"progeria" poems - Hello Poetry

At Seventeen, a girl might buy a dress and look towards her prom; music and dancing through the night with a Beau upon her arm. At Seventeen the night might end in a gentle tender kiss As couples watch the Sun rise as it gives the waves the slip. At Seventeen, a girl might think of college and career. She might listen to loud music and maybe sneak a beer. For a victim of progeria, life holds no such charms; At Seventeen, her time is short, too soon she will be gone. At Seventeen, in human terms, this girl was ninety-five; every day a battle in the struggle to survive. Like a comet burning brightly coming too close to the Sun Hayley, wiser than her years, burned brightly and was done.

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Apr 4, 2015

Apr 4, 2015 at 2:29 PM UTC

john-f-mccullagh

At Seventeen

At Seventeen, a girl might buy a dress and look towards her prom; music and dancing through the night with a Beau upon her arm. At Seventeen the night might end in a gentle tender kiss As couples watch the Sun rise as it gives the waves the slip. At Seventeen, a girl might think of college and career. She might listen to loud music and maybe sneak a beer. For a victim of progeria, life holds no such charms; At Seventeen, her time is short, too soon she will be gone. At Seventeen, in human terms, this girl was ninety-five; every day a battle in the struggle to survive. Like a comet burning brightly coming too close to the Sun Hayley, wiser than her years, burned brightly and was done.

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Once upon a time was I a prodigy, Wandering and drifting to find a phrontistery, A fantasy beyond thinking, I was a child of precocious virtuosity. But now time has liberated from my corpsic avatar, And to God, I was announced a groom to a bride called progeria, Not only I but now the entire human race seems to undergo ephemera, A phenomena not to be taken dilemma, Death do us part dear poet Though through our good deeds our work serves eviternal, sempiternal-and eternal. I know not who I am, But the tombstone that is scarred with my name cements a legacy that Buries everybody's histories. Death is but void and will lead me to become a martyr, For I deeply believe that poetry is the finest art And not a literature, I am certain that a spiritual minister on the day of my burial will fail to point out that I was a sinister, They will all say great things about me- Where is the wrong, where is the perfect picture? I once decapitated a seraph for I but thought it was a boobook, Look! Now I can be pseudocodenymic numerical, alphabetic artist. Yet, what am I rather than being a poet? For the reason that death will deprive me of my rights and belongings, I don't wish to fall in love but sometimes I get caught up that she might be the daughter of Jesus, Because I can't get my mind off her celestrial features. Who else but her makes my story worth telling? But yet I was in bedlam because of her, Yelling like a certified lunatic playing, I however can't forget the asylum's floors and ceilings, The horrible medicine that got me to be always day dreaming. Is this the same "cycle of psychopathic love that all these poets failed to describe?" Affirmatively! This is something they will never outmatch, Sadly, this all seeing sun never saw That me and her were a match since this world begun, Hence, I had to give her up to win everybody's heart, I gained a voice of thunder to be crowned the darkness author alive, So I ask, where are the poets of yesteryear? The nail biting, acerbic, alcoholic nighthawk ******** who truly knew how to write? WHERE IS WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE? WHERE IS EMILY DICKINSON? WHERE IS EDGAR ALLAN POE? indeed I outmatch them all, do you know why? It's because I am still alive!

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Sep 17, 2018

Sep 17, 2018 at 11:18 AM UTC

Allan-Mzyece

DARK LOVE POET (III)

Once upon a time was I a prodigy, Wandering and drifting to find a phrontistery, A fantasy beyond thinking, I was a child of precocious virtuosity. But now time has liberated from my corpsic avatar, And to God, I was announced a groom to a bride called progeria, Not only I but now the entire human race seems to undergo ephemera, A phenomena not to be taken dilemma, Death do us part dear poet Though through our good deeds our work serves eviternal, sempiternal-and eternal. I know not who I am, But the tombstone that is scarred with my name cements a legacy that Buries everybody's histories. Death is but void and will lead me to become a martyr, For I deeply believe that poetry is the finest art And not a literature, I am certain that a spiritual minister on the day of my burial will fail to point out that I was a sinister, They will all say great things about me- Where is the wrong, where is the perfect picture? I once decapitated a seraph for I but thought it was a boobook, Look! Now I can be pseudocodenymic numerical, alphabetic artist. Yet, what am I rather than being a poet? For the reason that death will deprive me of my rights and belongings, I don't wish to fall in love but sometimes I get caught up that she might be the daughter of Jesus, Because I can't get my mind off her celestrial features. Who else but her makes my story worth telling? But yet I was in bedlam because of her, Yelling like a certified lunatic playing, I however can't forget the asylum's floors and ceilings, The horrible medicine that got me to be always day dreaming. Is this the same "cycle of psychopathic love that all these poets failed to describe?" Affirmatively! This is something they will never outmatch, Sadly, this all seeing sun never saw That me and her were a match since this world begun, Hence, I had to give her up to win everybody's heart, I gained a voice of thunder to be crowned the darkness author alive, So I ask, where are the poets of yesteryear? The nail biting, acerbic, alcoholic nighthawk ******** who truly knew how to write? WHERE IS WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE? WHERE IS EMILY DICKINSON? WHERE IS EDGAR ALLAN POE? indeed I outmatch them all, do you know why? It's because I am still alive!

40

Adalia Rose. 9 years old. Sassy, funny, lively and cheerful. But her identity is incomplete, without the blaring neon sign DIAGNOSIS. DIAGNOSIS. Yes wherever she goes, at first, she's not Adalia Rose. Her diagnosis is the first thing that shows. She has progeria, you see. But she is tired of all the pity. She doesn't dream of being a man's princess. She never did. But she likes fairy tales and Finding Dory. She never dreams of being swept off her feet into a castle with glass stairs. She just wants to live, smile and be happy. She finds reasons to smile about, instead of holding on to the biggest reason she's got to frown about.

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Jul 9, 2016

Jul 9, 2016 at 9:27 AM UTC

curiosities

Adalia

Adalia Rose. 9 years old. Sassy, funny, lively and cheerful. But her identity is incomplete, without the blaring neon sign DIAGNOSIS. DIAGNOSIS. Yes wherever she goes, at first, she's not Adalia Rose. Her diagnosis is the first thing that shows. She has progeria, you see. But she is tired of all the pity. She doesn't dream of being a man's princess. She never did. But she likes fairy tales and Finding Dory. She never dreams of being swept off her feet into a castle with glass stairs. She just wants to live, smile and be happy. She finds reasons to smile about, instead of holding on to the biggest reason she's got to frown about.

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