The heart is a strange thing
first it loves, now it hates
it will waver and it will stand

the heart happiness will bring
but bitterness it will make
there is no heart, there is no brand

Free verse.

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As the sun ran the horizon

As the sun ran the horizon
The clouds went away
Mountain shows it`s glory
A monk starts to pray.

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Bask at my knowledge

Bask at my knowledge
and bow down to me,
for I, the almighty is far more superior than you.

Be in awe at my vast sea of knowledge
and now, become my slave.
for I, am far more superior than you.

Do all my bidding, you insignificant slave
chop all the wood,
and keep hacking away.

Murder my enemies
as they sleep,
and destroy those
who all threaten me.

And remember my servant,
that you must bask at my knowledge
and bow down to me,
for I, the almighty is far more superior than you. (LONGEST POEM I'VE TYPED)

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The longest poem I typed

The longest poem I typed,
Why did I even bring this up?
Oh well....
          (It`s......sort of a.....poem?)

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Oh sweet January

Oh sweet January,
I would go to an estuary,
if it weren't so cold.

Oh sweet January,
it is the familiarity,
that is killing me.

Oh sweet January,
is the time for trollfaceiarity,
it is troll.
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that was weird

That was weird,
When you knocked on my door.
Me and you are through,
I don't want you anymore.

I would run away,
Just to hear your quiet.
If you call me again,
I'll start you a riot.

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The sunshine peeks up

The sunshine peeks up
Boldly through the clouds
I draw my blade
And rush through the crowds

I've got one mission
And one alone
To stop your fishin'
Before your hook is blown
-------------------------

Pawny pumpwagon

Pawny pumpwagon,
what is it?
I dont know,
do you?

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Creepy stalkers eveywhere

Creepy stalkers everywhere,
And not a place to hide.
Creepy stalkers everywhere,
And not a tear is cried.

Off in the East

Off in the East, the sound of the beast,
Calling through the midnight air;
Sixteen fortnights and a battle fair,
No war was lost to the West.

The sound of the drums, and marching man's hums,
Fighting the weary feet;
The soldiers come through the valley of pain,
An ambush laid as they weep.

In sixteen fortnights not a soul was lost,
But there in the forlorn plains,
Twelve thousand will die,
To rise to the final plane.

Off in the East, no soldier was found,
Our lord called them home;
The march was endless, the battle relentless,
The snow to become their tomb.

Our gods have left us for more worthy men,
But we drag on in bitter frost;
To be with our wives, no matter the cost,
We will return home from the East.