IambicBlonde
Well-known member
Hello, all! So I love, love, love poetry. Fixed verse poetry. As is the reason for the Iambic in my name. No, it doesn't mean as some have thought I-am-bi, lol. Iambic meter. One style of fixed verse I really love are French ballades. Look up the form if you're interested in that kinda thing. ANYhow, here's a French ballade I wrote awhile back. Explains me a little bit and why I'm here with all you fine people. Enjoy! 
I drive an appetite that never tires;
A gaping heart engulfing all it seeks.
I own a will that constantly misfires;
A mind subverted by its own critiques.
I navigate the valleys and the peaks
Of life's complex terrain with clumsy cheer.
Not prone to many extroverted streaks
I am the man that likes to disappear.
The common coquetry that love requires
Imbues no flush of passion on my cheeks.
I need a discharge from the jolted wires
Of hunger, or a sparkle from mystique's.
Cosmetic valentines are dull antiques
Compared to appetence which has no peer.
I know the damage disappointment wreaks;
I am the man that likes to disappear.
In solitude the social self expires,
And something in that swathe of silence tweaks
My maddened matrix with judicious pliers
To harmonize the inner strife that shrieks.
As loneliness begins its pangs and creaks
Against the bars that keeps its cravings near,
Denial is the only guard that speaks.
I am the man that likes to disappear.
Sporadically a rare disclosure sneaks
Around this skilled, theatrical veneer.
The man I am appears in tiny peeks;
I am the man that likes to disappear.
I drive an appetite that never tires;
A gaping heart engulfing all it seeks.
I own a will that constantly misfires;
A mind subverted by its own critiques.
I navigate the valleys and the peaks
Of life's complex terrain with clumsy cheer.
Not prone to many extroverted streaks
I am the man that likes to disappear.
The common coquetry that love requires
Imbues no flush of passion on my cheeks.
I need a discharge from the jolted wires
Of hunger, or a sparkle from mystique's.
Cosmetic valentines are dull antiques
Compared to appetence which has no peer.
I know the damage disappointment wreaks;
I am the man that likes to disappear.
In solitude the social self expires,
And something in that swathe of silence tweaks
My maddened matrix with judicious pliers
To harmonize the inner strife that shrieks.
As loneliness begins its pangs and creaks
Against the bars that keeps its cravings near,
Denial is the only guard that speaks.
I am the man that likes to disappear.
Sporadically a rare disclosure sneaks
Around this skilled, theatrical veneer.
The man I am appears in tiny peeks;
I am the man that likes to disappear.
