BargedJoin Date: 2014-05-18
Post Count: 2726 |
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This is a list of every single poem I've ever wrote. If you're here just to say my poems are "terrible" or "trash" or something, just leave, because I've only been writing poetry for three months. Some of these poems are bad, and I'll admit it. I wrote some of these poems in minutes. It's not like I sit around all day writing one poem.
Each poem will be followed by a short definition of why I wrote the poem, and what the poem means to me.
All poems that have a * on them are personal favorites of mine. You don't have to read all of my poems, or any, if you do not want to. I'm sure you'll find at least one poem to your liking. Enjoy.
Note: This is the first thread. I will split my poems into three threads, and link all of the threads together.
Self-Portrait Poem
I am like an absorbant sponge,
Soaking up information around the clock.
I am like an innocent shadow,
Walking the motions of life in silence.
I am like a simple magnifying glass,
Observing carefully and saying nothing.
I am like the crafty wind,
Moving switfly in, then shooting out.
I am like the serene ocean,
Storing contents in places deep.
I am like a stealthy serpent,
Hiding amongst many as I blend in.
I am like a mystifying puzzle,
Watching as people try to solve me.
I am like a blank mirror,
Staring back at you like a reflection.
I am like a cunning, tricky poet,
Letting imagination decide the true meaning.
I wrote this poem for school, and after my teacher said she loved the poem, that inspired me to write more.
Fork in the Road
Once long ago on a lonely road,
A man walked along and alone,
Until he became chilled to the bone,
He looked and he saw and then he slowed.
"Why," he exclaimed, "a fork in the road halts me,"
He considered this a trifle, that is until,
He looked left then right and received a thrill,
Wondering and thinking, he got down on one knee.
Finally, he decided which way he shall go,
"I will go left, and not right," he exclaimed,
"For if I go left I will not be the one shamed,"
Thus, the man went left, not like he would know.
He walked along the left path until he came to the end,
"What is this," the man said, "an end to my expedition?"
Finally, the man realized he had failed his arduous mission,
"Woes shall not end my journey, for I shall contend."
The man walked back, sad and a fool,
Only to remember that he was not done,
His journey did not end here, it had just begun,
For in the path of life, there is no golden rule.
It's bad. I felt like writing a poem similar to Robert Frost's "The Road Not Taken", so I wrote "Fork in the Road".
*My Castle Walls*
Fleeting walls align the fragile shore; a delicacy within its core,
Heavy and unmoving, they guard the secret that lies inside.
Pitiful people try to break its steady hold, trying yet still denied,
Unbreaking walls suppress the roar, keeping out the rumbling pour.
My castle walls will stand.
They may try to tear it down, trying to make walls drown,
But my castle walls will stand, in defiance of this rage.
Bitterness and gray cannot smother this golden age,
Sizzling failures fresh in my mind, I will not fall down.
My castle walls will stand.
The walls have been smacked, but the offensive was whacked;
Busy soldiers rush inside my fortress, oncoming attacks they must defend.
Rams are thrown with a heave of force, hoping to bring the walls to an end,
My soul is safe deep inside this fort, for never shall the walls be cracked.
My castle walls will stand.
Not the best poem, but I personally like it and it makes me feel safe every time I read it.
Lights
Oh, the lights, the lights, they blind my eyes,
But, oh, the lights are supposed to help, he implies;
I am not quite sure, but I believe these are lies,
However, believe me when I say I wear no disguise.
The lights may try to blind me fast and good,
But I keep on dodging, like I even could;
Dodge as I try, evading as I know I should,
Believe as I might, I know I'm just misunderstood.
But, the man told me to keep going, he said,
His advice went not to me, for I listen to myself instead;
Suddenly, I heed his words of wisdom, realizing my dread,
And with these words, I escape the lights, thus being misled.
I felt inspired to write this poem because new lights were installed in our school's cafeteria.
*Heart*
My heart beats,
One day it will not,
My heart beats,
One day it will stop.
