Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
Ash Sep 2021
Standing on the balcony
Watching my home burn below me
My people wish for my head
Saying I'm the reason their tyrannical king is dead
Though perhaps they're right
That was the result of that night
When my love became a traitor
And I killed my father
But its not that simple
No it ever is when darks and lights intermingle
I did it to save them all
For a new age to rise, the old must fall
A new era of peace across the land
Caused by my hand
And what do I get in return?
A mob chanting for my head as they watch my home burn.
Our king and castle both gone
What will become of our kingdom?
I guess I'll never know
I'll burn or be killed by those down below
Maybe I should give them what they wish
Maybe that's the only way to end this.

I look back at the burning wealth
Before I step off, falling to my--

Trying to get better at rhyming.. I know it ***** leave me alone and appreciate angsty Prin
Ash Oct 2020
As blue
As the blood
That taints the perfect crown
I frown, watching the kingdom
I love
Fight a tireless war.

A war
Against those with scales of blue,
Where we lose far too many of those we love,
And spill far too much blood.
We say we fight in the name of our almighty kingdom.
They say they fight in the name of the crown.

A crown
Which has only seemed out hatred and war
And is willing to **** any who speak against its kingdom,
Allowing the royal blue
Shed— even from those we love.

But love
Is not felt by those who bear the crown.
We never learn the true meaning of spilled blood,
Or the pain caused by an everlasting war.
A war we fuel until every petal has fallen, mixing with the blue,
Leaving in its wake, a broken and hollow kingdom.

A kingdom
Lead by one who just never love,
Who must only mind the blue
Gem embedded in the crown,
Starting war after war,
Only protecting our title and our blood.

The blood
Which only flows through the veins belonging to the royals of this kingdom,
Who only know war
And believe the greatest weakness one could have is love.
We’re born and raised for the crown
As the world idolizes our shade of blue.

Yet— I spill my blood for those I love,
And serve my kingdom, even though I hold no crown,
I’ll fight this war, your hand in mine, stained in shades of royal blue.
A sestina written from the perspective of one of my original characters.
Ash Oct 2020
What is the color blue?
Is it simply the color of royalty?
Or is it the color that bonds me to you?
Your skin, my blood, and the crown,
All share the hue.
Perhaps it’s just a strange thing our people believe—
The most common skin tone, is the royal color too.
Perhaps it’s more than you and me,
Perhaps we will always belittle yet worship the color blue.
A Magic 9 written from the perspective of one of my original characters. (the same character from Sestina of the Fairy Prince)
Ash Nov 2020
Dearest Mother,
My long lost queen.
Since you passed, the palace
Has been painfully silent.
Horribly cold.
Even without the king.

Father-- our king...
when you died he became evermore cold.
He forced me to find a queen.
To stay silent,
Trapped in the palace.

Even in this new palace,
Even with my uncle as king,
Somehow-- it's still silent.
After all these years, I now remember you, Mother,
our queen.
And how your skin has gone cold.

Since that day so many years ago... cold.
I hate this new palace
Without a queen
And a new king.
I miss your voice, Mother
But now-- your hall stays silent.

Everything is silent
And cold.
This palace,
This king,
We all need a queen

We need you-- My Queen
You will no longer be silent.
You will restore order and crown me as king.
You will heat the everlasting cold.
You will give life to the palace.
If only you'd return, Mother.

