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I Am a WriterI am a writer.
Yes, it’s easy for me to fall into a dream.
But there is nothing wrong with being tighter
With a story’s theme.

I am a writer.
That is all I will ever want to be
In the end, my story will be lighter,
And my characters will finally be free.

I am a writer.
There is nothing easier to say than that.
I will never let a story wither
Nor let a story fall flat

I am a soon to be author.
With several books ready to be read,
I want them to have great honor
And wish there will be tears shed.

To HooverHoover state: waking up to sleep
because that’s all I’m good for;
out of work, out of time again
and my brother won’t spare a dime.

Blanket sweat reminds me of this
Hoover state: waking up to sleep
in depressions of this planet;
the moon weeps for me in daytime.

I yank my pockets out, like it's
my country's flag; punch-line of the
Hoover state: waking up to sleep
in my sagging skin on decline.

I've no penny to my name,
jumping out the window (one
last time) makes me worth more in this
Hoover state: waking up to sleep.

Twinkle StarTwinkle twinkle little star
Noone cares just who you are
When you fall the fall is far
Twinkle twinkle superstar.

Through an Angel's Eye

Some see the world through their rose-colored glasses,
some see it only as bad.
Some see man split into one of three classes,
some see it only as sad.

They say the eye to the soul is a window,
some find such introspect lame.
Still others prefer to focus on shadow,
some look for fortune and fame.

To see the world softly through colors sublime,
requires a heart that is pure.
Yes, to see the world as an angelic rhyme,
the eye must be steady and sure.

Through the eyes of an angel she captures our world,
the wonder of God in her lens.
By virtue of her work beauty is unfurled,
earning her many a friend.

The Soldier's Letter To HomeI write this from my death bed
My eyes fading in the light
Drowned in crimson red,
Drowned in shaking fright.
The enemy has won
The war now has ended
And though killed by my son
May his sins be ammended.
For this is Civil War
I cannot change the tide
So from you I implore
Do what is right.

Bury me somewhere nice
Near, and fair to look at
And forgive my son his sins;
For in war, no one wins.

Aur si plumbUn gând de aur, dar se simte
mai greu ca un pumnal de plumb
ce intră-n coaste, se învârte,
și caută să iasă prin minte...
Stilou de aur, scrie versuri,
dar lasă urme ca de plumb,
pe foi mânjite de cerneală,
și de cafea, și alte resturi...

Un glonţ de aur, dar se simte
mai tandru ca o zi de plumb,
îl pun aici, închid capacul,
și ca un gând, îl scot prin minte.

ContrariwiseSilly little Alice,
Forget all you thought you knew,
For deep inside your head,
Everything is all askew.

If they tell you that one plus one,
Equals twelve and half, my dear,
Don't worry yourself about it,
For two is so last year.

Don't even try to be different,
Or it'll be "Off with her head!",
And you'll find it's better to live a lie,
Than it is to end up dead.

So heed this socially accepted advice,
Ditch any scraps of your insanity,
To cavort with the Hare in March,
Join the Hatter for a cup of tea.

Fritter your days away,
Dancing under a Cheshire moon,
Don't mind the surrounding chaos,
Ignore impending doom.

But even as you join in

Continuous VoicesIt all began when I was ten
I found what lingered in my head disturbing
And it wasn’t until I grabbed a pen
And saw what truly lingered when I began writing.

There were continuous voices within my head
I was not one to favor them dead
Although, they had violet images attached
The way I wrote them matched.

Since then, the voices have changed
Octaves have risen and lowered
Their words have exchanged
And eventually became uncensored.

These continuous voices have brought war
Ones with an uprising roar
And at moments I want to kill the sound
For they are so profound.

Yet, they continue to crescendo
And welcome me to a hidden story
And so

EndlingHere am I, the captive thylacine
Treading my tiger-striped, ungainly way
Around the metal-mesh confinement of my cage
Here am I, exhibited, exhumed
Brought from the brink to pace another day
A living testament, a final thumbmarked page
Here am I, the only specimen
Bereft of mate, of pups, of kin, of kind
Watching the claws of history extending
Here am I, the final thylacine
The only one, the last, the lost, the endling.

Who Was HeHe stood at the average height for men.
His built was quite average.
His eyes were that of cyan.
Nonetheless, he was average.

His hair was that of blonde,
Nearly, white.
His walk and personality had a great bond.
He was a confident sight.

His skin was a delicate peach.
His muscles were quite firm.
So irresistible, a teasing reach.
His appearance had its own term.

One that the dictionary cannot confirm.

Who was he?
That man with his own sea?
He was one without a name.
His appearance was a taunting game.
He was one without a number for an age.
Forget it, he’s fake on this page.

SuicideThere's no blood on her hands
Bullet holes in the door
Nothing but colored pills
And her lying on the floor

You look at her face
There's despair in her eyes
And you wonder what she thought
As she fell and died

And maybe you're begging her to come back
And maybe you're asking why she let go
The hurt in your chest feels like a heart attack
And now you finally know

Maybe you could've helped her
If you'd looked past your own nose
Maybe she'd be alive now
You had a chance, this is what you chose
Now maybe you'll learn from things
That you didn't see
Maybe you'll open your eyes
And rescue him, or her, or me
Maybe she cried a prayer
For the oth

A man such as meHow do you think it would be,
to be like a man such as me?

Copper mane unkempt, unruly, distort,
from showers too long and sleep too short.
Eyes darting erratically, vibrant and blue,
sunken in purple pits, looking blackened and bruised.
A nose, big and red, once hit with a bat,
a maw full of teeth, yellowed, crooked and that.
A beard full and lush, fit for a king,
(one I should trim one evening...)

