*Curses*

A thousand apologies!

Recently my Blogger has been acting extremely strangely. It must hate me. =( Because it doesn't make any of my posts right...see the post below, and the post below, and the post below...

Take the post just below for starters. It was supposed to be a poem of three stanzas, with even spacing between them, and proper lines. It actually looked like a decent-sized post. And a decent sized poem. But no - it has been deciding to post my stuff in this utterly retarded way. It's painful to look at it.

I'm so so so sorry! :(

Flowers are Flowers

With Spring coming on...*cough*...I had the inspiration to write another poem. A flowery one. I love flowers. And I hope that this is decent...

I have some flowers upon my window-sill,

The yellow and white contrast so lightly

You would hardly notice that they differ at all,

Yet one is purity, and the other is frivolity

One is large and golden, the other snowy and small.

The sundrops we call daffodils are basking

In the sunlight they reflect - or do they give sunlight

Of their own? Some things I cannot say.

The white blossoms are so pure and fragrant.

Both flowers are better suited to the day.

But they are the only flowers I have for now,

The first of the Springtime greenery.

They give me no reason to complain

Flowers are flowers, I tell myself again,

And my worship of them I would never feign.

Vincent van Gogh

"A good picture is equivalent to a good deed."

"But I always think that the best way to know God is to love many things."

"Do not quench your inspiration or your imagination; do not become a slave of your model."

"For my part I know nothing with any certainty, but the sight of the stars makes me dream."

"I experience a period of frightening clarity in those moments when nature is so beautiful. I am no longer sure of myself, and the paintings appear as in a dream."

"I feel that there is nothing more truly artistic than to love people."

"I have often thought that the night is more alive and richly coloured than the day."

"I put my heart and my soul into my work, and have lost my mind in the process."

"I wish they would only take me as I am..."

... You were beautiful...

Happy Birthday!

She's Alive!

Not in the literal sense. In the literal sense, I always have been alive, perhaps more so than I have been for a long time. Don't gasp. Internet is like any other addictions. Pleasant; so much so that you can't live without it (or at least feel that way until you're put off cold-turkey) but in the end you realize it's not as special as it seems...
And, ta-daa! I just realized how easy it is to slip back into an old habit. xD!
So, here I am again, writing a post for my blog. It feels very strange. But in a good way. Most strange things are good things. Strange things give life variety, if everything was normal I might kill myself. (Thus says the slave to routine. Well I am, in a sense of the expression.)
So, why did I not have internet for a month? We moved into our new house (at last) and...I will give the full explanation of the vulgarity of the Wireless companies in 'The Other Me'...I had to go without internet for a month. I checked my e-mail a couple of times at the local library, but when I go to a library I'm usually far too interested in the books to spend much time on the computers.
I read about a book a day, did some drawing, wrote a lot, slept quite a bit, and thought even more. It's so nice to think...sometimes. And I have flowers on my window-sill every day. I think it's wonderful. Flowers are lovely.

I live.

And please look into my entry on 'The Other Me' because my fantasy here is killing me.

Much love,
-Jo.

Two Very Special Birthdays!

I want to wish 'Happy Birthday' to these two peoples...who are very dear to my heart...

First and foremost is my little sister, Petrina, who's turning 10 today! HAPPY BIRTHDAY, m'love! I love her more than words can say. xD...

And the second one is to Victor Hugo, one of the greatest authors of all time. While I didn't write a poem for you, Hugo, you know you're dear to my heart. And so are your books. And even though your dead, I'm sure you went to The World Beyond.

... And, I did write a poem for my little sister. Happy, happy, happy Birthday! And here it is:

She lived in a world of well-made fantasy;

There would her artistic talent show.

In her mind, far away from chilly reality;

There her love of beauty would grow.

She was a faery flitting in the treetops,

A faun dancing around the fire

A nymph singing upon the sea-rocks,

A centaur galloping o'er the briar.

A caterpillar emerging as a butterfly,

A kitten scrabbling in the hay,

A puppy tearing clothes set out to dry;

Young colts frolicking in their play.

