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Kayla Ann Jul 2014
The geometry of perfection
An equation of stars
Constellations spinning
Rhythmically to a melancholy
Melody written in the language
Of the essence of being

A brief connection that spans
Ages and draws together
The centuries since past
In reverent bravado
Wordlessly etching a memoir
Into a stately marble floor

Stumbling into grace
Like sudden elegance found
After a third glass of rose cabernet
Untaught steps mastered in
Moments engulfed in an
Overwhelming sense of pose

The dance of dances
A most classic and romantic
Masterpiece of body
Music and mind
Scripted by the soul
A renaissance of heart
Inspired by the song 'Dark Waltz' as sung by Hayley Westerna
roses are red
violets are blue
you drive me insane
and I still love you
you get way too mad
and say things that aren't true
but at the end of the day, I could never picture myself without you.
I love your smile and your goofy laugh.
the way you make me smile..even when I'm sad
now I know things aren't easy
and probably never will be
but when I say I love you, please never don't believe me.
Kayla Ann Jul 2014
She is quite the romantic
Classic, charming, a charlotte
A modern Jan Austen
A  21st century Marie Antoinette

Dazzling steps she takes,
Lighting a room with presence
A most exquisite escape
A most darling endeavor

Touched by an artist with
Ringlets of gold and eyes of oceans
An immaculate china doll
An irreplaceable countenance

When she descends steps
Every eye will be fixated as if she were
A once lost duchess returned
A secret lover revealed

I stand amidst the awestruck
But a mere menial commoner
Talentless
Ordinary
Empty

No jewels to wear about my wrists and neck
Just a fragile flower crown for a sandy head
I hope she can see me from where she stands
High above where I cannot be

Smitten with her grace and noble air
I cling to the thought that her eyes perhaps landed on me
Oh what I would give to befriend
Such a marvelous and enchanting being.
Under the greenwood tree
     Who loves to lie with me,
     And turn his merry note
     Unto the sweet bird's throat,
   Come hither, come hither, come hither:
     Here shall he see
     No enemy
   But winter and rough weather.

      Who doth ambition shun,
    And loves to live i' the sun,
    Seeking the food he eats,
    And pleas'd with what he gets,
  Come hither, come hither, come hither:
    Here shall he see
    No enemy
  But winter and rough weather.
Greenwood tree = forest

It was one of the famous poems for the play "As You Like It

I came to know about it while reading (I was trained by my English Teacher Mr. Ramaiah to read world lit) Shakespeare in my school. But took a liking to it while I was in my 12th grade. We had it as a lesson at that time
It was only days ago
In a time of a better me
The strangers lived here, sometime ago
They dwelled inside of me

I was young, and lived rather grand
In the skin that was me
Oh what times we had, them and I, I and them

I and the people inside of me
With our thoughts ever conflicting,
None were covetous of we

Maybe it's been years, not days ago
These people inside of me
Had only first appeared
Without my sanity
So they bound me with ropes,
Those people inside of me
My own body and mind my sepulchre
No longer are we who I used to be.
This was an english project. I tried to do one of my favorite poems justice!
-Instead of a story about a love lost, I put a twist to the famous "Annabel Lee". The story is of a man, who goes through a trauma and because of it, develops multiple personality disorder, who slowly recognizes what's happening and gives in, letting himself be entombed.
islam Jun 2014
merciless nightmares I created,
In my own realm of hatred
A seemingly endless darkness i invaded
But I came out, torn and jaded.
I had a firm grip on the bones and flesh of a dead man,
His corpse alienated me, made me inhuman,
Like ether, colourless, lifeless. Hence, from myself I ran.
I found myself in a serene place,
I called it paradise.
Provided me with hot water, washing away the sleepless cold nights.
There are colds parts in me,
And the darkness is always there,
In moments of loneliness, in moments of despair.
I am alone yet the downfall of my hopes accompanies me.
I have one desire,
I strive to kindle a fire using my heap of ashes,
My heap of shattered desires.
Written directly after reading Dickens
There passed a weary time.  Each throat
     Was parched, and glazed each eye.
     A weary time! a weary time!
     How glazed each weary eye,
     When looking westward, I beheld
     A something in the sky.

     At first it seemed a little speck,
     And then it seemed a mist:
     It moved and moved, and took at last
     A certain shape, I wist.

     A speck, a mist, a shape, I wist!
     And still it neared and neared:
     As if it dodged a water-sprite,
     It plunged and tacked and veered.

     With throats unslaked, with black lips baked,
     We could not laugh nor wail;
     Through utter drought all dumb we stood!
     I bit my arm, I ****** the blood,
     And cried, A sail! a sail!

     With throats unslaked, with black lips baked,
     Agape they heard me call:
     Gramercy! they for joy did grin,
     And all at once their breath drew in,
     As they were drinking all.

     See! see! (I cried) she tacks no more!
     Hither to work us weal;
     Without a breeze, without a tide,
     She steadies with upright keel!

     The western wave was all a-flame
     The day was well nigh done!
     Almost upon the western wave
     Rested the broad bright Sun;
     When that strange shape drove suddenly
     Betwixt us and the Sun.

     And straight the Sun was flecked with bars,
     (Heaven's Mother send us grace!)
     As if through a dungeon-grate he peered,
     With broad and burning face.

