Adolescent09
07-14-2008, 10:02 PM
Here is a poem I wrote last year:
My twirls are sagas above the shores,
they spin gone whims across the moors,
The crest of blue turns speckled mist
into Orange storms,
My designs once bright, now so obscure,
my passion drove intense,
Misfortune are the fish my yew pole lures,
on a gray of ocean dense
Caustic are the waves blue to red,
Gold was the path now black and dead,
meandering the course my ships doth lead,
'til land was struck, a sandy bed.
My emotions rot, joy is naught
twelve now dead, my heart is lead,
Sorrow doth reap my sanity
and make me a raft out on the sea.
My twirls are sagas above the shores,
they spin gone whims across the moors,
The crest of blue turns speckled mist
into Orange storms,
My designs once bright, now so obscure,
my passion drove intense,
Misfortune are the fish my yew pole lures,
on a gray of ocean dense
Caustic are the waves blue to red,
Gold was the path now black and dead,
meandering the course my ships doth lead,
'til land was struck, a sandy bed.
My emotions rot, joy is naught
twelve now dead, my heart is lead,
Sorrow doth reap my sanity
and make me a raft out on the sea.