So I....I write poetry.

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#1

MarcelusDragonsbane

Feb 28, 2009 4:09:04		I know this isn't the write blog for this and I know that this thread will probably be lost within days, but oh well.

I Hope Rob Van Winkle is Forgiving

Words falling out of my mouth
like red leaves in autumn.
I've got 'em
stored in my mind and heart
and yet they depart
In a random stream of consciousness.

I'm at a loss and see the cost
to me myself and I, because
the look on your face was

Blank.

I don't understand, yet I demand
some sort of emotion
or f*c*ing commotion,
but apathy
Is what I see cascading down
like a light devoid of all warmth.

In pain and in vain
I am aching to verbalize
something. Anything.
Talk, yell, scream, or sing...
it matters not.

But I clam up.

A coward, who is showered
In a torrential downpour
of deplorable self loathing.

I just can't stomach these
butterflies and I despise
that gut instinct to think
that I am not worthy
of a little tender, love, and care.

Do I despair and hurl
these monarchs upon the world
in a gushing flood of my own
humility and lifes-blood?
Or do I stop.
Collaborate.
And begin
to contemplate my intentions
which are not quite as noble
as a king or queen of
ancient Avalon
who are banking on that hope
That Arthur can cope
with the loss of his sweet Guinevere.

And

About a Bird

Come low, Winter's blow
And bring us a tale
A story of a bird
Who rode on your gale
A bird, whats the word?
Who thought himself dove
But found himself chicken
Naught to rise above

Now this bird, call him Gird
Thought himself the bee's knees
He believed, above all
Could whatever he pleased
So he drank, and smelled rank
Of those fermented fruits
Acted like a co*k
And forgot the roots

Of the tree, can't you see?
One that made his dwelling
A nest, with a mate
Who saw his chest swelling
Yet said, to his head,
which had gotten quite fat
Not a word to discourage
'cept that which she spat

So the bird we call Gird
continued to act
like a drunken pelican
All airs, but no tact
He slept while she wept
As winter set in
For nature is apt
to cycle again

So sullen, head swollen,
He woke with head grog
And snapped like a croc
To those he saw through fog
And found, on the ground
beneath his own tree
His love had left food
Yet he could not see

His mate. "Oh cruel fate
What brought on this turn?"
He screamed out to the wind
And felt nothing but yearn
For a time, much sublime
Of smiles and flight
Of dancing and singing
in warm, summer's night

So he peered, much feared
Out into the snow
And saw nothing in sight
That could heal this blow.
He felt cold, not yet bold,
And desired to speak
To the one he shared nest,
early worm, and beak

Soon he found her, to astound her
And begged on his feet
For forgiveness of times,
Where his warmth was deplete
And she came, he was tame
On back to his nest
To finally get
Some much needed rest

Yet still ice, not so nice
found it's way in the abode
And to Gird's dismay
It was a gale she rode
And he cried, as she lied
"Am I so defeated"
But he saw that his words
Were no longer heeded

And this bird, call him Gird,
sat in his harsh lesson
As she flew away
And ignored his confession
So low, winter's blow
Carry on your stern flight
A warning to all
Who'd repeat poor Gird's plight