships never capture the grandeur
that wants to unfold from your heart into the world
There are brief moments of memorable glory,
distant shapes through which magnificence radiates without bound
but your life is mostly a tragic almost-there, a kind of death
in a life of unfulfilled longing and partial gestures of tense effort
Yet solace exists in another truth
That actualization would only insult its significance
and ultimately leave you weak, unsatisfied and inert
So fight for life unceasingly, soldier round your catch-22
and know that a sea of depth breeds life in the shallows
That in the emptiness left in its wake
lingers the inconceivable possibility of conception

[Gawain_the_stout]

Just got back from Hawaii. Longing to head back. The poem:


Maui beckons me.
She has always beckoned me.
Soft supple sand brushing against my body,
her hot breath on my neck.
Immersed in her wetness I explore mysteries
in wide-eyed wonder
and short, panting gasps.

I climb upon her, reign like a king
but she always becomes me a beggar.
She spends me penniless and paupered,
sends me away with nary a word.

My harsh mistress, Maui,
she beckons me.
The door has hardly closed before I need to come back.
Maui has always beckoned me.

[Kick]

Something I wrote last night, Beautiful and Sad

It’s that feeling you get
As an ambulance with it’s lights on passes you.

It’s that feeling you get
When you see the flag half-mast.

It’s that feeling you get
When you turn on the news at 6.

It’s that feeling,
Where for a brief moment,
You experience a myriad of emotions.
It’s that fear, that hope, and that memory,
And they all hit you at the same moment.

And that moment passes;
It passes as fast as the ambulance,
The flutter of the wind,
And the change of a channel.

It’s that single moment,
That is so gloriously sad and the passing of something beautiful.

I don't know how this translated from imagery to paper, but I tried to capture a solitary moment from my mind that stood out. I wrote more on my blog-that-no-one-reads and it turns out people actually do read it. That was quite the shock.

[mickey]

The search

Wonder how?
wonder why?
the universe create a conscious life,
among the frantic blinds,
in this chaotic time.

the wind singing in the air,
the leaves dancing on the branches,
the moon shine the night,
the stars wink on the sky ,
the silent of the night daze for the born of the conscious life.

we, the creature of the chaotic time,
search inside and outside,
for an answer that satisfied.
the journey seem like a lie,
the truth is just in front of your eye.
Never lose from the sight.
yet, the blind souls never realize,
continuously live a miserable life.....

[ArchaicHipster]

It’s that feeling you get
As an ambulance with it’s lights on passes you.

It’s that feeling you get
When you see the flag half-mast.

It’s that feeling you get
When you turn on the news at 6.

It’s that feeling,
Where for a brief moment,
You experience a myriad of emotions.
It’s that fear, that hope, and that memory,
And they all hit you at the same moment.

And that moment passes;
It passes as fast as the ambulance,
The flutter of the wind,
And the change of a channel.

It’s that single moment,
That is so gloriously sad and the passing of something beautiful.

I don't know how this translated from imagery to paper, but I tried to capture a solitary moment from my mind that stood out. I wrote more on my blog-that-no-one-reads and it turns out people actually do read it. That was quite the shock.

This was lovely - a really good vignette of that particular window of feeling.

http://www.poetrysociety.org.uk/content ... tions/fyp/

Don't know how useful this will be, seeing that it's only ages 11-17, but I'm definitely entering - you get chocolate if you're a runner-up, what's not to like?

[Age of Fable]

My poem The Assignation, based on the story of the same name by Lord Dunsany, has been published by New Myths. You can read it here.

[Age of Fable]

Issue 4 of Wisdom Crieth Without is out now. You can read it for free online here. I have two poems in this issue, one fantasy and one comedy: I Was Walking Through Wasteground One Evening, and Irreconcilable Differences.

EDIT: Moving this to the (Post Your) Incredible Poems (Here!) thread. - Jacque

[Kick]

I don't know how this translated from imagery to paper, but I tried to capture a solitary moment from my mind that stood out. I wrote more on my blog-that-no-one-reads and it turns out people actually do read it. That was quite the shock.

This was lovely - a really good vignette of that particular window of feeling.

http://www.poetrysociety.org.uk/content ... tions/fyp/

Don't know how useful this will be, seeing that it's only ages 11-17, but I'm definitely entering - you get chocolate if you're a runner-up, what's not to like?

Thanks, good luck in that contest. I was flipping through my bookshelf the other day and found a collection of poetry from a contest I entered in high school. I flipped through and found mine and others and it inspired me to write again. If you're interested in the back story, I wrote about it more here.

Parallel Perspective

We thought with emotions painted on paper,
Thoughts from a place devoid of structure,
Formed from disjointed views and parallel perspective,
Screaming to be heard but speaking to be ignored.

We knew the form and but not the function,
The words but not the meanings,
The sounds but not the feelings,
But this is not true.

The form was old and the function too,
And with the words, so too was true.
The sounds from our mind
Only insight of our time.

As a child looking up to the world,
We were parallel;
Not yet looking down,
But no longer gazing up.

Something else I wrote a long time ago but never posted anywhere:

Life's bus stop

Sailing the waters of this consciousness,
I get trapped in the doldrums of my mind.

Sitting at the bus stop on a busy city street,
Cars go by, and people too,
but here I sit with nothing to do.
A photographer has set up his camera,
He is taking a time lapse photo of a city in motion.
I sit opposite, head hung low, with nowhere to go.

As my mind starts to slow,
The scene starts to flow.
Colors come together,
And lights are long lines going on forever.

The sidewalk is full of ghostly figures,
Some sitting next to me, some walking by.
Buses come and go, people get on and off.
All this happening so slow

I sit here,
Nowhere to be,
Nowhere to go,
Nowhere needed,
Nowhere missed.