A girl splashing her feet in the stream,

Rippling her smiling reflection;

All of these she became in her dreams,

Drawing the objects of her affection.

Beside the Hearth One Night

I sat beside the hearth one night

And warmed my hands upon the crackling flame

Thinking of things that brought my mind delight

What I was, what I became.

The inferno inside my head

Somehow matches that of the sparking wood

And even as the embers wane into a dying red

Smoke is ascending sainthood.

My Introduction

I was thinking the other day, and it came to my attention that every book has an 'introduction' of some sort. Why shouldn't mine? It doesn't feel right to just go straight into the poems. Like I've said before, I want this to feel like a real book. I want to put a lot of time and effort into making it just right. I even decided on what I want the cover to be. Probably a dark brown. I would say black, but even I get bored of black from time to time...*whistles*.

So I'm even going to make a Table of Contents. Down to every last detail that I can think up. But now I'm getting off my subject. The 'Introduction'...ahem...is going to be...a poem. What better way to start my book? The only problem is that the poem I wrote as an Introduction seems so feeble. I prefer some of the other ones in the book. And something seems wrong about having an Introduction poem that doesn't match up to the poems inside of the book itself...am I just being over-picky or do I have a point? I mean, the poem's fine, it was my best that I could do at the time...but I'm just not sure. Maybe I'll experiment some more. Write different poems. It's just that it's more difficult to write one that fits. Why? Because it either has to be something about me (*le cough*...you cannot imagine how difficult it is to write a poem about yourself) or about Poetry in general. It's extremely challenging to write something about Poetry that's original, something that hasn't been said before. The one I've written so far is about my 'Spirit of Poetry'. The 'thing' inside me that inspires me to write...and it seems so feeble, so unoriginal. I mean, it just feels like it's something that's been written before. And that's not a good feeling, Cookies, believe me. It's like when your an artist drawing something, and it turns out (even unintentionally) looking exactly like another picture. It's not a nice feeling...like a big wet blanket being thown over your manuscript that you've worked hard on. But enough moaning. All things work together for good, and I'll just have to work on it and see what happens. xD

Much love,
-Jo.

Love in Twilight

There is darkness behind the light — and the pale light drips

Cold on vague shapes and figures, that, half-seen loom

Like the carven prows of proud, far-triumphing ships —

And the firelight wavers and changes about the room,

As the three logs crackle and burn with a small still sound;

Half-blotting with dark the deeper dark of her hair,

Where she lies, head pillowed on arm, and one hand curved round

To shield the white face and neck from the faint thin glare.

Gently she breathes — and the long limbs lie at ease,

And the rise and fall of the young, slim, virginal breast

Is as certain-sweet as the march of slow wind through trees,

Or the great soft passage of clouds in a sky at rest.

I kneel, and our arms enlace, and we kiss long, long.

I am drowned in her as in sleep. There is no more pain.

Only the rustle of flames like a broken song

That rings half-heard through the dusty halls of the brain.

One shaking and fragile moment of ecstasy,

While the grey gloom flutters and beats like an owl above.

And I would not move or speak for the sea or the sky

Or the flame-bright wings of the miraculous Dove!

-Vincent Benet

Love is Blind

... And my love for you is blind. (You know who you are!)

I'm just going to post the link, Cookies, because the embedding isn't working today. =/ I love you more than you'll ever know.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=BNs09z1fBF0&feature=related

I love you!

