untitled (suggestions please)

Once there was a girl

who was given a simple assignment

"define nothingness"

and she was

to perform this assignment

as accurately creatively as possible

and so she wrote

"nothingness

is an endless blackness"

but then realized

blackness being something,

couldnt possibly be nothing.

and so she started again

"nothingness is something

people fear"

and then quickly

realized that it wasnt the fear of nothing

that most people feared,

but the unknown aspect of nothing

and while unknown, unknown is SOMETHING

and therefore couldnt be nothing.

she tried again again again

"nothingness is...

nothingness is..

nothingness is...."

until finally,

she knew what she was doing

wrong.

quickly she wrote,

"nothingness isn't"

and failed the assignment.

FEEDBACK PLEASE!!!! PLEASE DONT TREAT THIS POEM LIKE NOTHING!!!!

I Have Many Names

Just a warning here: this is kinda long...and creepy.

My bare feet pad through the cool grass, as i stalk determinedly toward my destination. A powdery yellow colonial house looms invitingly before my bloodshot eyes, daring me to enter. A cryptic smile forms on my chapped lips. I never could resist a dare.

My stalk slows to a prowl, as the house gets closer. It is more clear to me now. The door is a soft, light brown, and a white trim decorates the rooftop. Just what I need. A gentle home, for a gentle family, with a gentle child, waiting to be bred.

I tip-toe around the perimiter, looking for my key to entry. A window meets my trained eye. My smile grows. Everyone knows that the best time to hunt is when the seasons should be changing, but aren't. People feel lucky, as though they had cheated mother nature. They want to know what else they can have. They become careless. Foolish. They make silly mistakes. Mistakes that give hunters their window of opportunity.

My smile grows, as I notice my pun. Window of opportunity. Hah.

My kitchen knife slowly cuts through the screen of the window. This is the chance I have been waiting for. A warm, late summer day, where the windows are open enough to let in the cool, fresh, relieving night air.

I step through the gap, careful not to make a sound as I land on the tile floors.Despite my best efforts, I catch my breath, hoping that not a single peaceful soul was disturbed by my demeaning presence. Hearing nothing, I continue on with my dark journey.

The first bedroom I reach is that of the parents. Their slumber is disturbed only by dreams of the welfare and happiness of their young, innocent, beloved children, as i slit their throats. My footsteps are nonexistent in the ways of the sleeping, as I slip out of that first bedroom, and into the next.

This bedroom consists of a single soul. A young soul, of no more harm to this world than the fresh grass on which it lives. But this does not stop me. This boy does not deserve to know he is dying before he does. But I cannot help my meathods. I slit his throat, just as I did his parents, and his eyes flash open, full of confusion, then fear, then request of help, before fading away.

Just like his parents.

I fade away, just as his eyes did, from the memory of the young boy's bedroom.

The next room is of that of a girl, a child. A very young child. A child so young, I nearly hesitate from my duty.

Nearly.

As my kitchen knife advances towards her young, unknowing throat, i realize something key. This girl is beauty.

~

I go by many names. Some call me dream stealer. Others friend of war. Most the grim reaper. More call me death. However, the one thing that doesn't change as I move from place to place, challenge to challenge, dare to dare.

I can never overtake the thing that is beauty.

For she goes by one name.

She has one image.

She has one purpose.

And she is Life.

No one ever comments.

Its one thing to express your deep feelings,

but to not have them heard is even worse.

You post and you post but no one seems to see,

that what you're sharing is hard for you to even say

So you continue to post, and still no one seems to care

It may not seem fair, but to get aleast one person to hear would be wonderful.

:)

Bathroom Conversations

Maya: My tummy is getting bigger.
Bronte: I think it's your nose.
Maya: ?

I and It, It and I

I try to escape,
It folows me.
I stumble,
It walks with confidence.
I aimlessly talk,
It doesn't make a noise.
I cast a shadow over everything,
It has no shadow at all.
I turn to face my tormentor,
It is me.

