why don't we post poetry that we've written? Like, seriously written, and not just thought up for the sake of entertainment. lol. Here's a piece I wrote a few years ago...
The Mourning Sky
Sometimes, I look up and ask the morning sky,
"Why?" as I feel the wind creep by.
Has the sun always been this shy?
Do the drifting clouds always cry?
Seeming ashamed, as if caught in a lie,
Weeping until their eyes are dry.
Then, with a most disheartened sigh,
The white gates reveal heaven's eye
One more time, to try and hide
the sky's temperamental suicide.
As the thoughts of you and I collide,
And create a void at least three miles wide,
I wonder, who was it to decide
That on a current, you would ride?
Washing away like the morning tide.
If I could guide the tide, oh I
Would cast my worldly place aside,
And bare the wings of the mourning sky.
And another! Kinda long cause of the way I grouped the lines so I'ma spoiler it.
( Click to show/hide )The Wire
He walks the line,
From wall to wall.
He dare not trip,
He dare not fall.
Just near the end,
There is a man
Who reaches out
His golden hand.
But just below,
Where light is dim,
There is a net
Of vines most grim.
"Fall down to me,"
The dark vines hissed.
"Those who've fallen
have never missed."
"That golden hand
Is not what seems.
In spite of gold,
all pyrite gleams."
"Continue on,
You'll die for sure.
Past forgotten,
Future obscure."
"That fragile wire
Will not sustain
The wants and needs
Your heart retains."
Nearest the end,
The hand still shines
And 'neath the light,
Still blackest vines.
Never before
Has he looked down.
But now, he starts
To look around.
The path ahead
Is drenched with sweat
And sacrifice
With no regret.
The one below
Has no set course.
There are no qualms,
And no remorse.
It's void of light,
What's more to say?
The shining hand
Should lead the way.
But oh, alas,
The blind shall fall.
Tumbling now,
He fin'lly sees
The true intent
Of vines at ease.
He reaches for
That golden light
That just before
Did fade from sight.
Nothing is there
But air as he
Hits the net of
Such apathy.
The lost souls of
A thousand dead
begin to weave
A wretched thread.
As he struggles
And writhes in shame,
A saddened voice
Calls out his name.
From high above,
His fate is spun.
"I know you not,
Misguided son."
As he sinks down
To depths unknown,
The burning souls
Decay and moan.
When he fin'lly
Assumes his place,
A single tear
Falls on his face.
But only to
Evaporate
At the closing
Of Hell's gate.
All hope is gone,
All dreams catch fire
As the next man
Steps on the wire.