Just a poet,

Chatterbox: Pudding's Place

Just a poet,

Just a poet, with some poems.

submitted by JustAPoet
(July 19, 2020 - 3:47 pm)

I hear the screams of friends and foes

Yelling with their hearts, filled with false woes

Throwing their tantrums when they can't get their way

Destroying the peace and love every day 


Replacing it with something new

Coloring the world their own twisted hue

Changing what was right to wrong

Don't believe me? Go check their songs


cried and sobbed with all my Heart

Vexed until I decided I could do my hopeful part

I started screaming back with all my might

Telling them what they stand for isn't right


Bullying is a definite sin

As long as I scream they will never win

At their game, their goal, of putting me in a hearse

But that'll never happen, just inspect at the previous verse 


submitted by JustAPoet
(July 19, 2020 - 5:51 pm)
submitted by Oooh clever
(July 20, 2020 - 9:54 am)

Wow, that's really good!

submitted by Jade J.
(July 20, 2020 - 6:02 pm)
Here are some of my favorites. None of these are mine, I put the original authors name below the poems.


How Did You Die? 

Did you tackle that trouble that came your way 
With a resolute heart and cheerful? 
Or hide your face from the light of day 
With a craven soul and fearful? 
Oh, a trouble's a ton, or a trouble's an ounce, 
Or a trouble is what you make it, 
And it isn't the fact that you're hurt that counts, 
But only how did you take it? 

You are beaten to earth? Well, well, what's that! 
Come up with a smiling face. 
It's nothing against you to fall down flat, 
But to lie there-that's disgrace. 
The harder you're thrown, why the higher you bounce 
Be proud of your blackened eye! 
It isn't the fact that you're licked that counts; 
It's how did you fight-and why? 

And though you be done to the death, what then? 
If you battled the best you could, 
If you played your part in the world of men, 
Why, the Critic will call it good. 
Death comes with a crawl, or comes with a pounce, 
And whether he's slow or spry, 
It isn't the fact that you're dead that counts, 
But only how did you die? 

By Edmund Vance Cooke




Out of the night that covers me, 

   Black as the pit from pole to pole, 
I thank whatever gods may be 
    For my unconquerable soul. 

In the fell clutch of circumstance 
    I have not winced nor cried aloud. 
Under the bludgeonings of chance 
    My head is bloody, but unbowed. 

Beyond this place of wrath and tears 
    Looms but the Horror of the shade, 
And yet the menace of the years 
    Finds and shall find me unafraid. 

It matters not how strait the gate, 
   How charged with punishments the scroll, 
I am the master of my fate, 
   I am the captain of my soul.

By  William Ernest Henley

submitted by JustAPoet
(July 21, 2020 - 2:56 pm)