A Poem a day - Enjoy I hope

[Peckham]

"BrainPAIN. I am not going to sugar-coat this and lie, The truth hurts, people do hang and die. Sticks and Stones may break my bones, BUT the pain is all in my head from when the cold hearted bastards shot my friend Fred dead. I have no fear of joining him, no fear of dying, I sit in darkness, shaking, trembling and crying. All I can hear is Fred gasping his last breathes, He is whispering, fighting death, all I hear is over and over – Down the eyes of a spear do not fuck with an Infanteer. Down the eye of a spear, do not fuck with an Infanteer. DK2024 EX1RGJ"

[Pentonville]

"Always easy to help others The facts bout ourself noone bothers If I could explain the pain you would go insane It's deep man, I'm.a sheep man, I can't sleep man Everyday I try to keep it together Will I ever be normal? Probably never In my life it seems 1 mistake Is too many I wish someone could just find it funny If you think the person you love Is the one that you can totally Trust Test their resolve and make a mistake And you will certainly find if they are fake"

[Moncurs Putting Iron]

"Peckham 9:22 Thu May 16 You write from experience, its powerful I hope you also consider reading poetry go gain inspiration for the experience you want to have?"

[Moncurs Putting Iron]

"The Victor by C. W. Longenecker If you think you are beaten, you are. If you think you dare not, you don’t. If you like to win but think you can’t, It’s almost a cinch you won’t. If you think you’ll lose, you’re lost. For out in the world we find Success begins with a fellow’s will. It’s all in the state of mind. If you think you are out classed, you are. You’ve got to think high to rise. You’ve got to be sure of your-self before You can ever win the prize. Life’s battles don’t always go To the stronger or faster man. But sooner or later, the man who wins Is the man who thinks he can."

[Mex Martillo]

"My cousin wrote some poems and published them, but I believe not successfully. I liked this one. Hurricane cսnt. it's only when the weather's a real cսnt we think to give it names."

[Pentonville]

but u dont need to live all ur words my man

[Pentonville]

Peckham is literally a warrior poet

[Matthew Holmes]

Good one Peckham son . Mirror one drew me in. Keep it up

[zebthecat]

"i carry your heart with me(i carry it in my heart)i am never without it(anywhere i go you go,my dear;and whatever is done by only me is your doing,my darling) i fear no fate(for you are my fate,my sweet)i want no world(for beautiful you are my world,my true) and it’s you are whatever a moon has always meant and whatever a sun will always sing is you here is the deepest secret nobody knows (here is the root of the root and the bud of the bud and the sky of the sky of a tree called life;which grows higher than soul can hope or mind can hide) and this is the wonder that's keeping the stars apart i carry your heart(i carry it in my heart)"

[LAF]

Peckham: nice idea and a tonic against much slagging following a fraught season.

[Peckham]

"Smashed bathroom mirror. Glass everywhere. Just sat on floor crying. Waited for the blood to run and panic attack pass by. Dried my eyes. Wrote this. In shards of glass, a story told, Reflections shattered, dreams unfold. Each piece a fragment, lost and free, A mosaic of fragility.From windows high to streets below, Where footsteps tread, and winds do blow. A symphony of shattered dreams, In broken glass, the truth redeems."

[Eastside surge]

"We stood on the bridge at midnight Throwing snowballs at the moon And she said "" I've never had it "" But she spoke to fucking soon!......."