My heart beats,
To the beat of a drum,
My heart beats,
Like a string that is strung.
My heart beats,
Every second of my life,
My heart beats,
Only thing keeping me alive.
My heart beats,
Banging and jangling,
My heart beats,
Ticking like a bomb.
My heart beats,
Drowning out all other sounds,
My heart beats,
Getting slower every second.
My heart beats,
Growing old with time,
My heart stops,
And all is silent.
There is just something about this poem that I like. It's not even a good poem, but I like it.
Sly Sam
There once was a man who they called Sly Sam,
Sly Sam was a tricky one, that is what they say,
Sly Sam would steal from the rich, and not repay,
Once asked if he was a thief, Sly Sam said, "Yes, I am."
Then one day as Sly Sam did what he does best,
A man he did not know walked toward him,
Walking slow and steady, he looked quite prim,
Determined and ready, he would put Sly Sam to the test.
"Are you Sly Sam, thief and king of them all?"
Sly Sam answered firmly, "Yes, I am Sly Sam."
The man said, "I'm the great Clever Clyde, I am."
He continued, "I am here to demand you fall."
Sly Sam gave him a look of evil and dread,
"Now, look here, nobody can bring me down,"
And Clever Clyde answered back with a frown,
"Yes, I believe I can, and I'll strike you dead."
Sly Sam looked him up and down, head to toe,
"Well," he reluctantly says, "let us begin this fight,"
And with that, Clever Clyde grins ever so bright,
"Yes, let us fight, enough of this meaningless crow."
Sly Sam, appearing baffled, draws his sword from his sheath,
"My blade shall cross stars and determine your fate,"
Clever Clyde nods and approves, then he begins to wait,
"You may be good," as he draws his sword, standing on the heath.
Sly Sam moves forward, quick and fast,
Looking to strike and end the fight quick,
Clever Clyde reacted fast and received only a snick,
"Amateur," Clever Clyde decided, "I will die last."
Sly Sam dodged the first few of Clever Clyde's blows,
Then he was struck in the chest with a sword point,
Clever Clyde and Sly Sam would forever be joint,
For that was the last of Sly Sam, his fate shows.
This poem is kinda silly, but my friends at school really liked it.
The Magic Three
The first of the magic three,
He was a sorrow sight to see,
Walking alone among his friends,
A shallow soul, it kind of depends.
The second of the magic three,
He was a man who wandered free,
Alone, and still out of harm's way,
He seldom attended any fray.
The third and last of the magic three,
He was one who would often flee,
Looking for an escape of a black hole,
That hole, the one that was his soul.
Then one day walking by the sea,
They first met, the magic three,
Together they were a heart of steel,
Formed and united, they would heal.
The magic three now became one,
A journey ends, this one not done,
Leaving behind no broken wheel,
For these magic three are quite real.
Old poem.
Laughter
Happy sounds in the air here and even there,
A joyful sound to fill an ear or two,
Laughter is one with certainly no compare,
Yet, still designed for not just a select few.
Every time and season for no certain reason,
Laughter fills the air sparing no one,
For laughter is celebration, not treason,
Laughing all up until it is over and done.
In the middle of spring, yes, I hear a ring,
The joyous ring of laughter, and lots of it,
On the playground near the swing,
Or from the sound of a baseball mitt.
Yes, summer too, something that we must do,
Laughter, I hear, not far from where I stay,
For it is heard in a lovely chorus from a canoe,
Or in a backyard where children play.
Oh, even in the fall, through leaves' wall,
I hear it, I hear laughter, not far away,
In a pile of leaves where one may sprawl,
Or in a hammock which people lay.
And even in the cold of winter that is sold,
People still laugh to bring happiness as a toy,
For laughter is something that is quite bold,
Laughter is something we should all enjoy.
Old poem that I wrote to cheer up a friend.
*Fleet of Ships*
You may try to crumble my fleet of ships,
Try as you might, you cannot crush,
For all of my fleet have no rips,
The strength of my ships are plush.
