Mysterious Mind

That mind is abashed…. illogical, lost, but exultant,
Mysteriously slithering, removed from reality,
Sickening, every move acted wrong,
Hoping to please, but oh no.

Maybe not, hope may arise,
A lost cause looks at hope, although blind,
Envisions nothing, recoils as before, again,
Hoping to please, but oh no.

Why has this occurred, oh why?
Will that mind ever learn? What to do
When this occurs, What may happen?
Hoping to please, but oh no.

Behaving wrong, not behaving, acting,
Hoping to please those who don’t care,
Damaging oneself, hurting oneself,
Hoping to please, but oh no.

Should we aid these lost souls,
Why should we? They are lost.
Euphoric thoughts never exist,
Hoping to please, but oh no.

Wait! Maybe one-self can feel alike,
Is this dislike required, these unrequited,
Burnt stars, that cease existence, just maybe,
These thoughts may cease, oh ecstasy returns for once.
This is the first poem and first post on these forums, I have written many other poems that I will be posting on these forums to get opinion on them and general feedback on them. I welcome any comments good or bad that you may have also. I hope you nejoyed at and tried to think what the subject matter may be applied to.
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...just words triggered from reading ur poem.

Hope, there is no such thing,

it is but imagined to justify, to sculpt,

to save, and so it burns in your mind,

created in dispair,

ignited when the fire that kept you alive

slowly fades into nothingness.

A mind, in a fragile body

sculpting striking words, oh how

they are colored in honesty, but this fails to listen. It's a pattern,

that age old battle, as the mind sees

that the path that has been mapped out for

ages, the body will never stick to it. A fragile

body, never understanding limitations.

A fragile body, who has no hope nor

it seeks comfort, it is what it is.

But the mind, it dreams, it creates,

and the passion it finds through mundane things

satisfies an angry thirst, triggering hope. So

why be so bashful...let the mind

wonder aimlessly, let it explore

through the unconscious, find revelations,

seek for something more...for the body

it is only a tool, a tool which connects us

to this world. What will you find through the

physical world, when the mind can explore

the metaphysical...

And It is hope, that colors dreams.

Hope which fuels the body,

when even the shattered mind

fails to recognize the brillance of one's being..

Hope, its poetry, its music, its like a walking stick...

So I'll let it be...for it is hope

that has kept my sanity.

U're Great...Emotion: big smile How you can make it? I wanna be like you... i wanna make a long poem but i always fail. would you mind giving me some tips to make it ?

Emotion: smile
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I presume your not praising my poem.....Emotion: sad
Hi Triquediqual .. Emotion: smile

Your poem is a really nice one.. It shows how sensitive u r! You have a vivid imagination... Keep up the good work! I love poetry.. n I, myself am a poet ..but a young one..Emotion: stick out tongue

its only a difference in opinion, T.....but your poem was inspiring..
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I myself am young as well, only 17 years old, but love writing it.....Is this poem better because I'm so young, maybe age doesn't matter when writing poetry, it's the ideas, a young mind may produce young poetry that elderly people may never produce to the same extent.

Yes u are absolutely right! Emotion: smile
I disagree entirely on the point that young people produce young poems that older people are incapable of producing. I'm young as well, 16. When a young person writes a 'young poem' it is inspired by/deals with things that are important to a young person. An older person, having experienced these same things, would be equally capable of writing a 'young poem'. What might stop them is that their values have shifted or they see how silly they were when they were a young person, and so the poem just doesn't seem worth writing anymore. However, that's a choice not to write the poem rather than an inability to write it. I would argue that we, as young people, are incapable of writing 'older poems' having not experienced that kind of life yet.
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