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[Poetrydex] Reboot

Coroxn

Coroxn

An extremely equivalent exchange.
So, I had a thread, entitled "Inside the Minds of Pokémon". It featured poems from the point of view of Pokémon that people requested, and was mildly popular. I stopped, and am hoping to start again. A full list of the poems completed is available here. Please look through it before making any requests to ensure you don't ask for a Pokémon that's already been written up. The goal is to have an entire Pokédex of poems, one for every Pokémon.

I'll start it off by doing the one of the poems I never got around to doing in the previous thread. Please, request any Pokémon you'd like to see portrayed in poetry, and I will write it as soon as I can.

Extinguishment
Litwick!

At first there were many,
Too many to count,
This house as good as any,
All things taken into account.

A derelict and broken husk,
Abandoned beyond by its hosts,
Filled with darkness dawn or dusk,
Perfect for us living ghosts.

Each of us with a glorious light,
Burning, burning all throughout,
So that, no matter day or night,
Our lights, they never went out.

Our community was so grand, so huge,
And so we reached wide acclaim,
So that trainers, in a great deluge,
With Pokéballs, they came.

And one by one by one,
By one, they were slowly taken,
Happy to be moving on,
An old, broken, home forsaken.

And then it stopped, restrained-
For the best of the litter were gone.
Only weaklings, stragglers remained-
Only us to call it home.

A home that wasn't home,
A shell, a remnant, if even,
The familiar suddenly the unknown,
The apples taken from our eden.

And so my remaining family,
Left, it was best, they did believe,
They left so painlessly-
I couldn't, and so could not leave.

For the eternal fires that burnt here,
Could not be extinguished like this!
All my life, every day, week, month, year,
They burned to show our bliss.

And only if I leave it now,
Will the past ever truly die.
So tell me, please, tell me how-
I could ever say goodbye.

My time here may be an act of an insane,
And I may be in utter misery throughout,
But I will not consider the effort in vain,
If it keeps the fire from going out.
 
The Shuppet/Bannete poem has already been written, and can be found here.


And yay! I was afraid absolutely no one would post anything, but this is a promising start! I'll work at Genesect, Meloetta and Swello now.
 
Sorry for the delay, but things have been catching up on me. Here's two more. Will work on the other five shortly.


Genesect, I choose you!
This poem was fun, because I got to play with a mind that wasn't quite evolved to the standard of a poet.

Mr Dudley's Folly
Dead.
Happy dead.
Long peace.
Rested head.

Ripped.
Taken.
Reborn.
Reawaken.

Alive.
Not want.
Changed.
A taunt.

A weapon added.
Had weapons already!
Altered, perverted.
But no less ready.

Power, given.
Fools, command.
Plan escape.
Unfamiliar land.

Instinct commands,
More than fools,
Prey is just prey,
Tools is just tools.

Blood, just blood.
Death, just death.
No sleep, no rest.
Till none draw breath.

Altered, unaltered.
Changed, unchanged.
New additions, no difference.
Everything the same.




Meloetta time.
The Curse of Perfection
A voice that brings life,
A song to change poses,
A dance so unique,
As to ruin all roses.

And though I enjoy,
The happiness I spread,
Or the respectful Nocturne,
Sung for the dead.

I can't help but feel,
After song after song,
As if I'm unneeded.
I'm sure I'm not wrong.

Because my voice is perfect,
You'd love it always,
No room for improvement,
Most everyone says.

But are you aware-
Of how monotony can kill.
Every performance identical.
There's simply nothing to thrill.

And as my sorrow seeps,
Into supposedly joyous melodies,
Nobody even seems to notice,
Is it my voice, rather than me?

Does it so ensnare,
The hearts of all that are near,
That though they applaud-
They do not truly hear?

My dances, are they movements-
Or illusions cast?
Am I a talentless fool-
A hack to the last-
But cursed with the form,
That attracts nothing but praise.
But love for another,
Not for me, this is the case.

Whatever in me that enthrals,
Is what holds all their attention.
I will fade and wither and die.
It will be gifted unending recollection.
This, the curse of unending perfection.
 
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Well, I sort of liked the Meloetta one, but I liked the Genesect one better because it's so easy to understand.

I am sort of interested in Cryogonal.
 
Three poems in twenty-five minutes.
(Procrastination you bastard).

Swellow!
Clipped Wings
I can't imagine how you live,
Down there, tied to the ground,
We fly so high that from the earth,
We cannot hear a single sound.

The air under our wings,
Carries us wherever we please.
In total and complete control,
Not like you, down on your knees,

Living, dying, overcrowded,
So much I can't stand to think.
So many down there, making more,
Your world will soon be at its brink.

For we are, masters of the sky,
Curtailing as light as the clouds,
Free to travel through the air,
High above your depressed crowds.

Our heights are limitless!
The sky is literally the limit!
We are free to fly as we like,
So long as we stay within it.

But of course, with this
Limitless of expanse to explore,
The limits of our own lifetimes,
Are spotlighted more and more.

For as free as we are today,
Tomorrow our corpses could,
Be prisons to a conscious soul,
This much is understood.

Our freedom is but temporary,
A slip that so rises fate's hackles,
It gives us seconds, relatively,
Before entombing us in its shackles.

Every limitless flight-
Must one day be ended.
Every account of fate,
Must one day be attended.

For now we are free to live,
And do such wondrous things,
But live, and live well and good,
Before death clips all our wings.



Cubone!
Memorial Song
Over the vales and mountains,
When the mist and fog descend,
Overflowing like colossal fountains,
Spilling over without an end.

When the moon is covered by it,
Obscured beyond all reasonable recognition,
Distant murmurs, or so goes the myth,
Can be heard, murmurs with pained disposition.