I was young but I wasn't naive

I watched helpless as he turned around to leave

And still I have the pain I have to carry

A past so deep that even you could not bury if you tried

After all this time

I never thought we'd be here

Never thought we'd be here

When my love for you was blind

But I couldn't make you see it

Couldn't make you see it

That I loved you more than you'll ever know

A part of me died when I let you go

I would fall asleep

Only in hopes of dreaming

That everything would be like it was before

But nights like this it seems are slowly fleeting

They disappear as reality is crashing to the floor

After all this time

I never thought we'd be here

Never thought we'd be here

When my love for you was blind

But I couldn't make you see it

Couldn't make you see it

That I loved you more than you'll ever know

A part of me died when I let you go

After all this why

Would you ever wanna leave it

Maybe you could not believe it

That my love for you was blind

But I couldn't make you see it

Couldn't make you see it

That I loved you more than you will ever know

A part of me died when I let you go

That I loved you more than you'll ever know

A part of me died when I let you go

Dreams and Memories

Dreams are made of porcelain

Time and space is wearing thin

Lay dusty in my mind's cabinet

With memories long torn and rent

Are the skeletons of experience

The poems lacking a cadence

Countless senseless actions

My old, belated passions

Locked in cobwebbed caskets

Rotten fruit in broken baskets

To which only I possess the key

Empty dreams and rusty memories.

I wrote this poem while chatting with a bunch of people online. It wasn't one of my 'run off to the forest and recieve inspiration from the scents of sylvan surroundings'. Haha. It's supposed to be shaped somehow like a keyhole, but I have a feeling I didn't quite reach my mark with that one. Nevertheless, it captures my meaning...broken dreams and empty memories. And I keep on dreaming, and I keep on storing memories.

My Book-to-Be

I don't know how many of you I have told about this...probably not a grand lot of you have heard...but I'm going to be publishing a book of poetry. I've been thinking about it for awhile and I think I'll probably take the plunge in about 4 months or so. I can also put my book up for sale online, and I'll get a certain amount of money from the profit...=/ I don't know who would buy my poetry but maybe someone will have a fetish for a 13 year old's scribbled thoughts. Who knows? I might get lucky.

My goal is to have 100 poems altogether in that book. It's going to be hard-cover! :-O I'm going to feel so special publishing something like that, I just know I'm going to be even more in love with the world. Right now I've reached just a bit over 50 that are worth putting into print. xD! I actually feel excited when I think about publishing my book...so...that means that I'm really, really looking forward to this. I mean I hardly ever feel excited...

My Chandelier

Hopes soar higher than ever before

Happiness seems so much nearer

The chandelier crashes to the floor

Crystals and dreams lay shattered

Alone amongst the empty wreckage

Dancing with no-one to nothing

Sidestepping pieces of shiny debris

Still loving, wishing, and breathing.

The Lamentations of an Icarus

The lovers of prostitutes are
Happy, cheerful, well-fed;
As for me, my arms are broken
Through having hugged the clouds.

It is thanks to the incomparable stars,
Blazing in the depths of the sky,
That my devoured eyes see only
The memories of suns.

In vain I wished to find
The centre and the end of space;
I know not under what fiery eye
I feel my wings breaking;

And burnt up by love of beauty,
I shall not have the splendid honour
Of giving my name to the abyss
Which will serve as my grave.

The Nightingale and the Rose - by Oscar Wilde

"She said that she would dance with me if I brought her red roses," cried the young Student; "but in all my garden there is no red rose."

From her nest in the holm-oak tree the Nightingale heard him, and she looked out through the leaves, and wondered.

"No red rose in all my garden!" he cried, and his beautiful eyes filled with tears. "Ah, on what little things does happiness depend! I have read all that the wise men have written, and all the secrets of philosophy are mine, yet for want of a red rose is my life made wretched."

"Here at last is a true lover," said the Nightingale. "Night after night have I sung of him, though I knew him not: night after night have I told his story to the stars, and now I see him. His hair is dark as the hyacinth-blossom, and his lips are red as the rose of his desire; but passion has made his face like pale ivory, and sorrow has set her seal upon his brow."

"The Prince gives a ball to-morrow night," murmured the young Student, "and my love will be of the company. If I bring her a red rose she will dance with me till dawn. If I bring her a red rose, I shall hold her in my arms, and she will lean her head upon my shoulder, and her hand will be clasped in mine. But there is no red rose in my garden, so I shall sit lonely, and she will pass me by. She will have no heed of me, and my heart will break."