[Aalborg Hammer]

"Three Postcards The first came from Weston-Super-Mare with the Grand Pier - newly-built - in view, shining ,stretching out into the distance, and the sea,an unknowable blue. Unfamiliar,that neat hand of his,the black fountain pen. But he was the one; she knew that even then. The one after that she received two years on; Tidworth station,as viewed from Church Hill. A row of thatched cottages in the foreground, the barracks beyond,then the fields,silent, still. She propped it against a vase on their mantelpiece, a wedding present from her niece The last was a busy port scene from Boulogne, a censor passed,heaven sent souvenir. ""Crossing rough - but I made it !"" he'd written ""When it's over,perhaps we can all come here!"" She pressed it to her stomach ,the baby moved once more. The telegram had arrived the day before. Brian Bilston"

[Moncurs Putting Iron]

"Some rainbow in the sky, Some melody to sing to, Some service that is high. If you lose hope, somehow you lose the vitality that keeps life moving, you lose that courage to be, That quality that helps you go on in spite of it all. For me this means if you have little or no hope, reach out to friends, family and get that account topped up."

[SurfaceAgentX2Zero]

"chim chim cha boo 6:12 Wed May 15 I was going to post that. Sheer genius and, for me, much more affecting that some of the more maudlin stuff. As you've nicked my one, here's one for the sons; Digging - Seamus Heaney Between my finger and my thumb The squat pen rests; snug as a gun. Under my window a clean rasping sound When the spade sinks into gravelly ground: My father, digging. I look down Till his straining rump among the flowerbeds Bends low, comes up twenty years away Stooping in rhythm through potato drills Where he was digging. The coarse boot nestled on the lug, the shaft Against the inside knee was levered firmly. He rooted out tall tops, buried the bright edge deep To scatter new potatoes that we picked, Loving their cool hardness in our hands. By God, the old man could handle a spade. Just like his old man. My grandfather could cut more turf in a day Than any other man on Toner's bog. Once I carried him milk in a bottle Corked sloppily with paper. He straightened up To drink it, then fell to right away Nicking and slicing neatly, heaving sods Over his shoulder, digging down and down For the good turf. Digging. The cold smell of potato mould, the squelch and slap Of soggy peat, the curt cuts of an edge Through living roots awaken in my head. But I've no spade to follow men like them. Between my finger and my thumb The squat pen rests. I'll dig with it."

[Peckham]

Wilfred Owen proper old skool warrior

[Peckham]

"The browns, the olives, and the yellows died, And were swept up to heaven; where they glowed Each dawn and set of sun till Christmastide, And when the land lay pale for them, pale-snowed, Fell back, and down the snow-drifts flamed and flowed. From off your face, into the winds of winter, The sun-brown and the summer-gold are blowing; But they shall gleam with spiritual glinter, When paler beauty on your brows falls snowing, And through those snows my looks shall be soft-going."

[stewie griffin]

"Come friendly bombs and fall on Slough! It isn’t fit for humans now, There isn’t grass to graze a cow. Swarm over, Death! Come, bombs and blow to smithereens Those air -conditioned, bright canteens, Tinned fruit, tinned meat, tinned milk, tinned beans, Tinned minds, tinned breath. Mess up the mess they call a town- A house for ninety-seven down And once a week a half a crown For twenty years. And get that man with double chin Who’ll always cheat and always win, Who washes his repulsive skin In women’s tears: And smash his desk of polished oak And smash his hands so used to stroke And stop his boring dirty joke And make him yell. But spare the bald young clerks who add The profits of the stinking cad; It’s not their fault that they are mad, They’ve tasted Hell. It’s not their fault they do not know The birdsong from the radio, It’s not their fault they often go To Maidenhead And talk of sport and makes of cars In various bogus-Tudor bars And daren’t look up and see the stars But belch instead. In labour-saving homes, with care Their wives frizz out peroxide hair And dry it in synthetic air And paint their nails. Come, friendly bombs and fall on Slough To get it ready for the plough. The cabbages are coming now; The earth exhales."

