Hell Yeah Poetry!

We Are The Youth

We are the youth of two thousand years and yet we know not of love-
Somehow we are all to blame.
Raised by those before us we were taught to hate those amoungst us-
Our distance makes us the same.
We need to turn these lessons around; it is us who should be teaching;
Someone needs to be led askew.
We are the spirit of the sun, we are the passing of the wind, we are the hope in your eyes;
As you once were to those before you.
But, alas, it’s been forgotten (how to breathe) and as a consequence;
We’ve been taught to do the same.
But no more will we be locked up. We are the dangers that you warned us about;
We are all of your complaints. 
We are hope, we are soul, we are all that you never could be.
We are free;
We are the youth.

Golden Sands

reveillerlimagination:

I walk across the sands so golden,
Where Poseidon’s sea is unfolding.
I throw no caution to the wind
As I walk along, my joy refuses to embolden.

I feel the sand beneath my toes,
For our shoes were left alone with our clothes.
Nostalgia breaks through its wall of woe
And the wind takes off with my once red rose.

The sky bursts with all the colors of a Vincent Van Gogh,
For the night is near and our day draws to a close.
We’ll see each other again on the morrow, I know.
But unbeknownst to me, your words were said to soften the blow.

On the morrow, we walked upon no golden sands of the sort,
For our days were numbered and your time was short.
Will the sky burst with color where your ship makes port?
Will you find me a red rose even as the bullets fly above your fort?

Golden Sands, written by me (woeful, isn’t it?)

She shrugged, lifted the cigarette to her mouth and took a long, slow drag.
“I don’t even know if I care anymore,” she said, smoke drifting out of her mouth as she spoke.
“How can you not know if you care?” I asked her, fanning the grey air away from my face. “Don’t you care about anything?”
She slowly raised the cigarette to her lips once more, staring at the concrete ground with wide, thoughtful eyes.
“Not really,” she said after a while.

Random extracts of could-be stories often pop into my head yet I have no stories for them to fit into. I like them.

Insomnia.

With fists clenched at my sides,
I stare up at the ceiling.
The cold air scratches at my open eyes,
Why can’t I be dreaming?

The constant tick of the clock
Echoes through the night.
Darkness presses in on me,
Yet I don’t dare turn on the light.

I allow my eyelids to slip closed,
Yet still I remain awake.
I am the only thing that stirs
And my mind; oh, how it aches.

Then slowly I slip out of consciousness,
And images begin to break the dark.
My dreams slowly capture me,
And then  together we embark.

And even though my mind’s at rest for now,
I’ve never truly been asleep.
Insomnia stole that away from me-
Now I spend my nights counting sheep.

Dear god - it’s my poem for english. It’s heartbreakingly terrible, if you ask me, but at least it’s SOMETHING, right?

Discontent - Elizabeth Barrett Browning

Light human nature is too lightly tost
And ruffled without cause, complaining on—
Restless with rest, until, being overthrown,
It learneth to lie quiet. Let a frost
Or a small wasp have crept to the inner-most
Of our ripe peach, or let the wilful sun
Shine westward of our window,—straight we run
A furlong’s sigh as if the world were lost.
But what time through the heart and through the brain
God hath transfixed us,—we, so moved before,
Attain to a calm. Ay, shouldering weights of pain,
We anchor in deep waters, safe from shore,
And hear submissive o’er the stormy main
God’s chartered judgments walk for evermore.