This is about someone else.
How long have I waited for this pain to pass,
Sharp as a needle and cutting like glass;
It lies in my bones and drives me to tears
Turning my minutes and hours to years.
There is no cure, and it has no name;
My joy turns to sorrow and gladness to shame.
For the pain never leaves me; it laughs in my face
My victories are few and end in disgrace.
It always pursues me, relentless and grim,
Laughing at my own endurance worn thin;
It tears at my back and snaps at my legs
No matter how loudly or sadly I beg.
It stalks me and watches, never once leaving
Whether or not I am hoping, believing
That it would just go. Run away, run away!
It resides in my belly and aches every day.
What does it want? A believer? A home?
Or does it just relish my every moan?
What would appease it? What would repel it?
I wish I knew some way that I could dispel it,
But there is no hope, as of yet there's no light.
The unnamed assailant attacks me each night
And causes me suffering again and again.
If I ended my life, would this pain also end?
Would I finally be free of this tormenting foe
Whose name and purpose I don't even know?
Or is there yet hope for a lost one like me?
Some way to fight it, and finally be free?
Can anyone name it? Does anyone know
The source of this agony, or what makes it go,
So that I may rest? Or am I condamned
To suffer and let it consume who I am?
I write a haiku
With five, seven, five pulses.
How do you like it?
What makes good poetry? Well, few can say;
But it's not up to the few to decide
One rule of thumb: don't be cliche
Or readers and critics will toss you aside;
But one must wonder:
Can you rewet the dried?
If I rhyme, for example:
I love you and blue
It's anyone's guess what the readers will do
But the way that I write, it is not repetition;
Consider it historic; poetic tradition
That only needs to be given new meaning
The words themselves will be redeeming.
I've no words to express...
I've seldom seen it, but cliche nonetheless.
Would it be so boring if I used new words,
Like: I've no words to express my love
Of the birds and the way that they fly
Across the sky.
Perhaps this approach is rather rash
I feel it may displease some
But inspiration is born when ideas clash
And I welcome what ideas may come
Even if this work is seen as trash,
Some poetry is better than none!
Besides, if everyone tries to be original,
Just like every other individual
Are they really being new?
How will they be part of the unique few?
I think recycling the "old" is a solution
To making Poetic Revoulution.
A child believes many things,
Especially what he is told.
People usually stop believing
When they think that they are old.
Why this is, I don't quite know;
For in my youth, I can't say,
Maybe they stop trusting in life
When they find their hairs are grey.
Or perhaps they are saddened when
They feel they've been betrayed
When they learn that life is far too short
Despite how much they've prayed
But there is hope to which I cling
That as I age, I wish to achieve:
You're only as old as you feel,
And you feel what you believe.
This is a dish not made in a pot;
It may be cooked with whatever you've got.
The tools that you need are emotion and mind,
This dish can be cooked with whatever you find.
Begin with some words that blend fairly well,
Add in the senses, like taste, sight, and smell,
And if you're concerned about your nutrition,
Add in some words that have rich definition.
Stir in some morals for a flavorful treat
(poems without them are seldom sweet)
And consider having some humor, too;
Laughter is oftentimes good for you.
Add just a pinch of rare inspiration
And you will find, to your elation
That you've made a soup of poetry;
Serving size: infinity.
The world flying past,
I'm riding so fast;
Then a screech and I find
The world's left behind.
I'm up in the air
(It's pretty up there)
I just hope it won't hurt
When I come back to earth.
I have a hero who remains unknown
By many of those who dwell in his home
He protected them all, though they forgot him;
Defended the cause, fought only to win.
He gave everything that he had for his love,
For his homeland and ideals therof.
He struggled through heat, he struggled through rain
He lived for great joys, but suffered much pain.
Volunteered bravely, he answered the call;
He faced many fears, and overcame all.
He left his home and family behind,
He sacrificed love and his peace of mind.
He carried our burdens, he covered our shame
Why did all the people forget his name?
Because of him, I strive to be bolder.
The Marines call him: The Unknown Soldier.
Here lies a man who had no name.
There was a funeral; Nobody came.
No one cried, and None was blamed
Only three men attended; what a shame.
Flecked with leaves
All brown from fall’s design;
Four walls, one door,
Two windows, a floor,
A cozy house of mine.
He was a great doctor,
A pretty swell friend,
An intelligent person...
Except at the end.