[stewie griffin]

"Come friendly bombs and fall on Slough! It isn’t fit for humans now, There isn’t grass to graze a cow. Swarm over, Death! Come, bombs and blow to smithereens Those air -conditioned, bright canteens, Tinned fruit, tinned meat, tinned milk, tinned beans, Tinned minds, tinned breath. Mess up the mess they call a town- A house for ninety-seven down And once a week a half a crown For twenty years. And get that man with double chin Who’ll always cheat and always win, Who washes his repulsive skin In women’s tears: And smash his desk of polished oak And smash his hands so used to stroke And stop his boring dirty joke And make him yell. But spare the bald young clerks who add The profits of the stinking cad; It’s not their fault that they are mad, They’ve tasted Hell. It’s not their fault they do not know The birdsong from the radio, It’s not their fault they often go To Maidenhead And talk of sport and makes of cars In various bogus-Tudor bars And daren’t look up and see the stars But belch instead. In labour-saving homes, with care Their wives frizz out peroxide hair And dry it in synthetic air And paint their nails. Come, friendly bombs and fall on Slough To get it ready for the plough. The cabbages are coming now; The earth exhales."

[Banjo]

"Love your work Pentonville. Full of emotion, just right mate."

[Pentonville]

In times of despair With no one there I think of her to help me repair But she isn't there for me Nobody is you see I'm alone and seeking I'm tired and freaking But the smile that comes Like the morning sun Is the memory of your face Your warmth in its place Is all i need to feel your embrace I miss you

[Peckham]

"In London's vibrant heart, a tale unfolds, Where history's tapestry, in glory, molds. In claret and blue, their colors fly high, West Ham's story, beneath the East End sky. From humble roots, they rose to fame, A club with a legacy, a storied name. Born from the ironworks, where hammers rang loud, Their spirit forged strong, amidst the crowd. In Boleyn's shadow, they learned to thrive, Where legends played, keeping dreams alive. From Moore to Hurst, the heroes of old, Their feats of skill, forever told. Through trials and triumphs, they marched on, Each battle fought, until victory dawned. In '66, their finest hour shone bright, As England's pride soared to new height. Through the decades, the journey unfolds, With ups and downs, their tale behold. From Upton Park to the London Stadium's embrace, Their loyal fans, their everlasting grace. Through relegation's bitter sting, They rose again, their spirits sing. For West Ham's history is one of resilience, A testament to unwavering brilliance. So raise your voices, let them ring, For the pride of East London, let them sing. In claret and blue, they'll forever be, A symbol of hope, for all to see."

[Hammer and Pickle]

"And here’s one about stubborn old fat cunts ""You are old, father William,"" the young man said, ""And your hair has become very white; And yet you incessantly stand on your head — Do you think, at your age, it is right?"" ""In my youth,"" father William replied to his son, ""I feared it would injure the brain; But now that I'm perfectly sure I have none, Why, I do it again and again."" ""You are old,"" said the youth, ""as I mentioned before, And have grown most uncommonly fat; Yet you turned a back-somersault in at the door — Pray, what is the reason of that?"" ""In my youth,"" said the sage, as he shook his grey locks, ""I kept all my limbs very supple By the use of this ointment — one shilling the box — Allow me to sell you a couple."" ""You are old,"" said the youth, ""and your jaws are too weak For anything tougher than suet; Yet you finished the goose, with the bones and the beak — Pray, how did you manage to do it?"" ""In my youth,"" said his father, ""I took to the law, And argued each case with my wife; And the muscular strength, which it gave to my jaw, Has lasted the rest of my life."" ""You are old,"" said the youth; one would hardly suppose That your eye was as steady as ever; Yet you balanced an eel on the end of your nose — What made you so awfully clever?"" ""I have answered three questions, and that is enough,"" Said his father; ""don't give yourself airs! Do you think I can listen all day to such stuff? Be off, or I'll kick you down stairs!"""

[chim chim cha boo]

"Nice one Peckham, a lovely memorial to the dead. Here's mine on the same subject of Lions led by Donkeys: '“Good-morning, good-morning!” the General said When we met him last week on our way to the line. Now the soldiers he smiled at are most of 'em dead, And we're cursing his staff for incompetent swine. “He's a cheery old card,” grunted Harry to Jack As they slogged up to Arras with rifle and pack. But he did for them both by his plan of attack'."