As much as I alluded to disdain towards my own poetry, there is no quality bar here. Or maybe it’s just my poems are so good at conveying emotion, that when I wrote the poem conveying “crap at poetry” I bought it hook, line, and sinker. Anyways, Caveat Lector.
For those who live on the wild side and might read them, these poems were all an attempt to convey an emotion. It’s a different emotion per poem, and you can click the button to get my answer as to which emotion it conveys. But your answer is just as valid; we’re in this together.
The wave crests and crashes upon her,
I spit when I talk this fast, I'm sorry.
But I don't stop talking, the apology just means I get to talk more.
The wet and mildly unhygienic wave is the least of the three great waves surging out of my skull.
The middle wave is one of discourse,
I'm sure whatever I'm talking about is awesome.
Maybe it's my new story, where Juliet comes from Mars with a secret mission...
There is still a greater tide that lifts all subjects: Juliet, Aliens, and a sincere apology for that spittle.
The greatest wave is energy,
Flowing from within, driving me passionately forward,
Giving life to stories, breath to my mouth, and dances to my hands and feet.
This energy carves a path for it's own inexorable release, and takes me along for the ride every time.
In the vast throng, he walks alone.
Who will walk with him?
The weak are more pitiable, he will walk with them.
The strong are his rivals, he will walk before them.
The patient do not share their goal, he will sit with them.
The impetuous rush towards their goal, he will walk behind them.
The meek wait for permission from on high, he will walk without them.
Who will walk with him?
At the journey's end, there is a gate.
Untold generations have told him of this gate.
It reads: "For those who were walked with."
He wanders into the forest at the behest of a friend, one whose sensibilities are neither here nor there, but the forest is intended to be an uplifting rite of rejuvenation for body and soul alike and he's keen to find out.
He hears the sound of a tree falling, which reminds him of a Zen koan which probably wasn't meant to be applied in this specific circumstance.
He walks along a creek, slow and crystal clear, gouged deep into the foliage.
He touches a branch of a tree, covered with vines.
He rubs his feet in the dirt.
He sits down.