Heaven's Thorn

The king of darkness plummeted from light.

His subjects trudge beaten, and war-torn.

They found only failure, they lost the fight,

Following the lead of Heaven’s Thorn.

A glorious coup was what was planned;

The battle fought in blasphemous skies.

And the Great One wept, He did not understand.

He shed a tear for the Prince of Lies.

He lost his white robes as he made his descent.

Where he fell the sky did scar.

Through the gates of Heaven went,

The lost and fallen Morningstar.

Already he begins to conspire and plot,

Refusing to play the fool.

In his lake of fire he hasn’t forgot,

Why he deserves to rule.

It was not always like this in the kingdom above.

Like now, with such sadness and scorn.

But the Great One bled out the last of his love

When pricked in the heart by Heaven’s Thorn.

Walk of the Dead

By unknown means we’ve come to rise,

Ripped from the ground before your eyes.

Our world consists of rot and dirt,

Forgetting what it means to hurt.

Under the light of a godless sky,

We shuffle on, barely passing you by.

Those that see expect a screech, or a “BOO!”

But you seem to forget that we’re done with you.

While your flesh may serve as a muse for our walk,

We’ve lost the skill and the patience for talk.

So stay in your homes; be safe in your bed.

Ignore the march of yesterday’s dead.

The bravest of you pull a knife or a gun.

In no real danger, we refuse to run.

Your true fear is soon revealed in your face,

And we pick up our feet for your final chase.

The dead continue to rise from the ground.

While more of your friends seem to not be around.

And before you start wondering what you must do,

Just remember that we were once your friends too.

‎A Message to My Friends

If you're ever alone, if you're ever freaked out,
Just sit your ass down and we'll work this shit out.

If you're needing a friend, you know I'm not far.
So don't pretend you're ok and just say where you are.

I can come out and find you, or drop you a line.
We can start talking and I swear you'll feel fine.

I know you feel low, I know it seems tough,
But I also know you, and you're made of stronger stuff.

It may not be easy, you can never be sure.
But there's a spark in you that you just can't deter.

So things'll get better, just wait and see.
And maybe next time you can do the same for me?

Sonnets and Sestinas

Why must you plague me with your existence?
I never did anything to you.
Yet upon my teachers insistence,
I have to write one of each of you.

I have no quarrel with your limerick brothers,
your free verse uncles or your cousins the haikus.
Your lyrical sisters and your ballad mothers,
never had me singing the blues.

When I think of you I begin to pull my hair out,
starting to feel like a fool.
And as I began to scream and shout,
I know it's because of your many a rule.

Oh, it is the rules that I hate!
This is not the writer's goal.
They compress and constrict, and put up gates
That cage the writers soul.

There is nothing that is worth so much stress,
No truth could be closer on.
But I will not be told how I'm allowed to express,
since that's an oxymoron.

So please do not think any less of me,
because of my little protest.
But I'll never write you, you see,
For it is you I truly detest.

Manifesto

It's not in a poem guys, so try not to be too bored xD


I think poetry needs to come from the poet’s heart. It needs to be unique to the writer and not sound like someone else’s words. Each poem, good or bad, needs to mean something to the poet. Poetry should be able to make connections with people. It should make the reader feel something in themselves and provoke a response in them. For example, the reader could read a poem and feel the poet was trying to speak about human greed. This could cause the reader to try to be less greedy in their life. Even if that wasn’t the poet’s message, the poem still had an impact. The poet’s own message is also important, however, and when expressed well should become clear to the reader and make an impact. The poem should paint a picture in their minds that acts like an optical illusion, always moving and changing, despite technically being only one shape. When the reader looks at this picture in full, they are overwhelmed. When a writer writes a poem, they should be proud, but not so much that they don’t see room for improvement. Poetry should not be confined to a specific form. A writer needs to write what he sees in his mind how he sees it, and not worry about any rules. This is the main problem I have with Sestinas; I’m not saying that they’re bad altogether if that’s how a writer wants to write, but I find their rules to be too confining to write properly. I do believe there should be some basic structure, such as stanzas and form that allows the words to flow well, but not so much that it forces the writer to write a certain way, like the way Sestinas do with stresses on specific syllables or certain words the lines need to end in.

Dancing Girl

In my dreams I see a girl dancing;
When she starts spinning my heart starts prancing,
And I find myself always at her glancing.
It is her I wish to be romancing,
And I can only hope she accepts my advancing.

Her face is different every time,
Sometimes turning on a dime.
The mere sight of her is so sublime.
A flower amongst the common slime,
Her face gives reason to my rhyme.

Eyes on eachother, we long to touch.
Linking our hands, we embrace in a clutch,
and lean against one another as a mutual crutch.
The other dancers dance on, as is such,
But when we're together life is never too much.

I know now I'll never be the same,
As we dance back and forth in a cute kind of game.
She disappears in the morning and I feel such a shame,
Because when I wake I slowly go insane,
At the idea that I still don't know her name.
　
Pretty women come and go
But the one girl I’ll always know
Is forever fixed in my heart, so
I may lose this sense of constant woe,
And my dancing girl will never go.

Clown Face

Why is there a Clown Mask on the wall?
Who put it there? Where did it come from?
Oh, you stapled it to the wall, did you?
Nice move, smart guy!
Just leave it there for a serial killer to find and take a shine to!

Honestlly, I can picture it now:
Interior, high school, midnight.
Man dressed in black wearing large boots trudges down the hall,
his face hidden in shadows.
He bursts into the classroom and looks around.

He spots the Clown Mask and tilts his head in interest.
With surprising grace for such a behemoth,
he removes the mask from the wall and places it on his face.
He spots a student's lost vanity mirror on a desk, takes in his new appearance,
and walks towards the door.

He stops in the frame and seems to be lost in thought.
Slowly lifting his head, he seems to stare directly into the camera;
Breaking the silence, he lets out a maddening, blood-curdling cackle
that echoes through the empty school.
...............I just got chills. Well I'm not going to sleep tonight.