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b Mar 2018
wishful thinking
keeps me drinking
the cherry wine that costs less than
the wallet i now keep in my front pocket
ever since it was stolen,

fool me once.

i palm my eyes
and rub my craning neck.
sore from keeping watch.
blessed to be cursed i feel at times
as its so hard to write with no perspective.
and if i keep these words in they might **** me some day.

what an honor to be king for a night.
all ive ever yearned,
to see his sword pierce my belly
at rest, at peace.
emblazoned on the gang's coat of arms
was the following logo
we fight without any principles
for we are of the very low

***** tactic achieve our ends
and we take pride
in the way we trample all over
the much politer tends

stray not into the areas
that we patrol and control
as our thuggery will
hammer a robust toll

our triumphs are legendary
across many a land
we've a history in employing
the grubbiest hand

one qualification which is essential
when joining our accord
that's to be a bandit capable
of playing the foul sword
Scarlet M Jan 2018
My knight does not need to be
in a shining armor,
nor blessed with prestige
or countless honor.

It only needs to be you,
someone who could wield
a sword, respectable enough
to be able to strike a heart of gold.
This piece was inspired by Heathe Ledger's movie "A Knights Tale" thus from where I took the title. I loved the film so much I made a poem out of Jocelyn's love for William. One of my favorite lines from the film was when Jocelyn wouldn't tell William his name and he said, "perhaps Angels don't have names, but only pretty faces".
Lunar Jan 2018
a princess, tired,
built castles, loved by people
and loved a prince
—all birthed from her words

an outcast, fallen,
as her words turn
into robbers of joy and
into daggers against her

a queen, revives,
to ascend the throne once again
pen as sword; heart as shield
written words are her armies
under her rough hands
i'll never give up on writing. i am back.
(j.m.)
eleanor prince Jan 2018
eye of storm
feels good
inanely safe

cloak of unreality
supplanting sense
as trap shuts

butterfly hovers
gently
in silken web

rests stupidly
charmed
while harm beckons

illusions numb
cerebral
space

battle weary
instincts spent
on long haul

gusts of
warning winds
ignored

as incongruent
aberrations
unworthy of note

but sword will drop
mayhem eclipse
former state

past suspension
truncated
exposed

as raw reality
severs dreams
barnacled

to beguiling
specious
notion
beware the weariness that eclipses knowing... and reason... it will exact a price
Lyn-Purcell Nov 2017
Too many underestimate the power of the pen.
They are mesmerized by the argent arc of a sword.
As writers, our greatest weapon lies in our pens and our fingers.
Lyn-Purcell Nov 2017
Imagine seeing a silvery blade dancing to the music of death.
Marred by the poetry of blood
A trumpet to the cries of war
But it also reflects the wielder.
When looking at it, you can see yourself.
But in my eyes, I can see the steel's heart.
As it's in your hand, preparing to protect, it's polished until it shines like luna wildfire.
In the end, I believe the true beauty of a katana comes not from the hilt or engravings, but from the steel.
How many songs has it sang in our battles, can you imagine...?
A katana's beauty comes from the polished steel as it's shines so brightly
with victorious prayers.
This poem is dedicated to several katana that I saw in a museum near me.
(I'm a nerd for these things and I'm not shamed)
Asena Seleno Nov 2017
Under the ashes
Burning and alive
In a saddened heart
Prickling like a thorn
Is it NIGHT or a DEMON..??
With abhorrence
And temptation
Intertwined
In the flames of
Flashbacks
Drop by drop
Dissolving and running
In veins
Like a deadly poison
In a rusty ruin
As the sign of
Dread and fright
Cold as the gleaming sword
In the hands of assassin
Is it NIGHT or a DEMON..??
Swallowing men
Like an accidental death
Free from senses
From the origin of spirits
Till the judgment...
Is it NIGHT or a DEMON..??
©DreamChaser
@toxic_dreamer00
/toxic.dreamer00
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