People say that when

you put your ear to a shell

you can hear the sea.

In my opinion, those people don't know what the sea

sounds like, at least not where I'm from.

Where I come from, and where 

i see the sea it sounds like

a collection of memories from

going almost every year since

I was old enough to walk,

the crash of the waves pounding

pounding

pounding on the shore

wearing the rocks down

to dust, the dust that they become

being swept away by the same pounding waves,

then pushed back up, an

endless cycle.

And the crys of the birds

and rustle of the trees on the shore,

I count those as part of the soundn of

the ocean.

So no, when you put a shell

to your ear, you cannot hear the ocean.

At least not how I know it.

I remember
Years ago,

When I used to
Wake up early
Every morning of every week,

Rolling out of bed
On the days we were late,
Barely taking the time
To brush my long dark hair

To go to camps in the summer

And after this summer,
I'll remember

Waking up early
Not to go to day camps,
But to follow my mother

To the peace and quiet
Of the library.
I could comb and style
My short brown hair

To stay at the library and draw

~~~

I would have written it for the poetry challenge, but dear me, I forgot to type my name in! 

@Everyone- I kind of titled this thread badly, sorry, the only reason it is called Regular Poetry Thread is because I had made a poetry thread about two weeks before this one where we posted unedited poems as an exercise. So, just ignore the regular, sorry! I honestly thought it would die pretty quickly, so thank you all for posting your awesome poems :) 

I wrote this poem because I was inspired by the talk of creation on the poetry contest thread. I hope this doesn't offend anyone! I will ask the Admins to take it down, if it does. I was just really inspired and wanted to try my hand at my own beliefs...even if I don't know what they are! It is written in free verse...but I'm not really sure if I've got free verse down, so I'd love some tips if anyone has some to give! Anyway - here it is! 

The Creative Thought

Some people say

That a great
creator

Made us.

Some people say

That we rose

From the dust.

They say that

God

Made all,

Or that dust

Shaped our bodies.

But who made

These words?

Who sparked

The inspiration?

Who made us
believe

These theories?

Our teachers?

Ourselves?

Who made the

Courage

That helped us

Fight

For our beliefs?

Who made the

Beliefs

That we now

Believe?

Where do

Thoughts come
from?

From God?

From dust?

From ourselves?

Is it possible

That we made

Ourselves?

Oh,

Please...

Say no!

I want to hear

The word

That man created,

Mixed with the

Beliefs

You have chosen

To

Follow.

I want to hear

Your thoughts

On the subject.

I'm open to
possibilities.

But why?

Because I chose

To be?

Or because

God

And

Dust

Chose me to be?

I don't know.

Like I said...

I'm open

To possibilities.

Let's bump this thread up to the top! Everyone's poetry is amazing!

I've had a little bit of a poetry slump recently, so I finally decided to look through a poem prompt book my mom gave me for my birthday. One of the prompts was to take a line from a book and write a poem including it, the result of which is below. The last line is borrowed from Olga Grushin's incredible novel, Forty Rooms.

I'd also love title suggestions.

——— 

But for handfuls of sand,

the box is empty,

gaping jaws of a toothless pihrana.

My frustrated hands fumble and the top snaps closed;

there is a lock, left still, unfastened.

Freckled with the salty droplets of Poseidon's spittle,

pockmarked surfaces—

my fingers trace. The sharp seams are

yesterday's swiftly fading imaginings,

the whispered fantasies of firelit eyes,

the adrenaline and the dark and

whimsy-dusted foolishness, a byproduct of

my half-forgotten fear.

In the daylight,

lacqurered sides have lost their menacing gleam.

The sinister treasure is once again only a wooden box. 

Numbers.

one.

Above all things I do not want a tidy life,

a life of smallness,

an existence littered with dirty dishes

and morning newspapers and

folded laundry.

two. 

It is a fate almost worse than death,

I think, 

to be a non-descript dishrag

in some insipid color,

hanging off the oven door in

someone's immaculate kitchen—

arm candy, an blank-faced accessory

to blustering incompetency.

three. 

People tend to consider me an optimist,

but truthfully my dispostion is more of a simple lack of pessimsim,

(I'll allow the word 'realistic') 

which in today's world is as good as naive.

four. 

I have no sympathy

for laying crépe.

Failure is failure,

success is success,

and there is no need

to pretend that one is the other.

five.

In the human body there are usually: 

206 bones 

32 teeth

37 trillion cells 

2 lungs 

100 billion neruons 

and

1 heart.

I can't help but wonder

if there's more to us 

than these sums.

It's strange to think that every thought,

every experience,

every emotion,

I have ever had or ever will

is so reliant

on this hunk of meat,

so determined but so easily— shattered. 

six. 

Every inch of our uniqueness

hangs off of the same skeleton. 

seven. 

I am not clay, made to be molded, I am

a marble block,

a Michelanglo not yet

freed. 

(This is a picture because I am too lazy to type out the entire thing, and it will be messed up if I copy and paste) (Hopefully this will work)