"Here indeed is the true lover," said the Nightingale. "What I sing of, he suffers - what is joy to me, to him is pain. Surely Love is a wonderful thing. It is more precious than emeralds, and dearer than fine opals. Pearls and pomegranates cannot buy it, nor is it set forth in the marketplace. It may not be purchased of the merchants, nor can it be weighed out in the balance for gold."

"The musicians will sit in their gallery," said the young Student, "and play upon their stringed instruments, and my love will dance to the sound of the harp and the violin. She will dance so lightly that her feet will not touch the floor, and the courtiers in their gay dresses will throng round her. But with me she will not dance, for I have no red rose to give her"; and he flung himself down on the grass, and buried his face in his hands, and wept.

"Why is he weeping?" asked a little Green Lizard, as he ran past him with his tail in the air.

"Why, indeed?" said a Butterfly, who was fluttering about after a sunbeam.

"Why, indeed?" whispered a Daisy to his neighbour, in a soft, low voice.

"He is weeping for a red rose," said the Nightingale.

"For a red rose?" they cried; "how very ridiculous!" and the little Lizard, who was something of a cynic, laughed outright.

But the Nightingale understood the secret of the Student's sorrow, and she sat silent in the oak-tree, and thought about the mystery of Love.

Suddenly she spread her brown wings for flight, and soared into the air. She passed through the grove like a shadow, and like a shadow she sailed across the garden.

In the centre of the grass-plot was standing a beautiful Rose-tree, and when she saw it she flew over to it, and lit upon a spray.

"Give me a red rose," she cried, "and I will sing you my sweetest song."
But the Tree shook its head.

"My roses are white," it answered; "as white as the foam of the sea, and whiter than the snow upon the mountain. But go to my brother who grows round the old sun-dial, and perhaps he will give you what you want."

So the Nightingale flew over to the Rose-tree that was growing round the old sun-dial.

"Give me a red rose," she cried, "and I will sing you my sweetest song."
But the Tree shook its head.

"My roses are yellow," it answered; "as yellow as the hair of the mermaiden who sits upon an amber throne, and yellower than the daffodil that blooms in the meadow before the mower comes with his scythe. But go to my brother who grows beneath the Student's window, and perhaps he will give you what you want."

So the Nightingale flew over to the Rose-tree that was growing beneath the Student's window.

"Give me a red rose," she cried, "and I will sing you my sweetest song."
But the Tree shook its head.

"My roses are red," it answered, "as red as the feet of the dove, and redder than the great fans of coral that wave and wave in the ocean-cavern. But the winter has chilled my veins, and the frost has nipped my buds, and the storm has broken my branches, and I shall have no roses at all this year."

"One red rose is all I want," cried the Nightingale, "only one red rose! Is there no way by which I can get it?"

"There is a way," answered the Tree; "but it is so terrible that I dare not tell it to you."

"Tell it to me," said the Nightingale, "I am not afraid."

"If you want a red rose," said the Tree, "you must build it out of music by moonlight, and stain it with your own heart's-blood. You must sing to me with your breast against a thorn. All night long you must sing to me, and the thorn must pierce your heart, and your life-blood must flow into my veins, and become mine."

"Death is a great price to pay for a red rose," cried the Nightingale, "and Life is very dear to all. It is pleasant to sit in the green wood, and to watch the Sun in his chariot of gold, and the Moon in her chariot of pearl. Sweet is the scent of the hawthorn, and sweet are the bluebells that hide in the valley, and the heather that blows on the hill. Yet Love is better than Life, and what is the heart of a bird compared to the heart of a man?"

So she spread her brown wings for flight, and soared into the air. She swept over the garden like a shadow, and like a shadow she sailed through the grove.

The young Student was still lying on the grass, where she had left him, and the tears were not yet dry in his beautiful eyes.

"Be happy," cried the Nightingale, "be happy; you shall have your red rose. I will build it out of music by moonlight, and stain it with my own heart's-blood. All that I ask of you in return is that you will be a true lover, for Love is wiser than Philosophy, though she is wise, and mightier than Power, though he is mighty. Flame- coloured are his wings, and coloured like flame is his body. His lips are sweet as honey, and his breath is like frankincense."

