My poems are a bit religious, so discretion for all those at apposition.
As I sit here writing this poem,
I can’t help but think of you.
For all the times that I’ve made you suffer,
Just because of being you.
And every time I see you cry,
Oceans pour out of my tears.
And every time I see your eyes,
All red and puffed up for me,
I get the feeling of total regret,
And my life doesn’t seem worth living anymore.
And as I walk along the street
Thinking of what you’ve done,
I can’t help but feel the absence,
And where were you when I called.
“No way!” I say,
Can you possibly give,
An excuse that is worth giving.
Because today you let me die,
When I did feel worth living.
And as I watch the cars come,
Careening down the hill,
I only wonder “should I step aside?
Or should I here, stand still?”
And when the moment past,
And the decision has been made.
I look up and remember you,
And hope you’re happy by the decision made,
Because you know I’m not.
And now I can see it coming,
The sun is above the horizon now.
And as I sit, the coin gives its last hit against you.
And I pull you out of my pocket,
and play with your figure.
And then I begin to cry,
I realized my wrong.
The oceans begin to flood my world,
And nothing can drought me
You know that now,
Nothing burns stronger than our love.
And I pull it up one last time,
With a wiping of my eyes.
I learned now to appreciate you,
You who gave your life for me.
And I slowly put you back,
In my pocket where you belong.
Because I’ll take you with me to my wedding,
To the hospital where my wife will give birth.
You’ll be there for all my moments
because without you I wouldn’t be there.
You’ll be with me at his graduation,
at his marriage, and my funeral.
Your with me till the end of my days,
And your with my loved ones too.
And to all those who feel empty right now,
Fear not because the answer is near.
He sits there on a cross waiting for you to draw near.
And when he sees you crying,
And you think you’re all alone,
You couldn’t be ever so wrong,
Because he’s right there standing next to you.
O why should the spirit of mortal be proud!
Like a fast flitting meteor, a fast flying cloud,
A flash of the lightning, a break of the wave
He passes from life to his rest in the grave.
The leaves of the oak and the willows shall fade,
Be scattered around, and together be laid;
And the young and the old, and the low and the high,
Shall moulder to dust, and together shall lie.
The child that a mother attended and loved,
The mother that infant's affection that proved,
The husband that mother and infant that blest,
Each -- all are away to their dwelling of rest.
The maid on whose cheek, on whose brow, in whose eye,
Shone beauty and pleasure -- her triumphs are by:
And the memory of those that beloved her and praised,
Are alike from the minds of the living erased.
The hand of the king that the sceptre hath borne,
The brow of the priest that the mitre hath worn,
The eye of the sage, and the heart of the brave,
Are hidden and lost in the depths of the grave.
The peasant whose lot was to sow and to reap,
The herdsman who climbed with his goats to the steep,
The beggar that wandered in search of his bread,
Have faded away like the grass that we tread.
The saint that enjoyed the communion of Heaven,
The sinner that dared to remain unforgiven,
The wise and the foolish, the guilty and just,
Have quietly mingled their bones in the dust.
So the multitude goes -- like the flower and the weed
That wither away to let others succeed;
So the multitude comes -- even those we behold,
To repeat every tale that hath often been told.
For we are the same things that our fathers have been,
We see the same sights that our fathers have seen,
We drink the same stream, and we feel the same sun,
And we run the same course that our fathers have run.
The thoughts we are thinking our fathers would think,
From the death we are shrinking from they too would shrink,
To the life we are clinging to they too would cling --
But it speeds from the earth like a bird on the wing.
They loved -- but their story we cannot unfold;
They scorned -- but the heart of the haughty is cold;
They grieved -- but no wail from their slumbers may come;
They joyed -- but the voice of their gladness is dumb.
They died -- ay, they died! and we, things that are now,
Who walk on the turf that lies over their brow,
Who make in their dwellings a transient abode,
Meet the change they met on their pilgrimage road.
Yea, hope and despondence, and pleasure and pain,
Are mingled together like sunshine and rain;
And the smile and the tear, and the song and the dirge,
Still follow each other like surge upon surge.
'Tis the twink of an eye, 'tis the draught of a breath,
From the blossom of health to the paleness of death,
From the gilded saloon to the bier and the shroud --
O why should the spirit of mortal be proud!
Gender: Female Location: every which way but loose
Ou, I think I've said this before, but it's one of those comments that never gets tired; for an obviously intellectual person you sure are unbelievably ignorant sometimes
Prince, I can't comment on the poetry and the meanings themselves simply because the religion makes me cringe But you've structured them well and I like the rhythm; you could try to sort out a distinctive pattern in your poetry, if only to reinforce any messages you may be trying to convey?
My sister had a massive headache where she had head surgery so we had to rush to the hospital cause it was that bad. . So as I sat with her in the emergency room, I wrote this:
We hold so dear,
our loved ones.
We dare not let them go.
We hold them tightly in our grasp.
"The world will stop for them," we say.
But like many things in this world.
their time is short and well lived.
But time is but a stranger,
who comes in different forms.
He's a different friend for all of us.
And an even odder enemy.
And when he sounds his bells,
and everything goes silent.
Do we let them go,
or, the inevitable, do we fight.
So here I sit,
and in this notebook write.
To tell you of the inevitable,
that i did fight.
And here she lays right next to me.
no longer in pain and tired.
For tonight I did realize
That somethings are worth fighting for,
that is why we have Courage.
If things we must let go,
than Serenity we ask of thee, my Lord.
But most important of them all,
the Knowledge to know the difference.