bad dreams

I don't want to go to bed
'Cause all these voices in my head
Are clawing at me like a nightmare
Seems every time I close my eyes
I slowly start to realize
That these dreams will always be there

luxembourg - paris

A city of light
Doesn't seem right
At least not for someone like me
In darkness I hide
Holding my pride
And everything else setting free

sonnet...sort of

"for my doctor"

each city that I visit
has a special song for me
and that's not shameful, is it
if music is all I see

the skylines stretching out
and churches made of stone
leave no shadow of a doubt
that I must walk alone

companions come and go
on this eternal earth
and few will ever know
the city of my birth

so my guide will be wanderlust
until my bones have turned to dust

when the rain comes, they run and hide their heads...

seventy degrees outside
yet in my room i still hide
it's beautiful today
but i won't go out of my way
a good time isn't worth it
so here alone i sit
lemonade and jaffa cakes
an unhealthy day makes

a limerick for st. patricks day

it is often my curse
that my thoughts are in verse
but i have found
if i write them down
they needn't come out so terse.

ventimiglia refrain

the waves envelop
draw me in
"come join us"
but I've thicker skin
I turn around
the mountains beckon
it's their song
that wins I'd reckon

rhymes to annoy my sister

off the plane, signs say train
stick in my card, that's not too hard
victoria station, that'll be your location
then we get on the bus! go... us?

it hits us all

it snowed
i took a walk
the river flowed
i heard it talk
please don't leave me
here alone
how you've loved me
how we've grown
together
piece by piece
forever
never cease
staring out the window
listening to the stream
gently falling wafting snow
shall in the sunrise gleam



Wish upon a snowflake
Can it feel my heart break?
Does it know how much I care?
Maybe it would be nice
If my heart were just ice
Reflecting the sun's cruel glare.

Do you have to be emo to be a poet?

Six weeks of analysing French poetry has led me to a simple conclusion.

Poets are angsty. Angsty and emo.

Maybe it's not their fault - some tragic happening in their life caused all ther problems; nonetheless they seem to write depressing poetry far more often than cheerful.

L'Horloge (The Clock) - Charles Baudelaire
(this page has an englsh translation for the non-francophones)

Horloge! dieu sinistre, effrayant, impassible,
Dont le doigt nous menace et nous dit: «Souviens-toi!
Les vibrantes Douleurs dans ton coeur plein d'effroi
Se planteront bientôt comme dans une cible;

Le Plaisir vaporeux fuira vers l'horizon
Ainsi qu'une sylphide au fond de la coulisse;
Chaque instant te dévore un morceau du délice
À chaque homme accordé pour toute sa saison.

Trois mille six cents fois par heure, la Seconde
Chuchote: Souviens-toi! — Rapide, avec sa voix
D'insecte, Maintenant dit: Je suis Autrefois,
Et j'ai pompé ta vie avec ma trompe immonde!

Remember! Souviens-toi! prodigue! Esto memor!
(Mon gosier de métal parle toutes les langues.)
Les minutes, mortel folâtre, sont des gangues
Qu'il ne faut pas lâcher sans en extraire l'or!

Souviens-toi que le Temps est un joueur avide
Qui gagne sans tricher, à tout coup! c'est la loi.
Le jour décroît; la nuit augmente; Souviens-toi!
Le gouffre a toujours soif; la clepsydre se vide.

Tantôt sonnera l'heure où le divin Hasard,
Où l'auguste Vertu, ton épouse encor vierge,
Où le Repentir même (oh! la dernière auberge!),
Où tout te dira Meurs, vieux lâche! il est trop tard!

Notable exceptions: Poems for children?

Wind on the Hill - A. A. Milne
No one can tell me,
Nobody knows,
Where the wind comes from,
Where the wind goes.

It's flying from somewhere
As fast as it can,
I couldn't keep up with it,
Not if I ran.

But if I stopped holding
The string of my kite,
It would blow with the wind
For a day and a night.

And then when I found it,
Wherever it blew,
I should know that the wind
Had been going there too.

So then I could tell them
Where the wind goes...
But where the wind comes from
Nobody knows.

I don't know about that. Sure, the poem sounds happy when you're six, but if you really look at it, it feels like unanswered questions- a perfect metaphor for life.

Maybe I'm just not one who's easily impressed, but it doesn't seem like it should be so hard to write a poem that really is about nice things, not just using nice things as metaphors for pain, suffering, and death. I'd try it myself, but somehow every time I do it turns into song lyrics sans music. Maybe someone should get on that... I'll practise my bass, we could form a band.

It's still not poetry, though. Somehow it seems like that's a less desirable career than it once was.

Oh how my angsty little emo heart breaks.