OCD by Neil Hilborn. His performance has to be seen.

Invictus:

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 menance 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.

It’s the only (english) poem I know by hard.
Many people know the last 2 lines.

Do not go gentle into that good night.

From a Hungarian poet, Endre Ady:

Sem utódja, sem boldog őse, Sem rokona, sem ismerőse Nem vagyok senkinek, Nem vagyok senkinek.

Vagyok, mint minden ember: fenség, Észak-fok, titok, idegenség, Lidérces, messze fény, Lidérces, messze fény.

De, jaj, nem tudok így maradni, Szeretném magam megmutatni, Hogy látva lássanak, Hogy látva lássanak.

Ezért minden: önkínzás, ének: Szeretném, hogyha szeretnének S lennék valakié, Lennék valakié.

The View from Halfway Down by Alison Tafel?

The weak breeze whispers nothing. The water screams sublime. His feet shift, teeter-totter; Deep breath, stand back - it’s time.

Toes untouch the overpass, Soon he’s water bound. Eyes lock shut, but peek to see The view from halfway down.

A little wind, a summer sun, A river rich and regal. A flood of fond endorphins Brings a calm that knows no equal.

You’re flying now; you see things Much more clear than from the ground. It’s all okay – it would be, Were you not now halfway down.

Thrash to break from gravity; What now could slow the drop? All I’d give for toes to touch The safety back at top.

But this is it. The deed is done. Silence drowns the sound. Before I leaped, I should have seen The view from halfway down.

I really should have thought about The view from halfway down.

I wish I could have known about The view from halfway down.

This is difficult to translate so I’m going to post it in it’s original language (German).

Ein Ferd das hat vier Beiner

Auf jeder Seite einer

Dann hat es einmal keiner

Umfallt

- Unknown

Sorry if this was already posted, but I didn’t see it:

There Will Come Soft Rains by Sara Teasdale

There will come soft rains and the smell of the ground, And swallows circling with their shimmering sound;

And frogs in the pools singing at night, And wild plum trees in tremulous white,

Robins will wear their feathery fire Whistling their whims on a low fence-wire;

And not one will know of the war, not one Will care at last when it is done.

Not one would mind, neither bird nor tree If mankind perished utterly;

And Spring herself, when she woke at dawn, Would scarcely know that we were gone.

There’s also a short story by Ray Bradbury with the same title that quotes the poem.

First they came https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/First_They_Came

First they came for the Communists
And I did not speak out
Because I was not a Communist

Then they came for the Socialists
And I did not speak out
Because I was not a Socialist

Then they came for the trade unionists
And I did not speak out
Because I was not a trade unionist

Then they came for the Jews
And I did not speak out
Because I was not a Jew

Then they came for me
And there was no one left
To speak out for me

He Asked Me How Will We Know When We’re Dead, by Bobby Byrd. (not the Bobby Byrd.)

I can’t find it anywhere to share, though, as it’s from an album he did with Jim Ward that has become so obscure that it seemingly cannot be found in written or audio form anywhere on the internet, you can still find the CD for sale here and there, though. Cryin’ shame, that whole album is solid.

Sea Fever by John Mansfield

I must go down to the seas again, to the lonely sea and the sky,

And all I ask is a tall ship and a star to steer her by;

And the wheel’s kick and the wind’s song and the white sail’s shaking,

And a grey mist on the sea’s face, and a grey dawn breaking.

I must go down to the seas again, for the call of the running tide

Is a wild call and a clear call that may not be denied;

And all I ask is a windy day with the white clouds flying,

And the flung spray and the blown spume, and the sea-gulls crying.

I must go down to the seas again, to the vagrant gypsy life,

To the gull’s way and the whale’s way where the wind’s like a whetted knife;

And all I ask is a merry yarn from a laughing fellow-rover,

And quiet sleep and a sweet dream when the long trick’s over.

The Clock Man by Shel Silverstein

“How much will you pay for an extra day?” The clock man asked the child.

“Not one penny,” the answer came.

“For my days are as many as my smiles.”

“How much will you pay for an extra day?” He asked when the child was grown.

“Maybe a dollar or maybe less, for I’ve plenty of days of my own.”

“How much will you pay for an extra day?” He asked when the time came to die.

“All of the pearls in all of the seas, and all of the stars in the sky.”

Oh pointy birds

Oh pointy pointy

Anoint my head

Anointy nointy

-Steve Martin

I couldn’t call either a favorite, but there are two that have stuck with me my whole life. Edit to fix formatting.

The Second Coming — W. B. Yeats (1919)

Turning and turning in the widening gyre
The falcon cannot hear the falconer;
Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold;
Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world,
The blood-dimmed tide is loosed, and everywhere
The ceremony of innocence is drowned;
The best lack all conviction, while the worst
Are full of passionate intensity.

Surely some revelation is at hand;
Surely the Second Coming is at hand.
The Second Coming! Hardly are those words out
When a vast image out of Spiritus Mundi
Troubles my sight: somewhere in sands of the desert
A shape with lion body and the head of a man,
A gaze blank and pitiless as the sun,
Is moving its slow thighs, while all about it
Reel shadows of the indignant desert birds.

The darkness drops again; but now I know
That twenty centuries of stony sleep
Were vexed to nightmare by a rocking cradle,
And what rough beast, its hour come round at last,
Slouches towards Bethlehem to be born?

It feels as relevant to our time as it was for WW1.

Do Not Go Gentle Into That Good Night — Dylan Thomas

Do not go gentle into that good night,
Old age should burn and rave at close of day;
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Though wise men at their end know dark is right,
Because their words had forked no lightning they
Do not go gentle into that good night.

Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright
Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight,
And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way,
Do not go gentle into that good night.

Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight
Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

And you, my father, there on the sad height,
Curse, bless, me now with your fierce tears, I pray.
Do not go gentle into that good night.

Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

A poem my brother wrote

Nothing changes, and it changes all at once. Nothing moves, nothing exists. Nothing is important, so we should learn nothing, we should study nothing, get close to nothing, be kind to nothing. We must come to understand nothing so well that we could maybe even see nothing in ourselves. Because nothing matters, nothing is important, and I think that’s something.

Violets are red
Roses are blue
When you open up photoshop
And fuck up the HUE