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I Am a WriterI am a writer.
Yes, it’s easy for me to fall into a dream.
But there is nothing wrong with being tighter
With a story’s theme.

I am a writer.
That is all I will ever want to be
In the end, my story will be lighter,
And my characters will finally be free.

I am a writer.
There is nothing easier to say than that.
I will never let a story wither
Nor let a story fall flat

I am a soon to be author.
With several books ready to be read,
I want them to have great honor
And wish there will be tears shed.

To HooverHoover state: waking up to sleep
because that’s all I’m good for;
out of work, out of time again
and my brother won’t spare a dime.

Blanket sweat reminds me of this
Hoover state: waking up to sleep
in depressions of this planet;
the moon weeps for me in daytime.

I yank my pockets out, like it's
my country's flag; punch-line of the
Hoover state: waking up to sleep
in my sagging skin on decline.

I've no penny to my name,
jumping out the window (one
last time) makes me worth more in this
Hoover state: waking up to sleep.

Twinkle StarTwinkle twinkle little star
Noone cares just who you are
When you fall the fall is far
Twinkle twinkle superstar.

The Soldier's Letter To HomeI write this from my death bed
My eyes fading in the light
Drowned in crimson red,
Drowned in shaking fright.
The enemy has won
The war now has ended
And though killed by my son
May his sins be ammended.
For this is Civil War
I cannot change the tide
So from you I implore
Do what is right.

Bury me somewhere nice
Near, and fair to look at
And forgive my son his sins;
For in war, no one wins.

Aur si plumbUn gând de aur, dar se simte
mai greu ca un pumnal de plumb
ce intră-n coaste, se învârte,
și caută să iasă prin minte...
Stilou de aur, scrie versuri,
dar lasă urme ca de plumb,
pe foi mânjite de cerneală,
și de cafea, și alte resturi...

Un glonţ de aur, dar se simte
mai tandru ca o zi de plumb,
îl pun aici, închid capacul,
și ca un gând, îl scot prin minte.

Take Death's HandI do not fear Death.
My life has been long enough.
It's time I take my last breath.
I shall not rebuff.
Death stands by my side,
his hand extended for me to take.
His face is veiled like that of a bride.
This life I now forsake
as Death takes me away.
I do not regret
for I am free of the fray.
Please do not fret
for I am okay.

ContrariwiseSilly little Alice,
Forget all you thought you knew,
For deep inside your head,
Everything is all askew.

If they tell you that one plus one,
Equals twelve and half, my dear,
Don't worry yourself about it,
For two is so last year.

Don't even try to be different,
Or it'll be "Off with her head!",
And you'll find it's better to live a lie,
Than it is to end up dead.

So heed this socially accepted advice,
Ditch any scraps of your insanity,
To cavort with the Hare in March,
Join the Hatter for a cup of tea.

Fritter your days away,
Dancing under a Cheshire moon,
Don't mind the surrounding chaos,
Ignore impending doom.

But even as you join in

Continuous VoicesIt all began when I was ten
I found what lingered in my head disturbing
And it wasn’t until I grabbed a pen
And saw what truly lingered when I began writing.

There were continuous voices within my head
I was not one to favor them dead
Although, they had violet images attached
The way I wrote them matched.

Since then, the voices have changed
Octaves have risen and lowered
Their words have exchanged
And eventually became uncensored.

These continuous voices have brought war
Ones with an uprising roar
And at moments I want to kill the sound
For they are so profound.

Yet, they continue to crescendo
And welcome me to a hidden story
And so

EndlingHere am I, the captive thylacine
Treading my tiger-striped, ungainly way
Around the metal-mesh confinement of my cage
Here am I, exhibited, exhumed
Brought from the brink to pace another day
A living testament, a final thumbmarked page
Here am I, the only specimen
Bereft of mate, of pups, of kin, of kind
Watching the claws of history extending
Here am I, the final thylacine
The only one, the last, the lost, the endling.

Who Was HeHe stood at the average height for men.
His built was quite average.
His eyes were that of cyan.
Nonetheless, he was average.

His hair was that of blonde,
Nearly, white.
His walk and personality had a great bond.
He was a confident sight.

His skin was a delicate peach.
His muscles were quite firm.
So irresistible, a teasing reach.
His appearance had its own term.

One that the dictionary cannot confirm.

Who was he?
That man with his own sea?
He was one without a name.
His appearance was a taunting game.
He was one without a number for an age.
Forget it, he’s fake on this page.