And the cars fly by,
And people too,
Each passing by,
All with such important things to do.

Time has passed,
The crowd has thinned.
Here I am.

I have the naive goal of writing and singing, but I don't know if that will ever happen.

Issue 4 of Wisdom Crieth Without is out now. You can read it for free online here. I have two poems in this issue, one fantasy and one comedy: I Was Walking Through Wasteground One Evening, and Irreconcilable Differences.

EDIT: Moving this to the (Post Your) Incredible Poems (Here!) thread. - Jacque

Well written.

[KevinLevin]

Sailing the waters of this consciousness,
I get trapped in the doldrums of my mind.

Sitting at the bus stop on a busy city street,
Cars go by, and people too,
but here I sit with nothing to do.
A photographer has set up his camera,
He is taking a time lapse photo of a city in motion.
I sit opposite, head hung low, with nowhere to go.

As my mind starts to slow,
The scene starts to flow.
Colors come together,
And lights are long lines going on forever.

The sidewalk is full of ghostly figures,
Some sitting next to me, some walking by.
Buses come and go, people get on and off.
All this happening so slow

I sit here,
Nowhere to be,
Nowhere to go,
Nowhere needed,
Nowhere missed.

And the cars fly by,
And people too,
Each passing by,
All with such important things to do.

Time has passed,
The crowd has thinned.
Here I am

This is awesome. I can explain my trauma by using this poem.

[somebody already took it]

The things they might have thought
while they looked at me and smiled and tried
to act casual, laid back, jovial, easy going...
They might have been afraid of what I would think of them
if I knew what they were thinking.
And so we were like mirrors reflecting
eachother's subdued, forcibly frictionless exteriors,
while inside we chanted the same obscenities,
restrained the same violent impulses,
paniced and plotted terse dialogs of escape.
Yet though we share the same erupting reality,
we collude to hide it,
to pretend alienation and longing is only our own
fantasy.

[Beatrice The Golden]

Alright, one from Beatrice.
Bare with me if some words are misused. English is my second language.

Hopeless Perseverance

And when you take another step
And when you find you've met your end
And when you try and take a leap
With hopeless smile and silent weep

That's when you fail to realise
The choice you've made is your demise!

Maybe it's time you thought this out?
Recall the words worth hearing out?
That there are times you should give up
Forget the dream; time to wake up!

Some paths are not ment to be walked
Some lessons needn't to be taught
Some words are better left unspoken
Leaving warm, fragile hearts unbroken

And with these thoughts, you trace your steps
Back to the place that you've just left
But this time smarter, you forfeit
Percieving through your minds' deceit

You cannot hope to jump this high
You cannot make it through the sky

"I tried my best" you say and grin
With dubious smile; tear at your chin
'cause you are smart; know it's no use
To pry your way through fates' refuse

Because you know it gives no shame
When you have tried and tried in vain
To find some other grass to trample
Abound with paths; the choice is ample

These words sound obvious in your head
You ponder deeply what's been said

But... looking up at endless sky
You flash a grin and change your mind
Because your heart will hear no reason
Your will treats giving up as treason!

With that, you jump a hundredth time
Knowing damn well that you will fall!

But it's alright to keep on trying
As when you do, you keep on smiling
So long as sky is out of reach
There is a dream; the reasons' breach!

To dream means to hold out the spate
To make a bet with fickle fate

To dream means never to forget
The lofty goals that you have set

To fly among sky-pearcing clouds
To ambit heights no-one have sought

To gaze at vividness of mind
Where all your worlds are intertwined

Where rationality is moot
Where nothing can be sound astute

When neither path leads you to freedom
To dream means hope that one is hidden

When fear of heights benights your sight
To dream means hope for flash of light

And when you fall through soft-white clouds
To dream means hope there is no ground

And then, when all what's left is death
To dream means hope... for one more breath

[Leia]

Drop of ocean
In my navel
Reflects the amusement park

[Leia]

Just got back from Hawaii. Longing to head back. The poem:


Maui beckons me.
She has always beckoned me.
Soft supple sand brushing against my body,
her hot breath on my neck.
Immersed in her wetness I explore mysteries
in wide-eyed wonder
and short, panting gasps.

I climb upon her, reign like a king
but she always becomes me a beggar.
She spends me penniless and paupered,
sends me away with nary a word.

My harsh mistress, Maui,
she beckons me.
The door has hardly closed before I need to come back.
Maui has always beckoned me.

I really like this! It's raw and beautiful - do you write it?

[Leia]

The Kraken - Tennyson http://www.web-books.com/Classics/Poetry/Anthology/Tennyson/Kraken.htm

[xaos.evans]

(removed)

[free-bee]

I'm not sure if this is a poem or a song. However, I'm 73.62% sure they're both the same thing.

I once saw a castle, that stood strong and tall.
I went inside, and this is what I saw.

There were turtles climbing nets, and coins hung in the air.
I ran as fast as I could, hoping the princess would be there.

I came to a room where things fell from the sky.
I ducked in the pits so that I would not die.

When all at once, I came to a large brown door.
It was like no other I have seen before.

On a large floating platform was the ugly purple thing.
It wanted to push me into the large fiery ring.

I stomped on its head, he moved to the side.
It was then I knew victory would be mine.

After it was all over, I found a sack.
I thought to myself, I saved the princess at last.

I opened it up, and out popped Toad.
And the message he gave me, it was so very cold.

I’m so sorry you went through such a hassle.
But, Mario, your princess; she’s in another castle.

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in the

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now that

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If looking

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The story

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If my

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I WISH

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The road