The Philosopher's Other Stone

thephilosophersotherstone:

oh noes

she feels her birthday drawing nearer
and the day does flood with fear her

it will be a special day
a rounded one, or so they say

a deathly pall over her mind
thinks of her life ‘it’s so unkind’

but fret you not, for in the end
you’ll wake up sound
and perhaps spent
from too much food
and ample drink
let’s hope you’ll wake
not over porcelain but
rather fresh and pink

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tridancer replied to your post I wrote this poem

Poem’d - I like this verb:)

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braveheartswhisper replied to your post I wrote this poem

😊😊😊

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mikefrawley replied to your post I wrote this poem

I poem’d you? I like! :)


😄 I’ve been accused of poem-ing people just like that, so I wrote about it. 😄

thephilosophersotherstone:

The Deathly Hallows

Death to beat
what noble cause
were it not for vanity

Ever searching to outwit
the reaper man and fear
the path we all must walk

A cloak, a stone, a wand
all wizard’s tools
means to an end

The worth of all our lives
questionable, and disputed
when the end can be undone

Here we are, alive and well
with numbered days all right
enjoying time such as it is
made precious by uncertainty

Poetry is a choice. We choose poetry. We choose poetry over death. We choose poetry over death every single damned day.

Poets

- Cue melodramatic music… end with: dun dun dun. 

- {rebuttal to remnantsofapoet}

- Also it could be a side-effect of being a narcissistic sociopath but I prefer to think of it as a choice. 

"I’ve been thinking quite a bit about how much of poetry is a truly choice ever since I randomly posted that. I do believe that part of poetry will always be a choice, and this post represents that brilliantly, but I also think there’s more to it than that. One could say that perhaps poetry is a side-effect of our unwillingness to choose death. (explaining isn’t my strong suit but whatever) I should make a new one stating that poetry is a paradox or some shit, because you gotta have something to rebuttal next." - remnantsofapoet

I don’t think one really chooses to be a poet or if you did choose to be a poet then you’re probably a bad one. Poetry is all about the feels, yo. Not really either. You either are or you aren’t. I guess to put it simply: 
"Being a poet is not a choice, writing poetry is.” - purplemonkeysexgdo69

Cheers

(via purplemonkeysexgod69)


What if the lightning truss was gonna fall on your ‘ead, tho?

thephilosophersotherstone:

I wrote this poem
just because
you say that I’m
quite good at it

so here you go
I poem’d you
because why not
it’s what friends do

oh noes

she feels her birthday drawing nearer
and the day does flood with fear her

it will be a special day
a rounded one, or so they say

a deathly pall over her mind
thinks of her life ‘it’s so unkind’

but fret you not, for in the end
you’ll wake up sound
and perhaps spent
from too much food
and ample drink
let’s hope you’ll wake
not over porcelain but
rather fresh and pink

The Deathly Hallows

Death to beat
what noble cause
were it not for vanity

Ever searching to outwit
the reaper man and fear
the path we all must walk

A cloak, a stone, a wand
all wizard’s tools
means to an end

The worth of all our lives
questionable, and disputed
when the end can be undone

Here we are, alive and well
with numbered days all right
enjoying time such as it is
made precious by uncertainty

I wrote this poem
just because
you say that I’m
quite good at it

so here you go
I poem’d you
because why not
it’s what friends do

rose-hip

the rose’s brother
bigger, tougher

all protective
of the smaller ones

powerful defender
of all things that grow

strong enough
to make a hedge

to ward off anyone
of ill intent

let those who tread
with friendly hearts

enter unscathed
and welcome them

behind the maze
where roses bloom

thephilosophersotherstone:

the love of your friends
what a priceless possession
unasked-for, heaped on you
in the most lavish helpings
almost too much to stomach
all in one go

and yet you receive it
get seconds and thirds
and so much more

the love of your friends
what a priceless possession
in heaps, in mountains
no-one is telling you
they all really show







I’m dedicating this to all of you. Thank you for such an exceptionally beautiful day! 🍻😊

That odd feeling when you’re not sure if you’ve replied to everyone.

thephilosophersotherstone:

destination

what nobler cause
for an aspiring apple
than to strive to thrive
to be its tree’s most red
and succulent and round,
gloriously appetising
and mouth-watering
sample of borne fruit

it must end, of course
at its predetermined destination
inside the crust  of crispy dough
spiced up, spruced up
and illegally yummy

be you an apple
into the pie you go

thephilosophersotherstone:

a heart like a hammer

if your heart was a hammer
would you aim carelessly
and perhaps hit yourself
or would you learn the skill
of a gentle watchmaker
and administer beats
most carefully

if your heart was a mallet
would you smash around
blasting heavy emotions
or would you turn yourself
into a giant strong enough
to wield your power
responsibly

if your heart was a hammer
where would you be
would you be where you are now
or would you be elsewhere
somewhere you’d rather be

thephilosophersotherstone:

rose garden

a garland of blood-red rubies
lining a fresh white wall
over glimmering granite slabs

the bees have a blast here
food and drink in the autumn sun
make them feel happy, at home

a scarlet delegation to greet you
and my blossoming welcome
as you approach my little realm
in the green among the roses