Betwixt my shoulders lies a beating heart
one which stirs for music, words and art,
one which constantly yearns for intimate love,
but is under command by the grey matter above.
A pair of lungs, tightly restricted by my bulk,
only shallow breath

Stand StrongI stand in awe at the strong winds blowing
Hurricanes rising and tornadoes growing
Housing blown away and long hair flowing
Killing the crops of this year's sowing.
Stay strong, dear brothers; Strong in disaster
Stout in the winds that blow ever faster
Stay strong for your children, strong for your wives,
To get to the morning you must first traverse the night.

What may be a dream?Oh, what may be a dream but wishes mute?
Those thoughts that dance and prance a time or two?
The silent longings of the heart set free
To lift the spirit from chambers dark and cold.
A dream is as a morning mist of spring;
Refreshing, light, and gently promising
To all who sleep and wake in time to catch
The welcome peace and glory they behold.
But woe to waking hours; the bitterness they bring
When dreams escape the loving hold of thought!
The plaintive heart starts longing once again
To sink into the realms of possibility.

WarWhen stories of battle are shared,
They are full of fame and glory.
No one knows what war really holds,
That is, until they hear this story.
At first there is much excitement,
Your chance to be a hero.
Then homesickness begins to set in,
The sorrow makes you feel like zero.
Then the supplies get cut off,
Your stomach cries out for food.
It rains then it droughts, and then you want out,
You'd laugh at your situation but you're not in the mood.
No sanitation, no garbage cans,
You are living in human waste.
The tents are torn up, the beds full of lice,
You wish you were in a different place.
Then you finally go to fight,
This is your chance to prove yourself.
All your comrades are shot down,
So much for fame and wealth...
Cleaning up the bodies,
Of those who used to be your friends.
Not even time for a proper burial,
Too many injuries to attend.
Then there's the sneak attack,
You are all caught by surprise.
A brutal, bloody, massacre,
A bullet between your eyes.
In this little game o

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My writing and my museNever can I be happy
Never can I be sad
Never can I be troubled
Never can I be MAD!

I try to be calm and stoic,
never releasing any emotion.
I just keep it bottled up
but it's like containing a raging ocean.

It is hopeless,
the cracks are showing.
I have to find release
so I begin writing.

I type, type, type
letting it all out.
Or else I will explode,
and we don't want that.

Writing about nothing,
writing about everything.
I don't really care,
as long as I write something!

My muse is laughing now,
hehehe, oh damn so am I!
But we do that all the time
just don't ask why.

Typing, typing, hatred, love
pain and anguish!
We thrive upon those

Love enslavesI don't want to love you,
but I have no choice.
My mind is too weak
to ignore the hearts voice.

I crawl for you
I have become your slave.
I do anything for you:
Your wish I have to obey.

Love enslaves,
it bind me, tortures me.
I wish for nothing else
then to once again be free.

No matter what I do,
You are always on my mind.
I have tried everything
to leave you behind.

I hate to love you,
I despise my heart.
Why does it wish,
to break me apart?

But even after all this,
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Karlek forslavar (Swedish poem)Jag vill inte älska dig
men jag har inget val.
Mitt sinne är för svagt
för att ignorera hjärtats kval.

Jag krälar för dig
är inget mer än din slav.
Jag gör allt för dig:
dina önskningar är mina krav

Kärlek förslavar,
det binder, torterar mig.
Jag önskar inget mer
än att få glömma dig.

Vad jag än försöker mig på
så är alltid där, i mitt sinne.
Tro mig jag har försökt allt
för att radera dig från mitt minne.

Jag hatar att älska dig,
jag avskyr mitt hjärta.
Varför vill det så gärna
min egen frihet fjättra?

Men oavsett allt detta,
trots allt jag måste utstå,
vill jag fortfarande stanna
och det kan jag inte förstå...

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Voices in her ear

by *Vilhelm-Johansson, Feb 8, 2013, 11:31:25 AM
Literature / Poetry / General Poetry / Traditional Fixed Forms

Voices in her ear

She wished to no longer be alone,
but she never wanted this.
They came to her as she despaired
promising her the way to bliss.

Voices only she can hear

They speak of her darkest dreams
goading her to embrace her anger.
They can see who she really is
and how close she is to surrender

Voices that she so wisely fear

She refuses to become a monster,
yet she knows that she cannot win.
One day she will eventually surrender
for her heart is already black with sin.

Voices that only laughs and sneer

There is only one thing she can do
before she will cause others pain.
With the voices laughing in her ears,
this little girl goes to sleep, never to wake again.

17

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Voices in her earby *Vilhelm-Johansson

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This poem is a bit special, I wrote it for a drawing I did. And before anyone asks, no I am not good at drawing, but sometimes I just draw something for fun. ^^

Also I finally understood how to make the text stay in Italics after submitting, yay!

Anyway, hope you people like the poem! I promise, someday I will write something cheerful for once, I am just not very good at those...

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Submitted on: February 8
File Size: 965 bytes

Views: 17
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*Retrubutionist777 Feb 9, 2013 Hobbyist Writer

Wow this is wonderful! Very interesting story, and the rhyming is perfectly done. It's smooth and adds so much depth to the poem.

And yeah, I'm not very good at writing happy poetry either. For some reason it's easier for me to write sad or serious things.

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Mood: Affection

*Vilhelm-Johansson Feb 10, 2013 Hobbyist Writer

Aww, thank you!

Yeah, it is pretty weird actually. I am normally a pretty cheerful person, but I never write cheerful poems...

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