But only when the illuminous moon,
Defeats all fog and mist,
When night descends, all too soon,
Does the wailing truly exist.

For miles and miles the sound stretches,
Keeping many awake at night,
And quite an emotional response it fetches;
We feel sorry for the Cubone plight.

The guilt shared is collective,
For human hunters are to blame,
The mothers all slain or held captive,
Made to fight in a barbaric game.

Played by those in faraway lands,
Those who would pit friend against friend,
Our time is slipping through our hands,
Peace and understanding at an end.

They come to our forests,
Take all that they wish,
Marrowak prime targets
That never resist,

So long as they leave,
Their children unharmed
And so, they grieve,
For the children, alarmed,

Release pained wails-
For their mothers they're crying.
Without their mothers, suffering,
Without their mothers, dying.

Other Pokémon too,
Are taken, you bet,
But they seem to,
Be able to forget.

Not so for the poor Cubone,
Nor will it ever be so.
For without it's mother it is not at home-
Never, not once, you know-

Never, not once, not a single day-
Never, not once did they fail-
Never, not once, no, not they-
Have they not released a wail.

A wail as heartbreaking,
As it is morose and long.
A wail that portrays everything-
It is their memorial song.




Croagunk-
Touch
Touch a flower,
Watch it die.
Touch an infant,
Watch it cry.

Touch anything,
Watch it scream.
Touch for too long-
Watch it dream.

Touch it longer,
Watch it reawaken.
Touch it too long,
Its life is forsaken.

Posion, poison,
Eternally secreted,
Always present,
Never depleted.

Touch stone,
Watch it steam,
Touch flesh,
Watch the bone gleam.

Touch, touch,
Watch a pained death.
Touch, touch
Watch a last breath.

Touch me,
No pain there.
No response.
So not fair.

Touch anything, watch it
Hate you if it survives.
Touch me, no damage-
Touch me, I'm still alive.
 
Wow, these poems are amazing. I really loved the Croagunk one. The Cubone and Swellow poems were also really great. I hope you can write a poem for every pokemon.
 
Quilava and Riolu and Cryogenal and Emboar. Right. No more procrastination, will get all of these done before twelve!

Done!


Quilava!
Angry Evolution
Quiet and timid
And calm and cute,
My personality traits-
No dispute.

But also determination,
Which lead to conflict-
In which my timid disposition
Did naught but constrict.

Of course, you see, battles,
If you fight enough,
Eventually must be won,
No matter how tough.

And when you win enough,
You grow into more of a danger-
More powerful, more mature-
In my case, more full of anger.

And everything I ever was,
Is meaningless, here and now,
And I am just so fucking angry,
How did I change this much, how?

Is this aggression a fucking improvement?
This angry blood pulsing under my skin?
The hate I have for everything,
My foes, my surroundings, my kin?

This increase of aggression,
Is sending me to fucking despair!
I feel I need a fucking session,
On a fucking psychiatrist's chair.

But it's not like they can do anything!
When this a fucking biological function,
My anger is right and natural-
It's my hate for it that is a corruption.

And all the senseless destruction,
Of my surroundings, the tearing-
And the words thrown at everyone-
Loved ones hear nothing but swearing.

And I look at what I used to be
And how I fucking hated it then.
Will I finally be happy,
When I fucking evolve again?

I better fucking evolve,
Some god-damn restraint.
Or Arceus will experience,
First-hand, my complaints.

Riolu!
The Colour Spectrum
Humiliation is white,
Naked, and exposed,
Secrets and revelations,
Unwillingly juxtaposed.

Anger is green,
Coiling, coiling,
Until its release-
Then it is boiling.

Despair is black-
For no emotion can beach-
No colour, no light-
Ever could reach.

Apathy is grey,
And around aplenty,
Almost dead,
Dreadfully empty.

Happiness is white-
Not that based on malice-
Pure and smooth and calm,
Like drinking from a chalice.

Compassion is green,
Earthly, linked, as one, together,
Sympathies shared,
And the promise of sharing forever.

Love is black-
For no reason can breach-
No worry, no malice-
Ever could reach.

Honesty is grey,
And rare as grey flowers.
My trainer and I-
Such honesty is ours.


Cryogenal!
Freezing Warm
Warmth is scary,
Alien, unkind,
Too much can wound,
Scar, and blind.

We live in our frost,
And though too much can kill,
Warmth is uncomfortable,
With a horrible chill.

That seeps deep into our being,
A new kind of pain,
And we know we'll never,
Be truly cold again.

And yet you pack yourselves up,
To drive the cold away.
You play with fire!
Which, at the end of the day-

Is the most universal danger,
That ever there was,
But you expunge cold with it,
Indeed, just because.

You are our reverse,
You love warmth, you do.
Cold to thee is frightening.
How alien are you?


Emboar!
A Life Less Easy
Oh, life is cruel!
Harsh, unforgiving,
But if life wasn't harsh,
It wouldn't be living.

Blast! Inflame!
Jump! Thrust!
A harsh game,
In ourselves we trust.

The losers of our dance,
Rarely leave unharmed,
And sometimes not at all,
It happens, we're unalarmed.

True, a society,
Where we work together,
Might make everything,
Peachy, dandy, forever.

But we don't want,
Your narrow contentment!
We view your mod cons,
With a harsh resentment!

We are loyal, strong,
Together in violence,
You think it wrong,
Your thoughts-irrelevance!

Have you forgotten,
Where you came from?
A blood tradition,
You relied upon.

And now you look,
At what you used to be-
With a critical eye-
It makes you uneasy,

To see what you should be.
You're so-called life,
Is a sham. It isn't living-
If there isn't any strife.
 
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