The Student looked up from the grass, and listened, but he could not understand what the Nightingale was saying to him, for he only knew the things that are written down in books.
But the Oak-tree understood, and felt sad, for he was very fond of the little Nightingale who had built her nest in his branches.

"Sing me one last song," he whispered; "I shall feel very lonely when you are gone."
So the Nightingale sang to the Oak-tree, and her voice was like water bubbling from a silver jar.
When she had finished her song the Student got up, and pulled a note-book and a lead-pencil out of his pocket.

"She has form," he said to himself, as he walked away through the grove - "that cannot be denied to her; but has she got feeling? I am afraid not. In fact, she is like most artists; she is all style, without any sincerity. She would not sacrifice herself for others. She thinks merely of music, and everybody knows that the arts are selfish. Still, it must be admitted that she has some beautiful notes in her voice. What a pity it is that they do not mean anything, or do any practical good." And he went into his room, and lay down on his little pallet-bed, and began to think of his love; and, after a time, he fell asleep.

And when the Moon shone in the heavens the Nightingale flew to the Rose-tree, and set her breast against the thorn. All night long she sang with her breast against the thorn, and the cold crystal Moon leaned down and listened. All night long she sang, and the thorn went deeper and deeper into her breast, and her life-blood ebbed away from her.

She sang first of the birth of love in the heart of a boy and a girl. And on the top-most spray of the Rose-tree there blossomed a marvellous rose, petal following petal, as song followed song. Pale was it, at first, as the mist that hangs over the river - pale as the feet of the morning, and silver as the wings of the dawn. As the shadow of a rose in a mirror of silver, as the shadow of a rose in a water-pool, so was the rose that blossomed on the topmost spray of the Tree.
But the Tree cried to the Nightingale to press closer against the thorn. "Press closer, little Nightingale," cried the Tree, "or the Day will come before the rose is finished."

So the Nightingale pressed closer against the thorn, and louder and louder grew her song, for she sang of the birth of passion in the soul of a man and a maid.

And a delicate flush of pink came into the leaves of the rose, like the flush in the face of the bridegroom when he kisses the lips of the bride. But the thorn had not yet reached her heart, so the rose's heart remained white, for only a Nightingale's heart's-blood can crimson the heart of a rose.

And the Tree cried to the Nightingale to press closer against the thorn. "Press closer, little Nightingale," cried the Tree, "or the Day will come before the rose is finished."
So the Nightingale pressed closer against the thorn, and the thorn touched her heart, and a fierce pang of pain shot through her. Bitter, bitter was the pain, and wilder and wilder grew her song, for she sang of the Love that is perfected by Death, of the Love that dies not in the tomb.
And the marvellous rose became crimson, like the rose of the eastern sky. Crimson was the girdle of petals, and crimson as a ruby was the heart.

But the Nightingale's voice grew fainter, and her little wings began to beat, and a film came over her eyes. Fainter and fainter grew her song, and she felt something choking her in her throat.
Then she gave one last burst of music. The white Moon heard it, and she forgot the dawn, and lingered on in the sky. The red rose heard it, and it trembled all over with ecstasy, and opened its petals to the cold morning air. Echo bore it to her purple cavern in the hills, and woke the sleeping shepherds from their dreams. It floated through the reeds of the river, and they carried its message to the sea.

"Look, look!" cried the Tree, "the rose is finished now"; but the Nightingale made no answer, for she was lying dead in the long grass, with the thorn in her heart.
And at noon the Student opened his window and looked out.

"Why, what a wonderful piece of luck!" he cried; "here is a red rose! I have never seen any rose like it in all my life. It is so beautiful that I am sure it has a long Latin name"; and he leaned down and plucked it.

Then he put on his hat, and ran up to the Professor's house with the rose in his hand.
The daughter of the Professor was sitting in the doorway winding blue silk on a reel, and her little dog was lying at her feet.

