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Rosie Dee Aug 2016
Wine
Is
Fine
When you
Dine
With
Fine Wine
But when you
Dine
With
Fine Wine
The
Wine
Must be
Fine
Just a silly little poem in dedication to my wine loving friends, with some inspiration from the likes of Dr. Seuss
Rosie Dee Apr 2015
I have oh so many thoughts and feelings,
Hundreds and thousands,
Millions and billions,
But can i put them into words?
No
Not at all
*Never
I have so many thoughts and feelings in my head and have done for years, but have never ever been able to put any of it into words. I swear my head is going to bust soon with them all. Writer's block is a *****. (on a side note 'writer's block is a ***** was actually going to be the last line of the poem but i decided to leave it out)
Rosie Dee Mar 2015
To me, you're like a rotten peach.
Once good, now bad-though you still looked fine on the outside.
Just a few marks here and there,
A scratch or two,
No harm done.
I was happy with you-happy to have you in my life.
Then,
You turned out to be ****-bitter and rotten on the inside.
Such a ****** disappointment
I found this old poem i wrote whilst clearing out my room today. Was one of the first poems i fully wrote that wasn't for a school assignment or anything like that. As you can tell, i was in a very bad mood when i wrote it and not very happy with someone haha. Anyway i'm aware it's very odd but i thought i would share it with y'all anyway.
Rosie Dee Mar 2015
Silence,
Licks up the air around you,
Intakes it all,
Constricting your very thoughts, fears, feelings, pains until...
Everything goes black
In quite a dark mood right now. This poem probably wont make any sense to anyone-hell it doesn't even make sense to me. I don't even like it really i just figured i'd post something because it's been a while and i'm feelign a bit off right now, I just wrote what was in my head and..voile. Too lost in thoughts of the past. The past is a tricky subject i suppose. Heres to a better and happier poem next time aye?
  Feb 2015 Rosie Dee
Marie-Chantal
That beautiful sir keeps watchful eye over the land. He carries an armful of lilacs, he says nothing but walks, his black plumage glinting in the near-spring light. He swings something along his side. Too afraid to ask. Why does he hide it? That's because the trees have eyes.

Roasting, dripping pig flesh and sweet dough, cooking ever so slow. A warning whisper is sent through the woods. How do trees know? They have eyes.

One lilac drops on the floor above the decaying bird carcasses. There are bird carcasses. Is this one of the beautiful sir's kind? That cannot be. But it is because the trees have eyes. They don't say much, trees, but they send a whisper up the woods and warn the fleshed pork eaters of coming lights. Snap! Fire out. Don't make a sound. Can they hear?

And suddenly the trees whisper as loudly as trees can:

"RUN"
                                    
For the beautiful sir is hardly man. There swinging at his side is nothing but a human head hanging on some golden thread. There is a stench of death that could never be described as anything other than fear. The beautiful sir with his black plumage is death.

His head jerks and he looks the fleshéd in the eye
they know they are the next to die.

But, how did the trees know?

*"That's because the trees have eyes."
Have you ever noticed that trees have eyes?
Rosie Dee Jan 2015
Wee, sleekit, cow'rin, tim'rous beastie,
O, what a panic's in thy breastie!
Thou need na start awa sae hasty,
Wi' bickering brattle!
I *** be laith to rin an' chase thee,
Wi' murd'ring pattle!

I'm truly sorry man's dominion,
Has broken nature's social union,
An' justifies that ill opinion,
Which makes thee startle
At me, thy poor, earth-born companion,
An' fellow-mortal!

I doubt na, whiles, but thou may thieve;
What then? poor beastie, thou maun live!
A daimen icker in a thrave
'S a sma' request;
I'll get a blessin wi' the lave,
An' never miss't!

Thy wee bit housie, too, in ruin!
It's silly wa's the win's are strewin!
An' naething, now, to big a new ane,
O' foggage green!
An' bleak December's winds ensuin,
Baith snell an' keen!

Thou saw the fields laid bare an' waste,
An' weary winter comin fast,
An' cozie here, beneath the blast,
Thou thought to dwell -
Till crash! the cruel coulter past
Out thro' thy cell.

That wee bit heap o' leaves an' stibble,
Has cost thee mony a weary nibble!
Now thou's turn'd out, for a' thy trouble,
But house or hald,
To thole the winter's sleety dribble,
An' cranreuch cauld!

But, Mousie, thou art no thy lane,
In proving foresight may be vain;
The best-laid schemes o' mice an 'men
Gang aft agley,
An' lea'e us nought but grief an' pain,
For promis'd joy!

Still thou art blest, compar'd wi' me
The present only toucheth thee:
But, Och! I backward cast my e'e.
On prospects drear!
An' forward, tho' I canna see,
I guess an' fear!
Again, not my poem, an excellent one by Robert Burns. Okay i was just gonna put up 'Address to a haggis', it being 'Burns' Day', but this is personally one of my favourite poems of his, and this is the one i heard mostly over the course of my life. I love it a lot, and i think it's an excellently written poem, with excellent language, and an excellent story (if you cant tell already, i think it is excellent haha). So enjoy this one. Happy Burns' Day (even if you don't celebrate it).
Rosie Dee Jan 2015
Fair fa' your honest, sonsie face,
Great chieftain o the puddin'-race!
Aboon them a' ye tak your place,
Painch, tripe, or thairm:
Weel are ye worthy o' a grace
As lang's my arm.

The groaning trencher there ye fill,
Your hurdies like a distant hill,
Your pin *** help to mend a mill
In time o need,
While thro your pores the dews distil
Like amber bead.

His knife see rustic Labour dight,
An cut you up wi ready slight,
Trenching your gushing entrails bright,
Like onie ditch;
And then, O what a glorious sight,
Warm-reekin, rich!

Then, horn for horn, they stretch an strive:
Deil tak the hindmost, on they drive,
Till a' their weel-swall'd kytes belyve
Are bent like drums;
The auld Guidman, maist like to rive,
'Bethankit' hums.

Is there that owre his French ragout,
Or olio that *** staw a sow,
Or fricassee *** mak her spew
Wi perfect scunner,
Looks down wi sneering, scornfu view
On sic a dinner?

Poor devil! see him owre his trash,
As feckless as a wither'd rash,
His spindle shank a guid whip-lash,
His nieve a nit;
Thro ****** flood or field to dash,
O how unfit!

But mark the Rustic, haggis-fed,
The trembling earth resounds his tread,
Clap in his walie nieve a blade,
He'll make it whissle;
An legs an arms, an heads will sned,
Like taps o thrissle.

Ye Pow'rs, wha mak mankind your care,
And dish them out their bill o fare,
Auld Scotland wants nae skinking ware
That jaups in luggies:
But, if ye wish her gratefu prayer,
Gie her a Haggis
(As stated in the title) This is not one of my poems-all credit to Robert Burns. Being half scottish, we celebrate 'Burns' Night' in my house. A night to celebrate this wonderful scottish writer. I thought i'd put this as a tribute the great writer and let you all have a wee bit o' Scottish culture haha
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