The Poetic Guidelines

When;

Reading this poem

do NOT;

Attempt to read "in between the lines"

(for those tiny spaces have been

filled with white-out)

& read only what is written

DO;

take everything written

here literally

for graphite on paper,

& pixels on a screen

do not

have a sense of irony,

or the ability to comprehend

"metaphors"

do NOT;

seek a "another truth"

from what has been written here

for

the only truth

is the one intended

and do NOT

you ABSOLUTELY MUST NOT;

attempt to find

meaning, symbolism

and or themes

for i can assure you

everything written here

says exactly

what

it

means.

The Law of Coffee

When making coffee

one must keep

this simple fact in mind;

Even a single drop of milk

will ruin

the inky blackness

that is "coffee"

in its purest form

and prove itself to be

irretrievable.

So;

One must proceed

with caution

This is a kind of a weird poem, but please let me know what you think! What do you suppose it symbolizes?

raindrops

In the clouds

Raindrops converse

wanting to see

the world

waiting to fall

suddenly

released from

white prisons

of solitude

descending from the

heavens

in a rush

they see

green fields

growing cities

until

with a splat

they hit

rainbow colored umbrellas

cold asphalt

and die

surrounded by the beauty

they yearned for

their

whole

lives

White Untouchable Canvas

White, Untouchable Canvas

I’ve seen a blank canvas many a time

One that withholds no words, no art

No promise for intriguement.

Could it be that the promise is of itself?

That the great white expanse of it is invitation?

So tempting and alluring, it boasts its freedom

The fact that I cannot touch it,

Mark it with the unseen tool of mine.

If so, then why can I see

Why can I imagine from whence it came?

Perhaps it was made by a man’s hands.

Or was it brought into existence by some other hand?

One that is neither human nor real to this world?

Say some tell-tale creature that grew

Grew from the fertile soil of my mind?

Or from that of another’s, that I’ve stolen and made my own?

There we see the beginning of so much to come,

The promise for a ride, of which I’ll never let go.

This ride, though it be false to the material man

Shall be imprinted on the vessel’s mind.

It carries me to the highest of mountains

With the sunshine creeping o’er them,

They reach the sky with craggy fingers that bleed of ancient age.

It shatters beneath my feet, dropping me far below

Into the very darkest of the abyss filled with inklings black.

Shaking me wholly afraid, I rip myself away

Away from that would harm my mind and me

Only to open my eyes to a feathered pillow.

It seems that the vast white land is mine,

In both my hand and mind,

I hold that great expanse of lines.

That unseen tool of mine in hand and mind,

I draw across the white abyss, giving it marrow and life,

Only to find in moments time,

I’ve gone past that dreaded nine.

Dreaded it seemeth be

I’ll draw near to thee

And give my mind in hand,

If only you promise me

To give me time again.

This came about from a mind blank after editing and writing; it seems I write well {at least I hope} when utterly exhausted and losing track of time.

?

The smooth, pale, barren skin
Untouched, unbroken, unharmed
Shadowed by the ice-cold blade
That rests inches away
Hovering above the unmarred shell
Of a quivering soul
With one quick swipe
It digs in
Tearing away the covering
And leaving blaring gashes
The monster is hungry
For another bite of flesh and blood
Its claws come out
And rake the burning battlefield
Leaving nothing
But a torrid carapace
And the faint beating
Of a heart

Luminous

Song birds ceased to sing.

Cawing crows vanished into the unknown.

Chattering birds were driven away.

Night and darkness draped the world

and day never arose.

I didn't hear another rooster crow

till the end of time.

One, Two, Three Fears.

Sharing infront of people is my worst fear.

Their blank stares, are my second.

Do they not get what im saying?

Or do they just not get me?

Are we all so alike that we beg our peers to let us be different?

We gain the names of:

Freak.

Outcast.

Weird.

But how about one we all long to be?

Unique.

People hear the words, but they still don't understand.