"You said that you would dance with me if I brought you a red rose," cried the Student. "Here is the reddest rose in all the world. You will wear it to-night next your heart, and as we dance together it will tell you how I love you."
But the girl frowned.

"I am afraid it will not go with my dress," she answered; "and, besides, the Chamberlain's nephew has sent me some real jewels, and everybody knows that jewels cost far more than flowers."

"Well, upon my word, you are very ungrateful," said the Student angrily; and he threw the rose into the street, where it fell into the gutter, and a cart-wheel went over it.

"Ungrateful!" said the girl. "I tell you what, you are very rude; and, after all, who are you? Only a Student. Why, I don't believe you have even got silver buckles to your shoes as the Chamberlain's nephew has"; and she got up from her chair and went into the house.

"What I a silly thing Love is," said the Student as he walked away. "It is not half as useful as Logic, for it does not prove anything, and it is always telling one of things that are not going to happen, and making one believe things that are not true. In fact, it is quite unpractical, and, as in this age to be practical is everything, I shall go back to Philosophy and study Metaphysics."

So he returned to his room and pulled out a great dusty book, and began to read.

Thinking of You

Comparisons are easily done
Once you've had a taste of perfection
Like an apple hanging from a tree
I picked the ripest one
I still got the seed

You said move on
Where do I go
I guess second best
Is all I will know

Cause when I'm with him
I am thinking of you
Thinking of you
What you would do if
You were the one
Who was spending the night
Oh I wish that I
Was looking into your eyes

You're like an Indian summer
In the middle of winter
Like a hard candy
With a surprise center
How do I get better
Once I've had the best
You said there's
Tons of fish in the water
So the waters I will test

He kissed my lips
I taste your mouth
He pulled me in
I was disgusted with myself

Cause when I'm with him
I am thinking of you
Thinking of you
What you would do if
You were the one
Who was spending the night
Oh I wish that I
Was looking into...

You're the best
And yes I do regret
How I could let myself
Let you go
Now the lesson's learned
I touched it I was burned
Oh I think you should know

Cause when I'm with him
I am thinking of you
Thinking of you
What you would do if
You were the one
Who was spending the night
Oh I wish that I
Was looking into your eyes
Looking into your eyes
Looking into your eyes
Oh won't you walk through
And bust in the door
And take me away
Oh no more mistakes
Cause in your eyes I'd like to stay...

The Genesis of the Butterflies

The dawn is smiling on the dew that covers
The tearful roses; lo, the little lovers
That kiss the buds, and all the flutterings
In jasmine bloom, and privet, of white wings,
That go and come, and fly, and peep and hide,
With muffled music, murmured far and wide!
Ah, Spring time, when we think of all the lays
That dreamy lovers send to dreamy mays,
Of the fond hearts within a billet bound,
Of all the soft silk paper that pens wound,
The messages of love that mortals write
Filled with intoxication of delight,
Written in April, and before the May time
Shredded and flown, play things for the wind's play-time,
We dream that all white butterflies above,
Who seek through clouds or waters souls to love,
And leave their lady mistress in despair,
To flit to flowers, as kinder and more fair,
Are but torn love-letters, that through the skies
Flutter, and float, and change to Butterflies.

Victor Hugo

Perverted Beauty

Ribs protruding from yellowed skin
Veiny eyes bulging from bony sockets
Your wrists belong to leukemia patients
Breasts shrunken down to the size of peanuts
Calves and thighs stick out like eyesores
Shriveled feet finding pain in touching ground
Your stomach long thinned down to nothing
Joints and limbs too skeletal to be sound.

Starving yourself in search of beauty
Your emaciated corpse proves you wrong
A new and perverted sense of attraction
Leading into unwitting suicide before long

Hello again, Everyone...the prodigal has returned, and started off with another truly depressing poem. I'm sorry, but it's what was inspired at the moment--by those who starve themselves in search of "good looks". I don't know if this is hypocritical of me...being nearly that skinny myself...but at least it's not purposeful. xD!

.

