Castle

This next poem, was made because I, at heart am an old romantic. Very deeply buried, I grant you, but I am. Now, for any of you who know me, and the people I know, if I'm going to write a poem about relationships you really should be in one. But I'm not. So these thoughts are from a friend. So, this poem, is based upon his thoughts f her As a sidenote, the final line, with mention of the word princess is the nickname (That we know of.) that He gives to her. I hope they like it, and I hope they won't shoot me for it. Pray, rather. Enjoy.

We all have a soul,
that's split in two
I found my other half,
I found it in you;
For when I see you, sweetheart
Your eyes light up the night
I couldn't bare to be apart
For, my love, you are my light.


I wait to hear your voice,
Charming birds off of the trees
For when I hear that gentle lull,
I will fall to my knees.
Life without you, honey,
would be utter hell.
You make my world sunny
You are my angel.

I will hold you in my arms,
Until the world ends.
They tell us we're lucky,
our wonderful friends.
You're beauty magnificent,
Reigning supreme.
Every word written here, meant.
You are my dream.

You bring me such joy,
From the bottom of my heart.
I will embrace each moment
Until we must part.
You are my soulmate.
Words I cannot express
You are my fate,
You are my princess.

Sonnet

I've decided, that since I constantly send sonnet's your way, and you've been kind enough to read them, I should try to explain them. That way if any of you have to write sonnets (And I know some of you already have.) then you a reference point. I won't go into the history of sonnet's since I'm pretty sure none of you want that. So to get straight into the basics of it there are two forms of sonnet. An Italian sonnet, and a Shakespearean sonnet. However, both forms of sonnet share similiar things. Both, consist of 14 lines. Generally, the first eight lines set up a problem, that is resolved in the final 6 lines, although that is not always necessary. However, that is where the similarities end.

Shakespearean sonnet appears as one full 16 line stanza (verse). However, the Italian sonnet consists of 2 sections - the octave (8 lines.) and the setset (6 lines.) The Shakespearean sonnet also has a different rhyming structure to the Italian version. The Shakespearean rhyming structure is: a-b-a-b-c-d-c-d-e-f-e-f-g-g. Each letter, rhymes with itself. Therefore the first line rhymes with the third as both are A, the second and the fourth rhyme as they are both B as so on and so on. the Italian sonnet, the rhyming structure is different. it follows the pattern a-b-b-a-a-b-b-a and then the setset can have three different rhyming endings: c-d-e-c-d-e or c-d-c-c-d-c or c-d-c-d-c-d.

The other thing, that is crucially important to composing a sonnet, and the reason why it is difficult to write one is the syllable count. Each line must be made up of only ten syllables. In each sonnet, it is understood, that the poet may use eleven syllables in one line only. Therefore a line such as:

God has abandoned us to this dark black, is correct as there is 10 syllables.

God has abandoned us to this hated black, is correct, if used only once, because there is 11 syllables.

God has abandoned us to this dark, is wrong because there is 9 syllables.

God has abandoned us to this pitch dark night time is wrong because there is 12 syllables.

You'll notice, my sonnets are a mix of the two, with the rhyming structure of the Shakespearean sonnet and the length of stanzas from the Italian sonnet. So, if you follow this, you should be able to create a sonnet, with ease. Or as easily as is possible at least. If you take a look back over my other sonnets you'll notice that they follow this always. Thanks for reading this. I know it's a long and probably boring read, but I think it's good to share something you know with other people.
If you feel the urge to write a sonnet then write it, and send it to me. I love to read other people's poetry!
Anyway, thanks for reading.

Nemo's Lament

Before I even start I must thank one person, and I think it would be better if I thank her by her real name. So thanks Rowena. She's an amazing person, and after talking to her for just two hours, I knew I had to write this. Any of you who have kept up to date with my posts will recognize this as another sonnet. But, as usual to tell of some background information. Firstly, nemo is Latin, translating as no-one. (If any of you have spoke to Rolo, you'll know that is the furthest thing from the truth.) Secondly, she's suffered a lot of hardship, and she's came through it as a better and stronger person. Thirdly, and I do not hesitate to tell you this, Rowena is one of the special people in the world. She looks at people's problems, and will always do her best to help them. People like her, are few and far between. But, her gift (or curse) was neglected. People were happy for her to help, but we're ridiculous enough not to realise how special she was. I won't say this poem reflects the way she felt, because I don't know if it was. I do know however, that her story, is the basis of this poem. I'll ask you all to enjoy, . But I ask her, to like it, most of all. Without her it wouldn't have existed. Enjoy.

Taunts are but salt in the wound, cutting flesh.
I am a servant, nameless, to many
I heal your hurts - mine are bitterly fresh.
I am your saver; don't glance, throw a penny.
We are a breed whom are rare to this earth
Yet you will torture and play with the flame.
Fires can burn - known by a child since birth.
All that I ask is you give me name.

I ache as a being, brought up apart.
I feel sheer longing in every bone,
Is there no title that you would impart?
Then I'll make choices, a name of my own.
I was no one with nowhere to go
But I am no-one, for I am Nemo.