[I'm not sure that i actually care for this piece, I was thinking about the poem we have to write for Mr.Horvath by Friday and i realized that i can't write a poem when i have to, but more like when im not allowed.] Suggestions would be wonderful!
Being the same, is my third.

converging lines

all around me

is an inky

darkness

so i blink once

and there i see

2 straight lines

one purple

strong, wild,

fierce

and the other

green

vibrant

and proud.

i watch them race

forward,

each in a perfectly straight line

and i blink again

the purple one turns

in the direction

of the

and the green one turns

in the direction of the

purple

and it is clear

that soon they will meet

i blink once more

& now they are touching

determined to go

in the direction they want

pushing against each other

green vs.

purple.

purple vs

green

equal in strength

& i blink

for a last time

to see that the once

beautiful

strong

lines, stubbornly

have converged

and mixed

leaving only one

ugly

pathetic line

and so i close my eyes.

feeling no pity

for those stubborn lines

This is a kindof weird poem...but i havent posted in a while so.....

yup.

My Children

I can hear my children

Singing to me.

And I'm terrified.

I can't let my future be

Captured the horrors

Of my parent's tragedies.

I can't just take risks

Of dangerous folly

With my poor children.

I must never see

My poor children.

This poem is inspired by the Never Shout Never song "What is Love?", the link to which is connected to the title. I think.. Hopefully it works ^^; Enjoy

Mr. Smith's Umbrella

Grey as day can be,
with just the right amount of white,
comes the rain
to pause the pain
and bring upon the light.

But there he sits,
all the same.
His park bench in the rain.

And here I sit,
all the same.
Beside my windowpane.

I tap the glass once,
perhaps he will look up.
But one tap will not do,
he remains a statue.

My hand knocks twice.
And his response?
Bleached, wrinkled face,
nothing to replace
the hallow of his eyes.

Three times to tremble the glass
is what it takes to see
that there is also me.

But there is no smile,
there is no wave,
no glance of his eye.
Just a shiver running through,
and what else should I do?

so i rap tap tap tap.
Four
to be sure.
And now his brittle bone
shutter like stone.

"Wake Mr. Smith!
Open your eye!
See there is life
that is still left to die."

I pound to the fifth.
But whats left of this
is a quivering man
who's left to stand
and walk away in the rain
from my windowpane.

Grey as day can be,
with just the right amount of white,
comes the man with the umbrella
who prefers blindness over sight.

(This is actually something I wrote last year and still my favorite piece I've written, I posted it on the Just write to see what people had to say but I didn't like their feedback because no one knew what it all symbolizes. What do you think Mr.Smith and his umbrella and the speaker behind the glass mean?)

Primary Colors

Fixed in the in between,

so I watch.

The smooth stone beside the engraving,

and greens where blue and yellow meet.

The intake of air between a baby’s hiccups of laughter,

and oranges where reds and yellows touch.

The space uniting two snowflakes’ during their decent,

and purples where red and blue interlock.

The spot where a fleeting shadow will soon reside,

I end the day in the blues and the yellows and the reds.

Six Feet Deep.

I am a time capsule,

Holding in others secrets, holding in what's not mine.

I am memories, some wanted, others forgotten.

I sit, buried six feet under, waiting,

For someone to find me, and discover who I really am.

The things I cherish,

they mean more than I do.

They hold more stories than the next hundred years it will take to get to me.

I have no past, or a future.

People Fear, What They Don't Understand The Most.

When you've done something wrong,

You get that feeling like you're ready to present in front of thousands.

You stand there, not sure what to say, but you knew if you thought of something it would be all wrong.

But see, my life is a little different,

I do bad things, because I want to be seen in front of thousands,

Hear my name being tossed around in the crowd,

Make people scowl when it's said, like it shall never be said again.

I want to be avoided, pushed out of the dome, be the only outsider.

I don't want what's good, I want what others run away from.

To be perfect, is my only fear.