Apologies

My humblest of apologies to each of you, My Dearest Blog Readers...because I won't be able to post or get online for the next week.

I love you all, and shall return shortly...

-Josephine J.W

My Ancient Tree

It stands weathered and wrinkled afore my eyes;
It's great trunk creased and marked by years.
Blown by the wind other trees shake and sigh.
But wind's attempts my hundred-year tree defies.

Thickets of ivy sprout from resilent roots,
But leave the ancient russet of bole untouched.
Even the moss pays my King of Tree's tribute;
Birds songs are sweetest on the branches of repute.

The tree in the picture above was the one that inspired this poem. It actually looks a bit pathetic now that you see it here, along with my poem, but I want you to know that I wasn't making an exaggeration. Standing under that tree was magnificent...breathtaking...words can hardly describe what that ancient tree is to me.

The Roses

Passion portrayed within your petals
Of a deep and stately red
Love represented in your perfume
Covering our wedding bed
Contrasting red velvet upon white satin

Dew glistening on snowy walls
Mirroring perfection of purity
Bloody thorns that prick my fingers
As I pluck you with surety
And kiss your aloof white leaves

Your flirtatious sallies entice me
To pluck your green thorn-filled stem
Your girlish fantasies persuade me
To sniff the pink silk protected by them
And prick myself in the pursuit of pleasure

Your bright sunny leaves sing of joy
Filled with yellow and tipped with orange
You playfully sucker me in
Then prickingly cause me to cringe
And apologize with your pillows of sunshine.

The Forgotten Lover

As I meander through my garden
Filled with memories,
I stop beneath the willow,
And rest beneath the leaves

Then you come sweetly walking by
With flowers in your hair;
A wistful smile on your lips
And eyes that tears declare

You look at me contemptuously
As against the tree I lay,
Then toss your golden locks,
And slowly walk away

The pain in my betrayal
Is suddenly more real;
The wound I unwittingly opened
Refusing now to heal

Then you slowly disappear
When I fall to my knees,
And I find I can breathe again
Despite painful memories

You were not forgotten,
But carelessly tossed aside;
I am facing the horrible reality
That's now numb to all my cries.

Opera!

I would tell you why I love this song and opera in general, but I hardly think it necessary. xD!

The Grey

Roses and gargoyles
Red upon grey
Hourglasses and clocks
Reflections of time
The old and the new
Born acquaintances of rhyme.

The white and the black
Meld together slowly
An elderly colour
Replaces pigments of vibrancy
The whiskered clocks
Tick on and along endlessly.

Colourless is new
Darkest remains death
Birthing new life
Stunting the growth
Mingling dyes into shades
Infinity shows eternal oath.

-Smile of Fakery-

I still can't understand
That time you looked at me,
With eyes so full of hate;
Followed by a smile of fakery

You smile at me with your lips,
But never with your eyes;
Have I done something to deserve
Your fake grins so full of lies?

Why do you mar the beauty in a smile,
With glares showing otherwise?
Why do you smile with your lips,
But never with your eyes?

That toothy grin of yours
Is somehow killing me,
What is it you are hiding
Behind that fakery?

I'm waiting for a glance
To show me I am wrong;
Perhaps I was mistaken,
Were you smiling all along?

Yet still your eyes are gleaming
Of a hateful chill...
I'm just trying to understand,
Why do you try to smile still?

Ahem...so there you are...the second poem I ever wrote. I can remember...it actually wasn't one of those flowing poems, but rather one of those where I wrote a line here and there. I can't say it was my most inspired poem, it took a lot of time to complete it. Now it's much more fluid, when I start a poem I finish it then as well. But it took a lot of effort at first, and finding words to rhyme was ve-e-ery difficult, believe me. So, uh...yeah...if poetry doesn't flow, don't stress yourself. Practice makes perfect, I guess in almost every situation...although some must be born poets, or at least with a special talent for words.

Now I'm going to shut up...bah humbug...I do jabber in print.

Oh, yeah. I almost forgot to add an explanation for the weird picture. It was the only thing I could find...xD! And I guess some people might have difficulty interpreting human emotions.