My fleet of ships sail over a vast ocean,
Evading obstacles such as putrid ice,
The sailors have a strict and fine devotion,
An obstacle, I won't be mad, just nice.
As my fleet of ships sail the majestic blue,
Over the horizon, a sight I could only dream,
Yet another obstacle, and this makes two,
No worries, for our crew is still a team.
My fleet of ships sail day in and night out,
And yet again a sight I hoped not to see,
As I look, I see, and I'm not able to doubt,
Another obstacle, and this now makes three.
Anger spreads amongst my shallow fleet,
The fleet as a whole becomes angry and sour,
But, my fleet of ships shall not accept defeat,
We get stronger every turn of the hour.
Calmness begins to spread throughout my crew,
For we know we cannot accept bitter retreat,
And then a magic we all should have knew,
Because this is the story of my fleet.
Old poem, but I like it and it gives me a feeling of teamwork.
**Teardrop**
On the pavement falls my teardrop,
Nobody knows when it will stop,
A teardrop, one that begins to sprout,
Nobody knows what will come out.
Teardrop may attempt to conquer grief,
It has become my one and only relief,
Try, try to end this miserable day,
Maybe shine hope, a golden ray.
One of my favorite poems, even though it is an old one. This poem almost always cheers me up when I'm sad.
My Sword Cries Out
Crying out from deep inside is my sword,
Cutting slimly with it is death's winding cord,
Life, a treasure I have yet to behold or afford,
Death, however, is one that I have now explored.
Pulling deeply, digging harder, tugging fast,
Death can come in quick or strike last,
But, life is quite harder than that to cast,
Life and death strike similar, yet contrast.
My sword cries out, strong and tout,
Shoving away death with a clout,
Hearing death, loudly, scream and shout,
Life comes forth fast, all throughout.
I honestly can't remember what inspired me to write this, but it's an old one.
Tale of More
Before I recount this tale of more,
I must talk of what happened before;
Be wise and choose sensible choices,
If you don't, shall strike the voices.
More, more, was all he could want,
Enough so that he could flaunt,
And, yes, flaunt he did, very true,
Leading rivalries to once more brew.
More, more, and he could not stop,
Could not stop until he reached the top,
Suffering, something that did not occur,
That is until, those rivalries began to stir.
More, more, where all sadness began,
Surprisingly in a short time span,
Rivals had come to take what was theirs,
Come they did, in blatant pairs.
More, more, they all do not need,
Hiding deep inside is a lonely greed,
Then the voices came, a few at first,
But came more to quench their thirst.
More, more, the voices will say,
They say, do not give in to greed's way,
I think we can all do a good deed,
Maybe, if we try, greed will not succeed.
Old poem. That's about it.
Stuck in the Ground
Sometimes I feel I'm stuck in the ground,
I feel like I've been tied and bound,
Even if I wore a rich golden crown,
I'd still be stuck in this Irish town.
They try to pull deep into my Irish heart,
Try, they try, to pull my soul apart,
But I'm stuck in the ground, in this gap,
I am stuck in this lonely Irish trap.
I walk an empty street at night,
Trying hard to avoid a brutal fight,
I search and search for hope in all of this,
Maybe I'll always be stuck in this abyss.
Then I spot a gleam of hope in the mist,
A rainbow closed inside God's fist,
Because I know I'll always be Irish bound,
I'll always, always be stuck in the ground.
I wrote this poem around St. Patrick's Day. I actually wrote it for a poetry contest for the group Roblox Poets, and I won. The theme of the contest was, well, Irish.
Nightmare
I must, if I can even dare,
Try to escape this Nightmare,
It fills me up with an empty stare,
This is a Nightmare, so beware.
It comes in from every possible side,
Through my window, from outside,
Or through the air, gravity defied,
Always coming to my bedside.
Creeping in, crawling to my bed,
Grabbing hold of the linen red,
Then I wake up, filled with dread,
And remember what Nightmare said.
"Wake up, I won't let you dream,"
And, "What I love most is your scream,"
Then Nightmare was gone, I will deem,
I've now lost something I can't redeem.