But-- No matter how I wish, our queen lies cold
This silent blanket stays over the palace
And my uncle has taken my rightful title of king. And I am powerless against it, Mother.
yet another sestina from the prince
Ash Nov 2020
“The war is over, Prince. Just— Relax.”
Cal smiles at me, but I don’t
smile back. As I repeat
My father— my king’s last
Words to me. To his
Unwanted heir.
“You must be
Ash Nov 2020
Engulfed in a ball of glorious flame
His gift, now a weapon he's forced to wield.
Only eighteen, drafted, and I'm to blame
The Torch stands tall over the battlefield
Stripped of his name and home, to fight this war
That's not his own. His flame spreads fear and pain,
A secret beauty, I watch evermore
From the safety behind the window pane.
Years passed, and I forgot it's vivid burn.
But then, at sea, I found his flame again
We find ourselves at war-- nowhere to turn.
Through thick and thin his hand in mine, and then,
Until the end of time, he will be mine.
The royal light and brilliant flame will shine.
My first attempt at a sonnet. From the prospective of the my oc, the prince. As a bit of context, the Torch is the nickname of a character who has fire abilities (think fire bending) who was drafted into the long-lasting civil war by order of the prince.
Ash Jul 2021
The blue
blue blood covers my cold
cold hands that are so
so empty without his
Fairy boi's back
Left Foot Poet Jan 2020
how I know we will make love someday / primal2

whatever you think of overwhelming distance,
thick black lined international boundaries,
no Westerly wind, snow binding, winter blinding, can forbid
the innate desired connectivity, the eye locking messaging,
the shared shards of losses cumulative, that we alone can relieve/repair

I will travel by jetliner, car, to unpack you from snowdrifts,
write quatrains upon your eyes, elegies on your lips,
epic poems using every body space possess-able, asking for nothing
in return, for living is hard enough, no need for quid pro quo bargaining

do not ask what am I to you, resist classification, place me not,
no slot, no rowed field, under closed eyes remember, recall,
better the butter of love and loss, which I’ll take and also leave,
summer spreads and relishes kitchen canned for next year’s winter

did you know, of course not, my name is Mordecai,^ the same who,
was Vizier to Darius and Xerxes I, meaning pure myrrh and
master of languages, but this is not the time/place, my secrets two,
to give away, and yet forbear, you may ask questions that no sensible human answers


but I have, and will do so again, against all odds, we will
compose original numbers, all prime, all natural occurring,
divisible, yes, but  only by the number itself and the number 1,
a number that answers:

the equation, the prime ideal,
why only 1 + 1 equals:

primal 2

it takes one to create two
Left Foot Poet Aug 2020
they hit you everywhere,
bruises, slow faders,
pretty much all over,
spaced out, body and time

some, they come back,
months, years later,
enticing, devising,
with revelations perfect,
you melt with helpfulness

some claim they are born
with only questions and an
insatiable quest for knowing,
but line in the soil tween rows
is there for you not to cross

some proffer their pain,
asking for ablution and absolution,
from demons they wish to share,
but refusing the smoke of my offering,
that could cleanse both our inhalations

like highway men of yore,
they hit everyone, below the belt,
stave breaking into the heart,
slow bleeding, with answers
received in absentia and silence

until the till needs refilling, and they
renewed, reappear, reformed, with
perfect words, even better questions:

my portfolio of replies mostly go/grow
old, noting the obvious, we are socially
distance by age and geography and
degree, I free and clear to provide while
they just free to hit and run, one more time
if you think this poem is about you, then it probably is…
Left Foot Poet Aug 2020
morning contradictories: mourning our poems, falling stars

awaken to a sunshiny Saturday,
the lazys, their coverlet of flowers,
inhibit our movements, now, as it nears
high noon, we have yet from our bed stir

August has be-come, the grass pockets
of gray and green, swaths of sunburn brown,
reveal how far along the North American
summer has poetry passed, irretrievable

reading your messages and notes from
world over, lazy licking you poems so many,
delighting, ponderous and oft heroic, as well,
weeping as too many become fallen stars

each grass blade, from earth born and returned,
the nutrients preserved in our sandy soil, intended
to nurture next summer’s poesy new birthrights,
green+browned, weep+smile, mutual contradictories

these poem best friends, passing by each other at lifecycle’s
multi-paths, metaphors for our too many morning stirrings,
most to be falling like stars that, though in motion, need not
come to rest ever, their movement attracts a one…lasting look

it nears noon, it nears this poem’s timely finishing touch,
straighten its tie, smooth its skirted pleats, a forehead
implant kiss goodbye, sent on its way to find its own weight,
no parent ere admit, it leaves, with tear-burst showers falling…

August 1

Next page