     Alas! (thought I, and my heart beat loud)
     How fast she nears and nears!
     Are those her sails that glance in the Sun,
     Like restless gossameres!

     Are those her ribs through which the Sun
     Did peer, as through a grate?
     And is that Woman all her crew?
     Is that a DEATH? and are there two?
     Is DEATH that woman's mate?

     Her lips were red, her looks were free,
     Her locks were yellow as gold:
     Her skin was as white as leprosy,
     The Night-Mare LIFE-IN-DEATH was she,
     Who thicks man's blood with cold.

     The naked hulk alongside came,
     And the twain were casting dice;
     "The game is done!  I've won!  I've won!"
     Quoth she, and whistles thrice.

     The Sun's rim dips; the stars rush out:
     At one stride comes the dark;
     With far-heard whisper, o'er the sea.
     Off shot the spectre-bark.

     We listened and looked sideways up!
     Fear at my heart, as at a cup,
     My life-blood seemed to sip!

     The stars were dim, and thick the night,
     The steersman's face by his lamp gleamed white;
     From the sails the dew did drip—
     Till clombe above the eastern bar
     The horned Moon, with one bright star
     Within the nether tip.

     One after one, by the star-dogged Moon
     Too quick for groan or sigh,
     Each turned his face with a ghastly pang,
     And cursed me with his eye.

     Four times fifty living men,
     (And I heard nor sigh nor groan)
     With heavy thump, a lifeless lump,
     They dropped down one by one.

     The souls did from their bodies fly,—
     They fled to bliss or woe!
     And every soul, it passed me by,
     Like the whizz of my CROSS-BOW!
It is an ancient Mariner,
And he stoppeth one of three.
'By thy long grey beard and glittering eye,
Now wherefore stopp'st thou me?

The Bridegroom's doors are opened wide,
And I am next of kin;
The guests are met, the feast is set:
May'st hear the merry din.'

He holds him with his skinny hand,
'There was a ship,' quoth he.
'Hold off! unhand me, grey-beard loon!'
Eftsoons his hand dropt he.

He holds him with his glittering eye—
The Wedding-Guest stood still,
And listens like a three years' child:
The Mariner hath his will.

The Wedding-Guest sat on a stone:
He cannot choose but hear;
And thus spake on that ancient man,
The bright-eyed Mariner.

'The ship was cheered, the harbour cleared,
Merrily did we drop
Below the kirk, below the hill,
Below the lighthouse top.

The Sun came up upon the left,
Out of the sea came he!
And he shone bright, and on the right
Went down into the sea.

Higher and higher every day,
Till over the mast at noon—'
The Wedding-Guest here beat his breast,
For he heard the loud bassoon.

The bride hath paced into the hall,
Red as a rose is she;
Nodding their heads before her goes
The merry minstrelsy.

The Wedding-Guest he beat his breast,
Yet he cannot choose but hear;
And thus spake on that ancient man,
The bright-eyed Mariner.

And now the STORM-BLAST came, and he
Was tyrannous and strong:
He struck with his o'ertaking wings,
And chased us south along.

With sloping masts and dipping prow,
As who pursued with yell and blow
Still treads the shadow of his foe,
And forward bends his head,
The ship drove fast, loud roared the blast,
And southward aye we fled.

And now there came both mist and snow,
And it grew wondrous cold:
And ice, mast-high, came floating by,
As green as emerald.

And through the drifts the snowy clifts
Did send a dismal sheen:
Nor shapes of men nor beasts we ken—
The ice was all between.

The ice was here, the ice was there,
The ice was all around:
It cracked and growled, and roared and howled,
Like noises in a swound!

At length did cross an Albatross,
Thorough the fog it came;
As if it had been a Christian soul,
We hailed it in God's name.

It ate the food it ne'er had eat,
And round and round it flew.
The ice did split with a thunder-fit;
The helmsman steered us through!

And a good south wind sprung up behind;
The Albatross did follow,
And every day, for food or play,
Came to the mariner's hollo!

In mist or cloud, on mast or shroud,
It perched for vespers nine;
Whiles all the night, through fog-smoke white,
Glimmered the white Moon-shine.'

'God save thee, ancient Mariner!
From the fiends, that plague thee thus!—
Why look'st thou so?'—With my cross-bow
I shot the ALBATROSS.
It's an epic poem, worth the reading effort
Sean Fitzpatrick May 2014
Wise men in their bad hours have envied
The little people making merry like grasshoppers
In spots of sunlight, hardly thinking
Backward but never forward, and if they somehow
Take hold upon the future they do it
Half asleep, with the tools of generation
Foolishly reduplicating
Folly in thirty-year periods; the eat and laugh too,
Groan against labors, wars and partings,
Dance, talk, dress and undress; wise men have pretended
The summer insects enviable;
One must indulge the wise in moments of mockery.
Strength and desire possess the future,
The breed of the grasshopper shrills, "What does the future
Matter, we shall be dead?" Ah, grasshoppers,
Death's a fierce meadowlark: but to die having made
Something more equal to the centuries
Than muscle and bone, is mostly to shed weakness.
The mountains are dead stone, the people
Admire or hate their stature, their insolent quietness,
The mountains are not softened nor troubled
And a few dead men's thoughts have the same temper.
By Robinson Jeffers, not by me :)
The man seems heavy: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Robinson_Jeffers
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