madeleine-berry
I was never taught really how to put together a poem. How to organize the stanzas or get the words perfect in line. These are just a few writings that I write when I am feeling joyful, depressed, excited, or dull. I have always enjoyed writing as it provides a sense of escape from what I wish I never began. I hope you enjoy reading these writings as much as I enjoyed writing them.
A little girl, blond as can be,
Sits in her shed, staring mindlessly.
She thinks of an idea and tells her dad,
"My shed needs painting,
So it won't be so sad."
They worked on her shed, day and night,
Until her dad tucked her in bed,
Nice and tight.
The next day, the little girl sprang from her bed,
She ran to her yard, smiling at her shed.
The once old wooden shed,
Now had a lovely smile.
The little girl hugged it saying,
"Sorry it took a while."
From the early bird's chirp,
To the friendly owl's hoot,
The young girl played in her shed,
Like a chick in its coop.
One day the little girl began to cry,
For her elderly father was soon to die
The shed's smile soon started to fall.
The young girl it once knew,
Had gotten so tall.
It tried to hold up its rusty old boards,
Trying to cheer her up,
Like a guitarists with the perfect chords.
One day the young girl, now a woman,
Walked out to the shed, and gave it a hug,
Just like she always did.
She cried and talked to her shed,
Explaining that her father was dead.
Yet she thanked her father,
for building that shed.
It always cheered her up,
With its smile painted wide.
When she was happy, it stood up tall.
Yet when she was sad,
It leaned to one side.
One day she came home,
With a man by her side,
With her white dress flowing,
She happily cried.
The shed had only one problem
With this man by her side.
When th girl came visiting,
Her tears were already dried.
The years passed by,
As the couple had a child.
Though the shed grew tired,
The weeds grew wild.
With the years racing by, the shed fell down,
It's boards and bolts,
cast and scatteredalomg the ground.
The husband wanted those old bolts rid,
As he kicked the rusty boards,
They scattered and skid.
The girl looked at the rusty pieces of shed,
And smiled simply shaking her head.
Why get rid of such beautiful wood,
When we can make a baby bed?
The shed would've leaped out of the air,
Its joy and happiness,
Relieved by her care.
So the baby slept with its crib and mobile,
On the side of th crib, was the shed's big smile.
Apr 19, 2017
Apr 19, 2017 at 8:33 AM UTC
If struggles are frightening
What does that make life?
Is life not full of struggles?
Then how is life,
Not always frightening?
There has so be something
Other than struggles
That keep us
From living in fear
If struggles are scary
Then life is a horror story
Struggles around every bend
Is this proof..
That joys really do exist?
Despite our sorrowful poems?
Despite out lovesick hearts?
Despite our crave for more?
Then again,
One might twist that
One could say,
That if joys are stars
Within the night
Then life is a galaxy
Full of stars and Suns
With orbiting bases
All around them
Surrounding them
With protection
What is life to you?
Will you decide
To watch
That horror story inside
In the dark
Or will you be adventurous
And look beyond a screen
Playing out our fears
And simply gaze
At all the joys in the darkness
May 13, 2016
May 13, 2016 at 8:43 AM UTC
His deep intense gaze
Never wavering either side
Locked upon his target
No, his enemy can't hide
An instantaneous moment
And an arrow's locked into place
His enemy frozen in fear
For no blade can wound his face
The metal pierced its skin
Before his quiver ceased to shake
His pale blue eyes satisfied
As he watched his enemy quake
His tunic sways in triumph
His confidence never wavers
As he returns to his home
To the woman of whom he favors
Jan 28, 2016
Jan 28, 2016 at 2:01 PM UTC
The day of the war was upon us. The air which was burdened by every man's heartbeat upon the approaching enemy, thudding louder and louder. Battle cries threatened to burst through my ears. The battle has begun. Sweat drenched my brows as blade came into contact with another. The muscles in my body intensifying with every possibly fatal blow. The screams of agony soon blurred out as we pushed forward. The ground pounding as the air surrounding us was thick with the all too familiar scent of crimson. Every man's eye was now numb watching brother after brother fall, never to rise again. Yet we push on as even the sun slinks away in retreat. We will go on. No matter how long it takes, we will go on.