Old poem. I wrote it when I was upset about something, but I can't remember exactly why I was upset.
Gone
All of us, and you too, we'll all be gone,
Nobody will forget that fateful day,
The hands of fate gain another pawn,
We're all pawns in life; we do not stay.
Gone, that is what we will all one day be,
Blown away by the wind, turned to dust,
Drifting over mountains and the sea,
Thrown away by one more mighty gust.
Walking upon this grave, the one we built,
The air we breath is just sitting still,
Floating above us, we try to hide our guilt,
Filling our desolate lives with an icy chill.
As one life ends, when it begins to drop,
It hangs in the air through the early dawn,
Nobody knows when it may stop,
As of now, we will forever be gone.
Old, but I kind of like this poem.
Price of Ice
It comes in quite slow, especially at first,
Then it creeps over and begins its thirst,
A beauty and terror that we all pay a price,
The price, the price we pay, the price of ice.
At first glance it crackles slowly over the land,
Cloaking the earth with Father Time's hand,
Covering everything one at a time, never a miss,
If we try to fight it, ice let's out a snarling hiss.
Slowly the ice will climb until it covers all,
Then there will be nothing to do but fall,
Swallowed up by this frigid ice and cold,
This is the price of ice, or so I'm told.
We were having snow in the middle of March, and it was looking like spring would never arrive. I wrote this after walking outside to shovel ice off the driveway.
River of Broken Dreams
Floating down this river of broken dreams,
Amidst the cries, wails, and pitiful screams,
I walk alone through a shadow of man's grief,
This river of broken dreams has become a thief.
Stealing from all, leaving nothing on its floor,
This river of broken dreams still cries for more,
I walk alone on this river's hopeful left side,
The distance between the two is a mile wide.
Looking down into this river I see it is not clear,
This river of broken dreams is shadowed by fear,
It is easy to tell it won't be clear for some time,
Hope is still near under humanity's horrible crime.
Under all of this terrible pain and hopeless tears,
Comes a resolution taking one thousand years,
Tides have turned and now a new hope demand,
This river of broken dreams turned from death's hand.
Old, and I can't remember why I wrote it.
*Repeat, Repeat!*
Once long ago as I walked a crowded street,
On a hot day, swallowed up by summer's heat,
I heard a man cry out in a gloomy greet,
"I say, I say, this is cheat, let me repeat, repeat!"
I heard him shout, oh, yes, he was quite near,
All around me I watched as others sneer,
Surround me and I could not see that clear,
I wondered where I did hear this alarming fear.
Desperately I tried to bring the crowd apart,
Few actually did, but at least it was a start,
My heart was pounding and I started to dart,
I finally found the man, and, oh, I felt so smart!
Up to him I walked and asked why he was irate,
He said, "I tried to buy, yes, plain and straight,"
He continued, "But apparently I was too late,"
I asked, "How is it so that you are not so great?"
He smiled and said, "Well, I have no cash,"
With a devilish look full of young and brash,
"That is fine, for now I have to dash,"
And with that, he was gone in a flash.
I think often of this man on the street,
And remember of how we did meet,
An odd man, he was, and quite discrete,
But, most I remember how he shouted repeat!
It's not very good, but I like it.
Young
The day is just past noon and still young,
Yet I know in my heart that it is done,
The damage caused from which it sprung,
Causing damage thinking that he won.
A single photograph progresses my tears,
But holding them back is a love so dear,
Then again a photograph halts my years,
And pulling forward is my love so near.
Fighting breaks out on both or either side,
A rollercoaster ride going up and down,
Which side to pick, I cannot ever decide,
Lost in this lonely fight I will now drown.
Eventually, the fighting is supposed to stop,
But, I know deep down that it will not,
No matter how hard I try, I will still drop,
Lost in time and earth, my soul will rot.
Old poem.
Ghost Along the Coast
This is the tale of an old white ghost,
Who moved along, coast to coast,
Thinking everything he knew was wrong,
Sorrow filled his empty soul, he moved along.