SuicideThere's no blood on her hands
Bullet holes in the door
Nothing but colored pills
And her lying on the floor

You look at her face
There's despair in her eyes
And you wonder what she thought
As she fell and died

And maybe you're begging her to come back
And maybe you're asking why she let go
The hurt in your chest feels like a heart attack
And now you finally know

Maybe you could've helped her
If you'd looked past your own nose
Maybe she'd be alive now
You had a chance, this is what you chose
Now maybe you'll learn from things
That you didn't see
Maybe you'll open your eyes
And rescue him, or her, or me
Maybe she cried a prayer
For the oth

What may be a dream?Oh, what may be a dream but wishes mute?
Those thoughts that dance and prance a time or two?
The silent longings of the heart set free
To lift the spirit from chambers dark and cold.
A dream is as a morning mist of spring;
Refreshing, light, and gently promising
To all who sleep and wake in time to catch
The welcome peace and glory they behold.
But woe to waking hours; the bitterness they bring
When dreams escape the loving hold of thought!
The plaintive heart starts longing once again
To sink into the realms of possibility.

WarWhen stories of battle are shared,
They are full of fame and glory.
No one knows what war really holds,
That is, until they hear this story.
At first there is much excitement,
Your chance to be a hero.
Then homesickness begins to set in,
The sorrow makes you feel like zero.
Then the supplies get cut off,
Your stomach cries out for food.
It rains then it droughts, and then you want out,
You'd laugh at your situation but you're not in the mood.
No sanitation, no garbage cans,
You are living in human waste.
The tents are torn up, the beds full of lice,
You wish you were in a different place.
Then you finally go to fight,
This is your chance to prove yourself.
All your comrades are shot down,
So much for fame and wealth...
Cleaning up the bodies,
Of those who used to be your friends.
Not even time for a proper burial,
Too many injuries to attend.
Then there's the sneak attack,
You are all caught by surprise.
A brutal, bloody, massacre,
A bullet between your eyes.
In this little game o

One WindowOne window is all I need
To see the world for what it truly is
With my mind a system of creed.
My talent can depict or dismiss
This world of goals, so hear my heed.

I sit down beside a journal,
My fingers clutching a pencil.
I will make my character’s life spiral
And send them off to a council
Where they must advance through the next trial.

One window is all I need
To watch them afar a long, hazy field,
Where I can study their speed
Of understanding when they will yield
Of life, itself, so they need to hear my heed.

My character’s goal,
As well as mine,
Is to be whole
And see how bright life can shine
Even through the darkness

Through an Angel's Eye

Some see the world through their rose-colored glasses,
some see it only as bad.
Some see man split into one of three classes,
some see it only as sad.

They say the eye to the soul is a window,
some find such introspect lame.
Still others prefer to focus on shadow,
some look for fortune and fame.

To see the world softly through colors sublime,
requires a heart that is pure.
Yes, to see the world as an angelic rhyme,
the eye must be steady and sure.

Through the eyes of an angel she captures our world,
the beauty of God in her lens.
By virtue of her work nature is unfurled,
earning her many a friend.

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Shadows of the Blues

by ~diana-amazin, Feb 11, 2011, 5:07:25 PM
Literature / Poetry / General Poetry / Traditional Fixed Forms

Always coming back
to the shadows of the blues.
Remembering and hoping
there's more than a closed door now.
More than music
it was the feeling
which left trapped anyone
between your charms
making your guitar cry
at the same time you gave
stories from your soul.
You still there
somewhere, deep inside in people's heart...
Your art will come to mind.
Whenever someone needs to feel
in that sensation again.

51

2 4 2

Shadows of the Bluesby ~diana-amazin

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Not perfect, i wanted to do a drawing really, and I don't know if i'll have enough time.
Dedicated to Gary Moore.
Gone but not forgotten.
Always an inspiration

- edit-

Made less personal and more general like some user suggested me. Certainly gives it some additional strength

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Submitted on: February 11, 2011
File Size: 584 bytes

Views: 51
Favourites: 2 (who?)
Comments: 4
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~karmacursed Feb 11, 2011 Hobbyist General Artist

It is pretty good, and Gary Moore was a great artist. I'd revamp this a bit and take out most of the "you" and "yours" and take the "now" out of line four. I like what you did here.

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~diana-amazin Feb 11, 2011 Student Digital Artist

thanks! will see how can modify those lines haha it was a pretty fast done thing, i'm just so shocked...it was too soon and unexpected...he was my first blues artist.

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~karmacursed Feb 11, 2011 Hobbyist General Artist

Nice edit.

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~diana-amazin Feb 12, 2011 Student Digital Artist

thank you

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