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Seasons of Youth

When sharp winds blow I am reminded of
Fairer days. Days in which the gentle breeze
Caressed your skin, and we lay upon eachothers laps.
Gazing haplessly upon the sun.

Upon these days where grief was but a memory.
And in the winter of my youth,
These days, now too memories, are still fresh,
As was the time then, as it is stale now,
As it was and should have been.
Sharp winds are these.

And as these winds caress me in mockery
The sun drains its last light listfully away.
Setting darkness upon this still waking world
Where the shadows come to play.
Cruel this.
And what they have to say
I have not a mind to listen,
If only had they not spoken before it was decided.

*to be completed*

wonderful poem,can't wait to hear more
you should have your own site with al kinds of this stuff
and putn the link here so we can enjoy it more

I am very happy to see that you still write poetry. I remember when I read "These Are the Boring Bits", and even though that poem was wonderful, I have to say you have only improved over time. Keep it up!

Crimson touch upon your lips.
Seductive poison in truth.
Juliet of your nightmares.
Whispered widow of the night.
Be brave young man lost in love.

You're poetry is deep, and that's what i like. Im srry but i can't stand shel silverstein sometimes because it seems he ryhmes pointlessly, but i know he is a literary genius. Im getting off topic. When i read your first poem, the boring bits i think, i was stunned about how well written and well crafted it was. It would not suprise me if one day you will be the next Poe or Shakespeare, although i have no idea what your real name is. Also, some of your poetry gets like almost philosophical in my opinion. I enjoy your work and since your 19 (i think) you're dreams of becoming a poet (if thats what they are) are about to become a reality. Keep up the good work.

Spring Maiden

I once knew a maiden as fair as spring
Who stole my heart amongst the April rains.
Her eyes two emeralds, did not, but sing.
And I, the fool, so gladly kept my pains.
For what power had I over such love
In which I was a most willing captive.
No need was there to pray to God above,
For I had all my open heart to give
She had only to take all she wanted,
Alas, she broke my heart as if t'were glass.
A foolish man I was; left so haunted
By that spring time deceptive lass.
So now I write these hollow words in vain
To somehow express my well earned pain.

*Well this is new for me. A rough attempt at an Shakespearean Sonnet.

To Tell a Tale

It is an odd thing being a writer. These moods where you can see your world so clearly, and yet to put it on the page defeats you at every turn. I at times wonder how long it will take to complete this story. And is it merely the ambition of my youth that drives me to write it as swiftly as possible. I have time for this, should I not allow it then?

It seems to me at times that life is too short to idle in this creation of mine. That I must complete it in order to move on to some new ambition, some other task to set for myself. And yet, at times like these, when the world is demanding I write it, demanding to have the world know its tale, I look in askance for patience. Patience in my own ambitions which, by my very nature, are nearly boundless. This tale requires time, and thought, and it must be crafted not only for me, but those who would read it.

The ambition to succeed must also be coupled with the patience and subtlety of timing. And these two things more than anything in the world, make for awkward bedfellows. Alas, this must come to an end as the voice falls every dimmer upon my inner ears, and soon the clamour will begin again, and I must either endure until I am ready, or pick up my pen again and tell the tale.

I'd really appreciate comments on that sonnet I wrote. I really don't do structured things often, so it'd be nice to know what people think.

PATIENCE, WOFLEH. I was in the middle of writing a comment... :P

I wish I could be a better critique but I really don't have much to say. A few of the lines seemed a tad off for some reason, though I can't really place why. Overall though, I really, really liked it. The last few lines were the best.

PATIENCE, WOFLEH.

So.....sonnet? Anyone? Please? *offers cookie*

A trickle of thought
Nothing more.
A whisper of a dream
Newfound inspiration.
Awakening.

What cruel parody is this?
That your face has been
Usurped by another.
And yet I am no nearer
To ending the self inflicted
Torture of my weary heart.

What happened to 'Existence in Denial'? We never found out what happened to John...

Eh...it went on hiatus when I started working 50+ hours a week, and I haven't put much effort into it since I've begun to seriously work on my novel.