Do Not

This poem is one that I will admit, I'm not particularly fond of, mainly because it brings back memories that I'd rather forget. However, it is still my work, and I promised to bring you my work so here it is. The background of this info, is based around a grievance I had with someone. They promised me something, and then in a matter of minutes went back on their word. When I got home this was the end result. It's only a few lines, nothing compared to what I usually write but it's still a part of me. Enjoy.

Do not speak to me of promises,
Of vows that once were made.
Do not speak to me of friendships,
Since you've made this vile trade.
Do not speak to me of love,
When you have none in your soul.
Well, I hope you're happy
Now you've reached your shameless goal.

A Note

I'll try not to take up to much of your time in this post, but I'm not making any promises. To all of you who have been reading along so far, thank you so much. It means a lot, believe it or not. And sorry for blabbering on, at the beginning, but I think it's better to understand something before you it. Anyway, I digress from my point, as usual. That is the last of the poetry I can find that I have written. There will probably be millions more, but I can't find them. Therefore (Lovely word, therefore.) my posts may get more erratic (Again, lovely word.) from this point forward. I shall do what I can to post daily once more, but there is no promises. To be philosophical, (Another pastime of mines, which you'll see if you care to read my profile.) from here we venture into waters unknown, where the sun may not shine through, nor the birds voices call. But, in the end, we shall climb out of the water, and once more step into the sunshine. So my friends, keep checking, and I'll keep posting. In all honesty, I may start posting some poetry info, possibly even some stories, but I'll wait and see what you all want. before I do. After all, I wouldn't enjoy this as much if it wasn't for all of you. So thanks. So much.

The Perpetual Guilt

Now, this poem, is the final one of mine, created for the war topic. It is the one I am most fond of, and the very first one I wrote, (for that project.) If my memory serves, though that is a rare occurence, I first start writing this piece in class time, with constant noise from all around me, and for once that was actually a help rather than a hindrance. Imagination, my dear readers, can take the help of many a stimulus, and it allowed me to imagine a noisy battlefield, where thought is as rare as peace. (A nice metaphor, which I may use later.) Of course, the poem below has nothing on noise, for I only used it as a basis to build my ideas upon. The poem you will see before you, if I can shut up enough to give you it, is under the general heading "Dramatic monologue" although with a few minor changes could quite likely become a narrative piece. One of the largest ideas that I gathered from the subject of war, is the typical one - loss. But what if there was to be a new spin? that such guilt, could cloud your senses? What if your feeling of loss, caused loss in itself? That's what "The Perpetual Guilt" is about. So without further ado, here goes. Enjoy.

The shells fall down around my head,
My comrade’s are fallen already dead.
The cowards, like geese, have already flown
Now, their true colours have been shown
And God himself has turned his back
And left us to this haunted black.
The black of the night,
Where the shadows of the past
Cling to our minds, and hold on fast.

My brother stands before me now
Anguish etched upon his brow
My tears flow freely, throughout this all
No one is left to hear them fall.
I try to block out dreams overworn
Dreams which cannot help a man to mourn.

The war is upon us!
Fight for your queen!
And then, the stuff of nightmares is seen.

My brother was before me, striving to a goal
Determined to destroy the ones with no soul
But he stopped and gave a startled cry
The sound of one about to die.
My fears each night had all came true
I stood frozen. What could I do?

I watched him fall.
I watched him stumble.
And then, so slow, I watched him tumble.

His pain is gone, I see that now
The hurt once etched upon his brow
One hand raised he beckons me near
Undying trust, I have no fear.
I do not feel the tear of skin,
The ache of cold, seeping in.

Ever-ready, my shell comes down
Reaching out, I grasp only air
My spirit leaves. My penance, fair.

Terminus Unknown

This poem, another of the war poems and, yet another, sonnet, is a particular favourite of mine. It was, I think, the second last poem to be written. the basis of this poem, since I always seem to delve into my poetry, is based upon one my most frequent loves - Msn. However, I'll need to explain a bit of background to it. The first line is from a long while back when a friend was trying to write some lyrics to a tune running through her head, and that was our thoughts. The third line, and the second of the two stimulus I used for this poem, is a Nightwish (they're a band, look them up) lyric, from the song, "Seven Days to the Wolves" which, my friend, Jonathan, is obsessed with (The band, not the song.) It was, at the time, his Msn name, and it lead to the creation of this poem. As an additional sidenote, before I shut up and let you read, the word terminus, part of the title of this poem is defined as: " The final point; the end." which I found, perfect in the context of this poem. Without Further ado, Terminus Unknown. Enjoy.

Here I am, standing at the end of days.

Watching the sun set on this weary life.

This, is where heroes and cowards part ways.

We are all helpless, as bloodshed is rife.

All are only flowers; we bloom then fade.

Slowly forgotten by those left behind

Life is no more than a game that's been played

And the pieces are no more than mankind.

Despite the concern that I should have felt

There's nothing but a sense of weary calm.

I will abide by the fate I was dealt.

We're just god's playthings; we're crushed in his palm.

This is my destiny - I won't defy.

No one will miss me - I'm ready to die.