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I wanted to share with you all some of my poetry, just to see what you think.

This is untitled and was finished a mere moment ago... I think it might be my best work yet, if for no reason other than it came deeply from the heart.

EDIT: This poem is now titled Midnight.

At night a haunting dream may take

And grip my captive mind.

The rustle of a forest’s night

Can make my heart go blind

My mind drifts through the forest depths,

Engulfed in twilight blue.

No loving whisper can penetrate

The sparkling leafy dew

And as I travel to the lake,

A misbegotten moon,

Reveals itself on through the fog

And whispers a lunar croon

I wade into the cool water

And close my eyes for this,

That you may condensate for me

And meet my lips in kiss

But echoes, they lay still tonight,

There is nothing to be sent,

As the watery licks of your finger tips

Are elusive sentiments

I stand not at a simple lake,

But a river, a pond, and a sea,

The tides that make up my lulled mind

Pervade all I can be

I now reside in these black waters,

The ripples are my home,

And all I wish is a melancholy gift

To soothe my ailing soul

Water reflects my every dream

And from these tides do creep,

My wish that you would take my hand

And send me back to sleep

This one is named Element #10...

Neon is the light of our lives, we drink

It in and glow green or blue or red or

Yellow. Neon permeates the night, what

Was once the domain of moon and stars is

Now taken up by friendly Ne, wonderful

Element #10. #10 heralds

The Gods of food and drink, of stores and fuel.

It beckons to its fat fryers and shelves

Of books, its gas and cars and computers,

Its nexuses; malls. It beckons to everything

And everyone. People kneel below

Element #10 in awe at their

Metal table altars and sit at

Their wooden bar dais. The Golden Arches enter

The eyes of children and speak to them; the

Glow reflects upon their irises and

Plays with their minds. Beyond the arch is one

Of these many Gods, St. McDonald, patron

Saint of heart attacks. Life stirs under

Element #10 as people quaff

Alcohol in its beauteous glow or

Slip a packet of meth out from between

A raver’s breasts and into their pockets,

As the lights strobe above. Element #10

Blurs the night, just stand in the middle of a

Busy street and look down towards the cars

And signs and open your arms wide to

#10. Take a picture and watch it ~b~l~u~r~ in your

Sight. The car lights, the neon, the

People meaning nothing and going nowhere…

Everything… wrapped together. Stand in

The street and let the head lights of a car

Pull you in. Someday we will all belong

To Element #10. It pulses

A bit in each of our minds now and again.

It fills the bustling streets and bars, clubs

And stores, all with its exalted glow

And it casts over the pointless din of

Night a lucid veil of silence.

This is Clockwork Immortal. I have a thing for clocks...

Oh Clockwork Immortal, thou art divine;

We faulted clocks have thee to keep our time,

Keep thy hands steady least I keepeth mine,

Our ticking can’t match thy tocking sublime;

Upon thy tall towers we keep thee a God,

For without time we are lost in life’s mist,

We kneel before thee, before thee we laud,

Alone do we stride ever conscience of this;

We follow thy course until we grow old,

You help make the lives we dare not make alone,

For that which we make, thy clock bells take toll,

Not even I know the Gears which I withhold;

Clockwork Immortal, you are our keeper

For most humans can go not much deeper.

This is just silly... This Was Once a Good Poem.

This was once a poem crafted artfully,

Was once a work of art made beautifully,

But, it seems, my sculpture melted in the rain sorrowfully,

And what was once a pool of clarity

Is a wretched puddle wrought with mud.

I’ve lost the fruit of mine own tree,

It seems my muse has left of me,

And I assure tis plagiarism you see,

For such silly rhymes penned merrily

Cannot be the remains of what was once a good poem.

Because my tongue has failed on me,

There are no visions left to be,

And writer’s block stands mournfully,

I’ll end this poem presently…

Because quite frankly I can’t come up with a good ending.

This is inspired by a picture I took that I don't have on me, sadly.

Iron Cross

My weary head is falling after all these years

A heaving chest cannot support a pair of tired arms

Which nailed to wood, stone, and sword again and again

Make even My name feel old and worn

Streams of blood flow from stigmata wounds

Born of the roses placed upon My grave

Which sting with the same barbs that profaned

By washed hands My face in times before

Veins of rust lace this iron cross from head to toe

And the rains of ages erode My face

To something less than skin and bone

Or the calls of a Spirit unknown

My children drop down to their knees

In a bleak necropolis oh so cold

Where once My kingdom thrived with life

For years nor any ember shone

My flock open their eyes to the rising sun

And watch the doves which they released

Fly with ravens under a serpent sun

And sing songs of grace in unholy tongue

With clouding eyes I watch a spiritual mockery

These millions pledge a vow to Me yet each has pledged a lie

In each heart is falsehood’s light

And in My name they help Me die

Hollow be My name

I don't mean to force my poetry on you or seem egotistical, I just want to share it with someone and get some opinions, as I am an insecure artist. D: /wrists

Thank you.

