Liked it, Quasi. Change made!
Liked it, Quasi. Change made!
Some of us laugh
Some of us cry
Some of us smoke
Some of us lie
But it's all just the way
that we cope with our lives...
Looking out the window,
What do i see?
I see the world,
It waits for me...
and still waits.
The clock it tolls,
it gives its cry,
but lying i remain,
time passes by...
time and time again.
The light it fades,
but still i lie,
the moon soon rises
in the dark sky...
darker and darker still.
26/3/07
"Come away O human child!To the waters of the wild, With a faery hand in hand, For the worlds more full of weeping than you can understand."
W.B.Yeats
"If it looks like a Dwarf and smells like a Dwarf, then it's probably a Dwarf (or a latrine wearing dungarees)"
Artemins Fowl and the Lost Colony by Eoin Colfer
my poems-please comment Forum Rules
Neat, sad little poem, Niamh. I can totally relate. Had many days like that...
Some of us laugh
Some of us cry
Some of us smoke
Some of us lie
But it's all just the way
that we cope with our lives...
thanks pendragon. By the way, i love those smilies you do have.Originally Posted by Pendragon
Neat, sad little poem, Niamh. I can totally relate. Had many days like that...
"Come away O human child!To the waters of the wild, With a faery hand in hand, For the worlds more full of weeping than you can understand."
W.B.Yeats
"If it looks like a Dwarf and smells like a Dwarf, then it's probably a Dwarf (or a latrine wearing dungarees)"
Artemins Fowl and the Lost Colony by Eoin Colfer
my poems-please comment Forum Rules
Wonderful Poetry Friends, Keep it up!
penuriosus est is quisnam denies scientia
Asa Adams
Currently reading
Ethan Frome
Portrait of an artist.....again*sigh*
Scars
Nothing ever comes
That doesn’t leave behind a scar,
Even love can wound you
Sometimes beyond repair.
You can’t spend every waking moment
Just dwelling in the past,
Even thought those scars may mark you—
They don’t have to rule your life.
We don’t have a magic potion,
Which makes the pain just disappear—
Sometimes the scars that mark us,
Are so bad that we loose hope,
We embrace the fear—
Maybe the scars will never go away,
Maybe the pain will always ache inside your heart—
Maybe the tears will come and clouds fill your sky—
And you think you are going to never have peace,
Tell it all to go away—
Scars will heal,
We will live another day,
Sunrise will come—
Even when it rains—
The sun is shining somewhere…
Pendragon
© 3/30/07
Last edited by Pendragon; 03-31-2007 at 10:15 AM.
Some of us laugh
Some of us cry
Some of us smoke
Some of us lie
But it's all just the way
that we cope with our lives...
Tanka Number One.
I am Uncle Lar,
with an sense of mystic air.
I strive to be true
with words and phrases true blue.
"To thine own self be true." Cheers!
(Uncle Lar)
I really like this poem pen. Its almost like the dark times are starting to pass and the smallest rays of light and peace on there way. Not to let the pain and scars, take over you, be strong and they will slowly heal. I really like it.
"Come away O human child!To the waters of the wild, With a faery hand in hand, For the worlds more full of weeping than you can understand."
W.B.Yeats
"If it looks like a Dwarf and smells like a Dwarf, then it's probably a Dwarf (or a latrine wearing dungarees)"
Artemins Fowl and the Lost Colony by Eoin Colfer
my poems-please comment Forum Rules
Only the Lonely
Broken glass—
Bloodstained floor—
Unmended broken home; forgotten love.
Sunrise, sunset, remains unchanged…
Lonely walks alone still lonely.
Smiles never touch frozen face…
Cry again, unheard again crying.
Never seen—overlooked
Cry becomes tears becomes pain…
Pain becomes tears becomes cry—
Overlooked—Never seen.
Crying again, unheard—cry again!
Frozen face touch never smiles…
Lonely still, alone walks lonely—
Unchanged remains—sunrise—sunset—
Forgotten love, home broken, unmended…
Floor bloodstained—
Glass broken…
Pendragon
© 4/1/07
Some of us laugh
Some of us cry
Some of us smoke
Some of us lie
But it's all just the way
that we cope with our lives...
Unique Love
Wind-blown grey goose quill—
Ink-stained tip now dried out—
Relic of days past…
Little brown mouse—
She builds her house within walls
Using this and that…
Tiny pink hands grasp—
And tugging clasp the quill tight,
A lover’s caress…
The quill has not lost
The ability to write—
It just needs someone
To send it dancing—
Floating across the paper:
Poems, short stories, songs—
Alive inside it—
Discovered by a small mouse,
Given to the world…
Words flow once again,
The mouse dances to a rhythm
That the quill composed…
Happy and unique—
The pair return and rebuff
Stares of disbelief…
Quill lost, thrown away—
Mouse just considered vermin—
Together: What magic!
Pendragon
© 4/16/07
For my wife of 27 years, Martha, whose nickname is “Mouse”…
Some of us laugh
Some of us cry
Some of us smoke
Some of us lie
But it's all just the way
that we cope with our lives...
umm...i just wrote this..
sitting here with the letters
i have a thousand thoughts
running past my fingers
rushing in my head.
i see a prominent one
trapped by a nerve
it brought me fear
oh, so much fear.
it's catching up,
Again.
sometimes i think my poems are...they seem to lack depth. please teach me how i should improve=)
i like the shape of that poem, harsh. nicely done.
as for improvement, i just realised a few days back that my poems get a better flow when i'm in contact with The Golden Treasury and this forum.So to me, company matters
.
...the smell of flowers through metal labyrinths.
Sitting alone in a dark room,
The darkness-
It entraps me-
It embelishes me like a King.
Thoughts of menacing-
Thoughts of dire anguish fill my soul.
It strivels all that was good.
It wipes clean the slate of cleanliness.
I take heart in pain,
I enjoy the suffering of other helpless souls,
For is it not true-
They cause their own problems?
They walk in their own paths,
They stay on that course.
I laugh and mock,
At their pitiful attempt to survive.
I am a true man,
At least I am not a weak link like all the others,
Thus is there fate-
They are born pests,
They shall die as pests.
-----
Is this not so?
Is this not true?
That man, as pure and loving as he may be.
Deep within,
Roots of hate and inperfections swell.
What then-
What has protected us from becoming like that of,
Who we call-
Monsters.
Perhaps, is there not a doubt,
That being in this pure darkeness,
Is our truest form?
In this seemingly never ending end of what we call- life, I live.
I live in regrets and they make me who I am. But without regrets- I would not know, what I know today.
He who dwells much on his past, he will miss the present- which then in consequence- will cause him to ruin his future.
Wow, MW, that was really powerful and thought-provoking. The last verse is absolutely spine-tingling; and the sad thing is, it's true.
"The time has come," the Walrus said,
"To talk of many things:
Of shoes--and ships--and sealing-wax--
Of cabbages--and kings--
And why the sea is boiling hot--
And whether pigs have wings."
No one knows what a scuzz you are!
How you cheated on that final exam,
pocketed something at the local pharmacy,
made eyes at your wife’s or husband’s
best friend, or took the name
of your Lord in vain.
No one knows
that you are pond scum, a would-be tart
--or how much love you have in your heart...
J. Newman © 2006
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