Súgó
A téma zárva.
Idézet: WickedWitch - Dátum: 2005. okt. 10., hétfő - 23:58
So you want a poem of the season. I think I have one in stock.
Magical
Evening
The
Autumnal
Moonshine
Overshadowing
Rich
Purple
Hues
Of
Sunsets
In
Summer
A word to the wise: poems don't always have to rhyme.
"Besides, I got stuck once
when I couldn't find anything
to rhyme with "orange" (A quote from one of my non-rhyming poems.)
I start to feel the cold in the fall. It's a season that makes me sleepy. I sleep rather than face the feeling that seeps through the season to the very core of my soul; for it is a season, that makes you wish for the warm, happy days of summer, while it foreshadows, whispers, hails the onset of the colder months of winter. Autumn... is often overrated, romanticized. I am a child of spring. Autumn, though my second favorite season, is just a shadow, a cheap imitation of spring. A poor subsitute, but this is the here and now. So I sleep. Perchance to dream...
Leather jacket. I get to wear my leather jacket again, at least. The short one, that makes me look like a rocker. Wild child. Wish I was. Wild, passionate, uninhibited... Break out, break free, cut the shackles that bind to the mundane and drudging routine. So inside I'm screaming, raging, whirling, exploding... and outside... I wear my leather jacket hang a pentacle in my neck. A non-conformist conformist. An idealistic cynic. And somewhere I'm happy with my damn confusing paradox self.
Magical
Evening
The
Autumnal
Moonshine
Overshadowing
Rich
Purple
Hues
Of
Sunsets
In
Summer
A word to the wise: poems don't always have to rhyme.
"Besides, I got stuck once
when I couldn't find anything
to rhyme with "orange" (A quote from one of my non-rhyming poems.)
I start to feel the cold in the fall. It's a season that makes me sleepy. I sleep rather than face the feeling that seeps through the season to the very core of my soul; for it is a season, that makes you wish for the warm, happy days of summer, while it foreshadows, whispers, hails the onset of the colder months of winter. Autumn... is often overrated, romanticized. I am a child of spring. Autumn, though my second favorite season, is just a shadow, a cheap imitation of spring. A poor subsitute, but this is the here and now. So I sleep. Perchance to dream...
Leather jacket. I get to wear my leather jacket again, at least. The short one, that makes me look like a rocker. Wild child. Wish I was. Wild, passionate, uninhibited... Break out, break free, cut the shackles that bind to the mundane and drudging routine. So inside I'm screaming, raging, whirling, exploding... and outside... I wear my leather jacket hang a pentacle in my neck. A non-conformist conformist. An idealistic cynic. And somewhere I'm happy with my damn confusing paradox self.
A good one, may I say so. What I would totally miss is giving life to a poem. Sure, I can throw words around, they can line up nicely, they make sense, and I might say that I stand my ground when it comes to using prose... but I lack creativity, that survival trait for the jungles of the lines not reaching the sides of the page
. I can't even imagine myself writing something... even if I sometimes almost crave for it, I just didn't gather enough inertia to move me through the first and hardest step.But hey, it's the autumn we're talking about. I also like my leather coat, even if the reason is far more practical
. But I just, simply, like the part of the year when the hotness ends, when soothing cold and darkness falls... even with my great (and mostly unsatisfied) need for sleep, I pride myself to be a nocturnal person. Spring is overrated with all the joy of the coming life . Autumn reminds us that though there might be a time for frolicking in the meadows, still it's not good to forget that all things end. And that idealism is not the best thing to wield, when one's facing Time .I leave now for a short winter
Spring's early tomorrow (and boy, will my springs be rusty ).
.
