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This poem is the only thing that can describe my experience with poetry thus far.
Poetry At Its Best:
To me, what is poetry?
Is it a book with a fee,
Laughing at me, wanting not to be free?
Is it something unkind,
Spawned when a writer loses their mind,
Short on time, spit out like a rind?
Is it naught but a joke,
Started by troublesome folk,
Taunting us all like children that poke?
Where all practicality is forgot,
Where sense is not sought,
A place I hope not to be caught.
Pointlessly deep,
Where frivolous words do seep,
Trapping us all like mindless herds of sheep.
Poetry is what poetry chooses to be.
No one can see, no one will believe.
But I will never submit to the curse that is poetry.
This is part of my own poem:
Poetry is putting words to those that cannot be spoken
Poetry is an opening of the mind
Poetry is mending to those who are broken
Poetry is the eyes to what you cannot find
Poetry is letting your mind wonder
As your hand moves simultaneously
Poetry is being unafraid of the words pouring out
Poetry is brave
Poetry is beautifully simple
Poetry is perfectly complex
Poetry is all you want it to be
Poetry is exactly what we want to see
This is a second one of mine, again just a part:
The truth hurts the heart, it makes it bleed
No matter how many signs there were telling you of the dead end ahead;
It s still a surprise when you get there
The most you can do is turn around, and make the best of the trip back
The best you can do is know the truth, and not let it hurt you as much as the lies have
this is part of a poem that i just wrote about what poetry really is to me...
it's like words with no meanings and a cover without a title
a poem wouldn't go together without setting your mind free
free to be whoever and whatever it would like to be
it's like math without numbers and a pen with no color
a poem wouldn't go together without a meaning that touches your heart forever
all poems have a meaning; but the best have the one's that make you think
those are the one's that relate to your life, yourself, and who you are.
when a poem is read, all you think about is yourself
you think of a situation where this poem can fit into your life or where it should be
this is another part of a poem i wrote....
I can hear a ring inside my ears and feel a knot inside my gut.
As i go my own way, you lie and say you've changed.
And i know this isn't true, but I lie and nod, as the lies become the truth.
Now there's this pain inside my chest as you tell me to go on my way...
This is a poem about Mr. Moccia's class.
The bell rings, so I take my seat,
as Mr. Moccia starts talking without missing a beat.
As I took out my homework from the night before,
I just find out that there was something more.
I needed 300 words, not 205
when Mr. Moccia finds out, I'll be lucky to be alive.
I was panicking in my chair the suddenly my teacher said,
"It's ok if you didn't do it, I'll collect it tomorrow instead."
I breathed a sigh of relief as class started,
the weight on my shoulders finally had parted.
Then came the beginning of the class conversation,
then somehow we started talking about the laws of our nation.
I should have seen this coming from a mile away,
we will get sidetracked, every single day.
But even so that class is still the best,
even if I don't do so well on the test!
So here is my poem, about a lost dog:
There once was a dog
Who ran out in the fog
His family went out looking after
For then there was no laughter
The have just found him
The dogs name is Tim
Here is a poem i wrote.
I'll stick to these letters to remind me of you, and I'll count my fingers because you've only just gone. and I'm getting better at pretending I don't care. and you're getting better at stretching the truth
And someday I'll realize that I do not have you. and I'm anxiously waiting to tell you the truth. every minute without you gets a little harder. and every second you're not here is the worst of my life
See all good things in time must end. and i'm waiting here, just waiting to comprehend. my heart won't break but it might bend.
There's this break in my back that keeps me from leaving. and this thought in my head telling me to stay. there's these words in my mouth begging to be let out. i'm asking for change, all i wanted was change.
This is a poem about missing the blogs:
Oh man! I think, as I walk to the chair,
And sitting down in it, I blankly stare,
Another week of redundant blogging,
But at least it's better than a Medievil flogging,
I click on the website, with aid of the mouse,
and remember to wipe the drool from my mouth
(sorry Mr. Moccia, couldn't think of anything else)
As the screen flashes anew,
I find out that I forgot something about blogs being due
I hear my blood as it pounds, drowning out all other sounds,
but I see the button that links to previous blogs,
and my thoughts drift to the growth of logs,
Don't ask me why,
but I wish I could fly,
This poem i really getting out of hand,
so I think it is time, to bring it to an end!
this is a poem I wrote a little while ago. i liked the way it turned out even though I don't think I'm good at writing poetry.
Glassy raindrops falling all day long--a song
Clouds roll by with a thunderous entrance
Soaked clothes cling to my body
Pitter patter sounds create music of their own
This happy alone.
Running through a curtain of water
Smelling the wet aroma in the surrounding air—there…
Unable to see, water streaming down my face
Hitting the ground with a gentle kind of grace.
Nature’s lace.
Problems, worries, fears– washed away
Peace, a fresh new start here to stay
Changing the world one drop at a time
Seeming like a huge hill to climb…
But fine.
Standing in a puddle seeing my reflection
Feeling some sort of outdoor haven
I saw a girl who was made for this weather
Her and the rain together forever
Peaceful.
People panic franticly to get somewhere dry
They open their umbrellas, thinking- “Today? Why?” They sigh.
But I stand there in a liberated way
Saying with a whisper, “This is my kind of day”
An eternal May.
Here is a poem that I wrote a while back when I did a lot of poetry work.
Haunted:
I choose to live,
to write,
to listen to the melody.
The past can haunt,
but I will move forward.
And it will never catch me.
I know I am alive,
by my echoing heartbeat.
And my steady breaths.
I cannot say I do not feel the pain,
but it does not control me.
Heartbreak was the ultimate test.
I cannot help but wonder,
why must some think this way?
Why would one wish to be gone?
One chance to make it,
but we all begin to fall.
Who is there to catch us?
I wrote this poem for my independent quarterly work last marking period.
The Purple Snail
The purple snail was small and weak, but he would not turn the other cheek. He had a goal and he would make it, despite the doubt he could not shake it. He started off with a steady pace, but soon slowed down as the sun awoke with grace.
The purple snail faced many trials like valleys, hills, and mud for miles. His faith was strong, although his journey long.
The purple snail was close to the finish; his spirits though began to diminish. He crawled along the last few stones with tired muscles and aching bones. Tears began to stream down his face; he had finally made it to the place.
The purple snail sat at the end of the day, looking at his starting place only ten feet away.
Here is a poem I wrote.
I sometimes like to lay around
and watch the clouds from the ground.
People always gawk and laugh,
but I just do it om my behalf.
In the sky there are many shapes,
but my favorites are the ones like the apes.
The sky is like a calm sea,
but most just stare at it blankly.
I sometimes like to lay around
and watch the clouds from the ground.
This is a poem i wrote a while ago about war. It isn't as great as some of the other poems i read on here but it has a pretty good message.
The lost Soldier
The best of plans can go wrong
As he combats on the battle field he sees with his eyes the terror,
Whoosh!!! Ping!! Ping the bullets pass behind him.
As they pass they give off a breeze it is like a fan blowing into the soldier’s ear.
The sweat trickles down his face, his eyes widen and the strong smell of blood is in the air. It smells like someone had butchered a human alive.
The soldier turns around confused like a lost child looking for his parents
Ping! Ping his comrade has been shot, he panics but he knows he cant do anything
A small tear runs down his cheek slowly.
What we don’t understand is that we can’t destroy him with blood and hatred.
We share a crazy obsession to rule over others
By death, destruction and sin.
As the madness of war tells its story.
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