Jan 26, 2016
Jan 26, 2016 at 6:08 PM UTC
The days go on one at a time. All the people move on day by day forgetting the images their minds captured moments before. Yet the poet's mind never moves on. Things are merely added to the ongoing thoughts. Many men and women may pass by things every day such as a wooden park bench, a bird's nest, or an old home, never thinking anything of them. Yet the poet sees something different every time. The ordinary mind may see the old park bench as a nuisance as they are walking to the buss station to work every day. Yet the poet sees it for its full potential. They see the uneven legs, the scratched, evenly carved, oak wood, the rusting metal, and the rough texture, as something beautiful, almost alive. They wonder of all the people who have sat on its wooden seat. An artist with delicate hands. A young man flexing his muscles for any passing female. A little girl holding her daddy's hand. A warrior whose eyes have seen much more than most human beings could bear. The never-ending mind of a poet stays lost in thought, never wavering. The mind of a poet never truly has one base for their way of thinking. One day, they may see this world as a trap, oxygen merely a barrier to what they could never achieve. Yet then again, the poet may see the world as a welcoming, enjoyable place to be with all its beauty. But most of all, the poet's mind is never readable, never predictable. No one understands the mind of a poet, even other poets, which could be the cause for some poet's downward look on life. For they are incredible works of art, displayed with pen and paper, giving the world the only glimpse of the poet's mind it will ever receive.
Dec 29, 2015
Dec 29, 2015 at 9:59 PM UTC
My weakness is kindness
I live to serve
And if you try and stop me
You've got some nerve
I will love you and care for you until I fall apart
Yet your words burden me
Like a dagger to the heart
You cling to me
Like I'm you're only hope
Yet my mission had failed
I simply wanted you ,alone, to cope
Alone I knew you could make it
On your own I knew you were strong
Yet I helped you anyways
Not knowing it was wrong
You became dependent on me
Like a fish to the sea
Yet I knew it was bad for you
I had to leave
The only way you would make it
Was if you were on your own
Yet I stayed anyways
Should've known I was prone
Dec 27, 2015
Dec 27, 2015 at 7:58 PM UTC
The little girl grins with glee
As she runs outside squealing
"Daddy come on! I bet you can't catch me!"
The dad chuckling as he walked out the door
As the little girl yells
"Come on! Once more!"
Looking back at her dad
Not noticing the street
All the neighbors now heard
The pidder-patter of her little feet
Then suddenly that familiar sound
Filled the father's ears
As he yelled out in warning
His eyes filled with tears
The father now sprinting
Despite his bad knee
Saw the car had just missed her
By only a few feet
He kept running to the girl
Hands soon cradling her face
She smiled once more saying
"Daddy let's race!"
He simply shook his head
Holding his little girl
Like a clam in the ocean
Never releasing its pearl
Dec 15, 2015
Dec 15, 2015 at 4:27 PM UTC
After reading of the ancient Greeks and Romans, the people of the Middle Ages, leading up to the people of today's time, I have come to the realization, tis not what this world has become that should be shamed upon men, tis what is was, is, and always will be.
Dec 1, 2015
Dec 1, 2015 at 8:38 PM UTC
the scent of fresh green grass
overwhelming the chilled air
the branches of the maple tree swayed
as if there was nothing to worry about
but the present time in the now
the rays of sun beamed
down upon the silent earth
the fall colors hued their surroundings
reminding any living thing
of this world's true beauty
as a deer padded silently
it ventured boldly into the clearing
the earth seemed to come
to a stand-still in complete awe
its soft dark brown eyes
so gentle
so fragile
yet strong
bold
fearless
The only thing destracting the world
of the sheer beauty
was a small sparrow
singing a soft tune
sadly, it takes something like this
to prove this world's beauty
Tis like a pare of glassed
these frames provise a view
of the world as we know it
suggested to different people
sadly enough
many people have been presented
with the wrong frames
they are distorted
by societie's cruel tools
to see the bad in this world
to see the hurt
the pain
the death
and the hate
yet some people are given frames
that see the good in this world
that see the beauty
the love
the peace
the passion
what I say to you now
should always be rememberd
stya close to these people
so next time you look
at the beautiful world
you will see the good
for life is too short
to dwell on the little things
that simply can't change
when you can live out
the big things that can.
Nov 10, 2015
Nov 10, 2015 at 9:39 PM UTC
Her soft, gentle eyes looked down passionately upon me. Her face was white as snow as her soft lips smiled welcoming me. Her long white silk dress flowed down her back just glazing softly over the floor. Everything around her seemed to glow as she passed by. A pare of immense white feathered wings showed behind her. The gorgeous pearl white feathers layed neatly over-lapping eachother. It was impossible not to tear up at the sheer beauty. Her voice was the most soothing sound my ears had allowed to let in. Her speech was flawless as her words flowed flawlessly and effortlessly. It was clear as day, she was nothing less of an angel.
Oct 27, 2015
Oct 27, 2015 at 5:39 PM UTC