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I Am a WriterI am a writer.
Yes, it’s easy for me to fall into a dream.
But there is nothing wrong with being tighter
With a story’s theme.

I am a writer.
That is all I will ever want to be
In the end, my story will be lighter,
And my characters will finally be free.

I am a writer.
There is nothing easier to say than that.
I will never let a story wither
Nor let a story fall flat

I am a soon to be author.
With several books ready to be read,
I want them to have great honor
And wish there will be tears shed.
To HooverHoover state: waking up to sleep
because that’s all I’m good for;
out of work, out of time again
and my brother won’t spare a dime.

Blanket sweat reminds me of this
Hoover state: waking up to sleep
in depressions of this planet;
the moon weeps for me in daytime.

I yank my pockets out, like it's
my country's flag; punch-line of the
Hoover state: waking up to sleep
in my sagging skin on decline.

I've no penny to my name,
jumping out the window (one
last time) makes me worth more in this
Hoover state: waking up to sleep.
Twinkle StarTwinkle twinkle little star
Noone cares just who you are
When you fall the fall is far
Twinkle twinkle superstar.
The Soldier's Letter To HomeI write this from my death bed
My eyes fading in the light
Drowned in crimson red,
Drowned in shaking fright.
The enemy has won
The war now has ended
And though killed by my son
May his sins be ammended.
For this is Civil War
I cannot change the tide
So from you I implore
Do what is right.

Bury me somewhere nice
Near, and fair to look at
And forgive my son his sins;
For in war, no one wins.
Take Death's HandI do not fear Death.
My life has been long enough.
It's time I take my last breath.
I shall not rebuff.
Death stands by my side,
his hand extended for me to take.
His face is veiled like that of a bride.
This life I now forsake
as Death takes me away.
I do not regret
for I am free of the fray.
Please do not fret
for I am okay.
ContrariwiseSilly little Alice,
Forget all you thought you knew,
For deep inside your head,
Everything is all askew.

If they tell you that one plus one,
Equals twelve and half, my dear,
Don't worry yourself about it,
For two is so last year.

Don't even try to be different,
Or it'll be "Off with her head!",
And you'll find it's better to live a lie,
Than it is to end up dead.

So heed this socially accepted advice,
Ditch any scraps of your insanity,
To cavort with the Hare in March,
Join the Hatter for a cup of tea.

Fritter your days away,
Dancing under a Cheshire moon,
Don't mind the surrounding chaos,
Ignore impending doom.

But even as you join in
Continuous VoicesIt all began when I was ten
I found what lingered in my head disturbing
And it wasn’t until I grabbed a pen
And saw what truly lingered when I began writing.

There were continuous voices within my head
I was not one to favor them dead
Although, they had violet images attached
The way I wrote them matched.

Since then, the voices have changed
Octaves have risen and lowered
Their words have exchanged
And eventually became uncensored.

These continuous voices have brought war
Ones with an uprising roar
And at moments I want to kill the sound
For they are so profound.

Yet, they continue to crescendo
And welcome me to a hidden story
And so
Aur si plumbUn gând de aur, dar se simte
mai greu ca un pumnal de plumb
ce intră-n coaste, se învârte,
și caută să iasă prin minte...
Stilou de aur, scrie versuri,
dar lasă urme ca de plumb,
pe foi mânjite de cerneală,
și de cafea, și alte resturi...
 
Un glonţ de aur, dar se simte
mai tandru ca o zi de plumb,
îl pun aici, închid capacul,
și ca un gând, îl scot prin minte.
EndlingHere am I, the captive thylacine
Treading my tiger-striped, ungainly way
Around the metal-mesh confinement of my cage
Here am I, exhibited, exhumed
Brought from the brink to pace another day
A living testament, a final thumbmarked page
Here am I, the only specimen
Bereft of mate, of pups, of kin, of kind
Watching the claws of history extending
Here am I, the final thylacine
The only one, the last, the lost, the endling.
Who Was HeHe stood at the average height for men.
His built was quite average.
His eyes were that of cyan.
Nonetheless, he was average.

His hair was that of blonde,
Nearly, white.
His walk and personality had a great bond.
He was a confident sight.

His skin was a delicate peach.
His muscles were quite firm.
So irresistible, a teasing reach.
His appearance had its own term.

One that the dictionary cannot confirm.

Who was he?
That man with his own sea?
He was one without a name.
His appearance was a taunting game.
He was one without a number for an age.
Forget it, he’s fake on this page.
SuicideThere's no blood on her hands
Bullet holes in the door
Nothing but colored pills
And her lying on the floor

You look at her face
There's despair in her eyes
And you wonder what she thought
As she fell and died

And maybe you're begging her to come back
And maybe you're asking why she let go
The hurt in your chest feels like a heart attack
And now you finally know

Maybe you could've helped her
If you'd looked past your own nose
Maybe she'd be alive now
You had a chance, this is what you chose
Now maybe you'll learn from things
That you didn't see
Maybe you'll open your eyes
And rescue him, or her, or me
Maybe she cried a prayer
For the oth
WarWhen stories of battle are shared,
They are full of fame and glory.
No one knows what war really holds,
That is, until they hear this story.
At first there is much excitement,
Your chance to be a hero.
Then homesickness begins to set in,
The sorrow makes you feel like zero.
Then the supplies get cut off,
Your stomach cries out for food.
It rains then it droughts, and then you want out,
You'd laugh at your situation but you're not in the mood.
No sanitation, no garbage cans,
You are living in human waste.
The tents are torn up, the beds full of lice,
You wish you were in a different place.
Then you finally go to fight,
This is your chance to prove yourself.
All your comrades are shot down,
So much for fame and wealth...
Cleaning up the bodies,
Of those who used to be your friends.
Not even time for a proper burial,
Too many injuries to attend.
Then there's the sneak attack,
You are all caught by surprise.
A brutal, bloody, massacre,
A bullet between your eyes.
In this little game o
One WindowOne window is all I need
To see the world for what it truly is
With my mind a system of creed.
My talent can depict or dismiss
This world of goals, so hear my heed.