From each distant shore to shining shore,
This ghost knew what he wanted more,
Floating along, knocking things askew,
He wanted his pitiful life to start anew.
Then he did spot it, a flash of hope,
Far over there on that sandy slope,
He saw another ghost in a flying flutter,
Surprised and hopeful, he could only mutter.
He found his courage wrapped in a bottle,
And finally he flew over there in full throttle,
Suddenly he had a friend, a special brand,
One that he met on that lovely sand.
Feeling as if he had found his own clone,
The only friend that he had ever known,
And this was not another tale of woe,
No, this was of friendship, and it is so.
Old poem...
Closing Doors
Opportunities come out of closing doors,
Seen from posters on bedroom floors,
They come flying out in massive counts,
Opportunity flows out in great amounts.
Closing doors do not stop opportunity, see,
Opportunity can't be passed, you must agree,
Sprouting out of this little unformed seed,
We can't pass it up; it is something we all need.
However, choose wisely with your decision,
Otherwise you'll be struck down with precision,
People like me don't feel need to mess around,
Get in my way and you'll soon be downed.
Opportunities come in many forms and shapes,
Sometimes as easy as buying new window drapes,
But, not always, and sometimes they cause pain,
Just make sure your opportunities don't die in vain.
I don't remember why I wrote this one...
Waterfalls
Water churns with hidden force,
Taking no mercy of obstacles in its path.
Gurgling streams sprout graceful images
Of beautiful waterfalls pouring down.
Water smashes its head blindly,
Willing the rocks to dance aside.
A powerful and destructive force;
It kicks, cries, and screams, like a baby,
Mystifying minds with hidden beauty.
I wrote this one for school. I was required to write a personification poem, so I wrote "Waterfalls".
Fire Lights the Sky
Fire crackles and laughs at the people,
Laughing at their strange desires.
Fire puts on his elegant show of beauty,
Capturing the mind with his array of colors.
Fire shoots green out his fingers, twinkling and dancing,
Shooting out yellow and red from his mouth.
Fire is the entertainment for the night,
But as all good things must end,
Fire sputters out and the sky is quiet.
I wrote a second personification poem for extra credit.
*The Messenger*
For the messenger, it was I who did sent,
He was to relay a message to a certain tent,
"Go, quick and fast, and tell the man who waits,"
With that, the messenger was on his way there,
Stop for a moment, he could not even dare,
Gone he was, past the three far golden gates.
The message was written about what I did wrong,
A jammed jumble of words in a mixed up throng,
I ordered the letter to be sent to clear up any lies,
If the messenger is quick, it should arrive by dawn,
But, if not, the next photograph of him will be drawn,
Because he will be dead and his soul to the skies.
The story unfolds in this same town where I resign,
Ending with a failure I wished well not to design,
Told by my master to go to the town square to buy,
Not one, two, or even three, but four golden apple seeds,
The seeds that my master requested and he needs,
I went to the town square then, oh I felt so sly!
At the square I found the man I was looking for,
Then I said, "Do you have any seeds at your store?"
The man running the store, who was quite old,
He knew what I was looking for upon my sight,
Gave me some golden apple seeds for my plight,
I paid for them and knew what I had in my hold.
Weary from my exhausting day of all the days,
I knew the seeds had to be protected in many ways,
So I hid them in my coat pocket straight away,
Then I made a mistake I will now never relieve,
Suddenly, a cloaked man took the seeds, a thieve!
That is where the seeds I bought shall now stay.
Now I sit and ponder if I can solve this awful crime,
I wonder what else I could have done this time,
Then, suddenly, I remember an image so great,
He who I sent fast off in the opposite direction,
The one who began my terribly aching infection,
The messenger, it was he who stole the seeds, cruel fate!
This poem is odd, but I like the ending so it is one of my favorites.
END OF THE FIRST THREAD. LINK TO SECOND THREAD CAN BE FOUND BELOW.
I just barged in. |