Uh...Cookies, Anyone?

Hello Everyone,

I just realized that I haven't done many addresses to my blog readers themselves, and I'm terribly sorry. I'm also wallowing in guilt for not having posted for two days...xD! So be forewarned and forearmed and don't rub it in. Recently I've been reaquaintancing (Oh damn I didn't spell that right...) myself with the memoirs of my passion. In other words I've been showing you guys uper-duper old poetry. :P

So...uh...I found the second work I ever wrote! I called it 'Smile of Fakery', and my next post is going to consist of it. ^.^ If I were to rewrite the poem now I'm sure it would sound different. For one, my descriptions would be more full, I would probably use a great deal more metaphors, my vocabulary back then was somewhat more limited, and I would probably make it a lot more negative. Like 'teeth flashing icicles' or something awesome like that.

...That's something else I wanted to address. Special thanks to Lena for prompting me to bring this up. I know my poetry tends to dwell on the overpowering negative. More like my overpowering negative. Like when I described the sunset as a tragedy. Well, I must say, it was original. xD! People are always dwelling on the beauty and majesty of this evening masterpiece. But the sun drowning into a murky oblivion appealed to me. Anyways, that was probably wrong. I mean, me being a night-owl I even felt strange mourning over it. The night is awesomespastic. So...

I'm going to try and write more positive works. I have a good deal of them, but I must say the dark ones far outweigh the positive ones. Dark is kind of a part of my personality, and, don't get me wrong, it isn't going out the window. Darkness, evil, depression, and negative emotions are things that also have to be expressed through poetry. (Mum, Dad, I'm sorry). But next time it comes to writing about breakfast the porridge will be sweet instead of salty...(uh, I know, lame metaphor.) Anyhow, anyways, this must be the end because I have to run off to educate myself with Mathematics and a Grammar test. ^.^

...which reminds me, I'm oh-so-happy for myself. I finished 8th grade Grammar/English in 3.5 months. Applaud, applaud. :P

I hope that those of you who actually took time to read all this aren't bored half to death.

Chocolate to my Cookies,
Blueberries to my Muffins,
Sugar to my Lemons...
And...

*Searches frantically for the Apples*

True Beauty

A delicately placed mole,
On a flushed and pretty cheek;
Each doughnut has a hole,
A fruit, delicious, reeks.

The star-like twinkle in
Eyes shadowed by ugly brows;
A beautiful soul hidden within
The cripple's body endowed.

The beautiful voice of the bird
Covered in ugly brown spots;
Its sweetness is so often heard,
But to it's looks none allot.

A grimy urchin's face
Covered in dirt and sweat,
But when the filth is erased
An adorable child is met.

"Beauty is on the inside"
Is a phrase so often heard,
But if only we'd look past our pride,
And realize the truth in the word.

"Beauty is imperfection"
Such truth not 'oft is found,
Yet we only show pretty affection
To those with perfection crowned.

This is another bit of a walk down Memory Lane...probably one of the first ten I wrote. Not like it's such a great walk, seeing as I've just started last year... Enjoy?

Sound of Beauty

Sunlight falls upon my window pane,

Like dewy golden drops of warmth,

It dances, calls, and beckons me; into the land of sunshine rain,

But I stay—to listen, watch, and learn of the Splendor of the Sun.

Breezes gently whistle by,

Singing gently of forgotten tune,

I stop and listen to their lilting lullaby,

And wonder in the Whisper of the Wind.

Trees stretch out their strong, tanned arms,

And glisten against the cloudless blue of sky,

I rejoice, refreshed beneath their charm

Clothed in emerald splendor, adorned in vibrant light

Flowers shout, and dance, and sing, and play,

And grow up towards the yellow sky above,

Up from the sweet deep brown of earthen clay,

To return a heart in pain to joy again.

For old memories sake...this was the very first poem I ever wrote so it has a certain sentimental value. xD! I hope you enjoy. I was 12, by the way...in March 2008...

...That's almost a year ago now...