I sit down beside a journal,
My fingers clutching a pencil.
I will make my character’s life spiral
And send them off to a council
Where they must advance through the next trial.

One window is all I need
To watch them afar a long, hazy field,
Where I can study their speed
Of understanding when they will yield
Of life, itself, so they need to hear my heed.

My character’s goal,
As well as mine,
Is to be whole
And see how bright life can shine
Even through the darkness
Oh, Holy FatherOh, Holy Father above, please hear me tonight,
Give me the strength to continue the fight
Against the evil that lies within my heart –
Purify me, let me bleed and tear me apart.
Cleanse me, I beg of you, set my soul free
From the demons that have such a hold on me.
I am a man, a mere mortal, dedicated and just,
I steer clear from sinners and am not swayed by lust.
I am loyal and honest and faithful and true,
And, in my time of need, I turn to you.
I am wounded and broken and on my knees, I pray,
Save me before the sun greets another day.
Protect me from the darkness, let my torment end,
So I can be your Man of God once again.
What may be a dream?Oh, what may be a dream but wishes mute?
Those thoughts that dance and prance a time or two?
The silent longings of the heart set free
To lift the spirit from chambers dark and cold.
A dream is as a morning mist of spring;
Refreshing, light, and gently promising
To all who sleep and wake in time to catch
The welcome peace and glory they behold.
But woe to waking hours; the bitterness they bring
When dreams escape the loving hold of thought!
The plaintive heart starts longing once again
To sink into the realms of possibility.
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More from *Parsat

Sonnet XXXIOp. 21, no. 12
All the All of Me

And there reigns love and all love's loving parts
Whenever you are with your family:
Whether same blood flows through separate hearts,
Or single Spirit binds through unity.
With features fair among the features many,
I see you there submitted to His will;
And I, the part made complementary,
Alike in God's command stay very still.
For every move I make is consciously his,
No impulse can from me originate.
An awesome source of comfort, then, is this:
That you with longing heart, will also wait
Appointed time for promised certainty.
For you, my love, have all the all of me!
Sonnet XXXOp. 21, no. 11
Beauty in Imperfection

When to the sessions of sweet silent thought
I turn, I mold your image in my mind,
Compacting every ideal I have sought:
A girl like this, how could I ever find?
My love, please shake these notions to the core--
God's image surely must be more complex--
That light and darkness I could full explore
And see your beauty grow as God perfects.
Limited He wrought us so that we
Might on his will of power fully lean.
So we now bound by love, just you and me,
Shall trust in Him, the One who is unseen.
Although I long to see you glorified,
What joy 'twill be to lead you sanctified!
Sonnet XXVIIIOp. 21, no. 10
Fullness

How far I toil, still farther off from thee,
And how a day feels like a thousand years!
Were this affection but my only plea,
I would be crushed beneath my myriad fears.
O perfect love, all human thought transcending,
Now cast away the bitterness of doubt!
O light of heaven, hear my mouth confessing
Every burden I could do without!
For as I empty out the dregs of old,
He fills me with His love's infinity.
Only then my passion grows not cold,
Only then my mind shall be set free.
Though night may nightly make grief's strength seem stronger,
Our love--His love--shall live on all the longer.
Anacreontic TutorialAnacreontics are a type of metrical verse first used by the Greek poet Anacreon. Each line must be seven syllables, and preferably should be short, lyrical, easygoing, and dealing with love and wine. Befitting the lyrical nature of the piece, some sort of rhyme scheme should be used. Although many anacreontics are erotic or bawdy by nature, certain Greek Christian poets wrote "pious anacreontics."

Here is an example:

Toast the moon and see it fly:
Ancestors up in the sky
Cozy in their mansions jade.
One jug, three jugs, slowly fade...
Draughts, when taken nice and cold,
Make their poems warm and bold.

The use of a headless iambic tetr
A LibationToast the moon and see it fly:
Ancestors up in the sky
Cozy in their mansions jade.
One jug, three jugs, slowly fade...
Draughts, when taken nice and cold,
Make their poems warm and bold.
A RictameterAlas,
The glory days.
I knew them well enough.
When pens clashed, spilling ink on page,
When forms and rhyme would flow like precious blood,
When hearts of poetry engraved.
The prosody they loved
Will always
Last.

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The Ruins

:iconparsat:

When all is ruined in the times to come,
And glorious temples grow dilapidated—
Their altars empty, thick with scum
For festivals no longer celebrated—
Posterity will walk these hollowed halls
And see the fading paint and rotting wood.
But beauty still resides within these walls,
Though they might not be fully understood.
A people's memory may not remain,
But marble stands against the sun and rain.
:iconparsat:
A concluding sonnetina for a work I'm writing on poetic forms for #CRLiterature and #projecteducate. Consider this as a little teaser; the poem will make much more sense after reading the prose preceding it. Briefly, though, this poem is about the endurance of poetic form across the ages.

The Artist has requested Critique on this Artwork

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:iconlabruyere:
*LaBruyere Mar 6, 2013  Student Writer
Can't wait!
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