Toxic10x
01-26-2004, 06:08 PM
Well, I wrote some poetry for my creative writing class, and some of it's pretty good (imo :p ) so I figured I'd see what you all think.
This first one is a sonnet. I'm happy I managed to actually write sumpin good in such a structured format :dizzy:
In the height of man’s success
There draws an hour nigh
When in this time he must confess
His life thus far has been a lie
Reflecting on his choices made
He sees that he has but conformed
The path of others has he obeyed
And for his past will now he mourn
So comes the time when he must choose
A life his own or to conform
The path of old he must refuse
Or find himself again forlorn
And so our lives we must define
Lest we be slaves to our own minds
let's see what else we got... here's a free form poem i posted here some time ago tho i have updated it slightly.
They had the chance to be their own
but instead they chose another way
They thought it was what they wanted.
Their once warm hands grasped at false prizes
and they did not let go.
They squeezed tighter, until the blood was pressed out of their knuckles and drained from their finger tips.
What is left is the long fingers, cold and blue
clamped tight about their prize
I hope it is enough
well, that's all for now- whatcha think?
This first one is a sonnet. I'm happy I managed to actually write sumpin good in such a structured format :dizzy:
In the height of man’s success
There draws an hour nigh
When in this time he must confess
His life thus far has been a lie
Reflecting on his choices made
He sees that he has but conformed
The path of others has he obeyed
And for his past will now he mourn
So comes the time when he must choose
A life his own or to conform
The path of old he must refuse
Or find himself again forlorn
And so our lives we must define
Lest we be slaves to our own minds
let's see what else we got... here's a free form poem i posted here some time ago tho i have updated it slightly.
They had the chance to be their own
but instead they chose another way
They thought it was what they wanted.
Their once warm hands grasped at false prizes
and they did not let go.
They squeezed tighter, until the blood was pressed out of their knuckles and drained from their finger tips.
What is left is the long fingers, cold and blue
clamped tight about their prize
I hope it is enough
well, that's all for now- whatcha think?