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I've been writing poetry for about 4 months. Element #10 was my first. I've edited that first poem and named it "Midnight"!

And thanks for the feedback. I showed that first one to my Lit teacher and he suggested some edits and he and a classmate told me I should name it "Midnight."

Because that is the time I was up at writing it and not sleeping.

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I got bored in english one day and wrote this in 10 minutes... ignore it if it sucks.. just randomly wrote it out.

-

The red moonglow diffused across his steel shine,

it was calm and warm.

His blue eyes seemed a wild purple as they

reflected the ever dancing water

The spirt is quiet on such occasions,

begging to speak but silenced evermore.

old his horse was, but friendship on night like these it served.

together they bask in the jeweled rays from above.

Love had vanished from reality where flashes only now remain.

He had wrote to her for many years, knowing his poor eyes

would not be striken with the return.

the dry, hollow clap of the mare trailed behind his exanimate mien.

stopping suddenly he gazed upon the dark captivating forest that surronded him

eyes closed, hands limp, a sigh.

destiny so cruel has brought him here before...

Wind softly tapping upon his shoulders

whispering empty promises in his ear,

silenced only by the opening of tear filled eyes.

Night-blooms surronded the silent, old trees

bringing youth to the dark pallette ahead.

Silenced the night-life was, watching from deep within the shadows.

from his pocket, a letter his hand now grasped.

slowly forward he walked, cushioned by fresh moss

his worn boots familiar with this sensation.

In dark shades an old oak tree stump lay in waiting.

Sadness filled the mares red eyes, shifting away

letting out a slow puffing breath.

To the oak he walked grasping his soul in the form of paper.

The wind whistled melancholy as he slowly kneeled infront of the stump.

A dark hole he slowly placed the letter in,

along side endless others.

he slowly exhaled knowing she would never read them...

Still, on nights like these he will mourn for her.

--

thoughts?

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The red moonglow diffused across his steel shine, (Would "shining steel" describe what you want? It might work better.)

It was calm and warm.

His blue eyes seemed a wild purple as they

Reflected the ever dancing water

The spirt is quiet on such occasions,

Begging to speak but silenced evermore.

Old his horse was ('was his horse' might work better), but friendship on night like these it served,

Together they bask in the jeweled rays from above.

Love had vanished from reality where flashes only now (I'd do 'now only', it rhymes better) remain.

He had wrote (It is 'written,' grammer) to her for many years, knowing his poor eyes

would not be striken with the ('a' return might work better, as 'the' represents something specific and in this case the concept of a return is up in the air and more than one return, or a return in any form, could occur) return.

The dry, hollow clap of the mare trailed behind his exanimate mien. (What does that mean? Is that German? :o)

Stopping suddenly, he gazed upon the dark, captivating forest that surrounded him

Eyes closed, hands limp, a sigh.

Destiny so cruel had brought him here before... (commas so that it becomes 'Destiny, so cruel,' might work better, need a second opinion)

Wind softly tapping upon his shoulders,

Whispering empty promises into (might work better) his ear,

Silenced only by the opening of tear filled eyes.

Night-blooms surrounded the silent, old trees,

Bringing youth to the dark pallette (curious as to word choice) ahead.

Silenced the night-life was (again, I'd switch the two words), watching from deep (two many syllables, if you want emphasis on the darkness try something else or fool with the sentence) within the shadows.

From his pocket, a letter his hand now grasps (tenses agreement).

Slowly forward he walked, cushioned by fresh moss,

His worn boots familiar with this sensation.

In dark shades an old oak tree stump lay in waiting (I might use 'wait' here).

Sadness filled the mare's red eyes, shifting away,

Letting out a slow (go with 'slowly' or 'slow, puffing') puffing breath.

To the oak he walked, grasping his soul in the form of paper.

The wind whistled, melancholy, (unless you meant 'melancholily) as he slowly knelt infront of the stump.

A dark hole he slowly placed the letter in,

Along side endless others.

He slowly exhaled, (such a defining thought, in my opinion, should be allowed a breath; read it youself to see whether you like the comma there more or less than its lack) knowing she would never read them...

Still, on nights like these, (for the same reason as above) he will mourn for her.

I like it very much, really. It's a nice story. Melancholy. I corrected some things in bold. Always remember to capitalize the firest letter of each line!!!

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Wind: I like the story it tells, even if it isn't all tha clear. Stories in poems are an automatic plus in my book. You certainly word it very beautifully. The story could stand to be a bit more clear though.

Of course, if you spell it out for the reader it loses some interprative value, so you have to walk a fine line. But at the very least it's nicely written.

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@_@ Really? I always see it and it looks so much neater. Lack of that seems sloppy.

I think it's more important to use the language as you see fit. Look at e.e. cummings.

Many famous/wonderful poets didn't use perfect grammar.

I will review your poem a little later.

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