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There's this thing;

                it's called Beauty.

It changes,

                but it remains

                Beauty.

There is power in being.

There's this thing;

                it's called Child.

It grows up

                but there remains

                Child.

There is power in being.

What line is drawn between naming and being?

Is the line just one of those things that changes?

I need this power of drawing lines.

To separate, to cocoon, to become my own thing

To remain a power

To maintain a being

In the blank pages of a book

Rests potential for fame

In some filled pages of a book

Rests potential for shame

Be careful what goes in your book

But as you sit and write

in the pages of your book

Stop and think and look at what you write

Do you write horror, war, or mystery

Or math, science, or history

Whatever you write

Keep it true no matter what you do

Let the world hear you

As you cry your solemn cry

In the pages of a book

Stop to think and ponder

Why you write your little book

Whether it be from anger, fear, or shame

Or whether it be from happiness, beer, or blame

Whatever the reason may be

I tell you

As you write you mighty story

With its long and solemn cry

Always stop to think and sit

And maybe ponder why

I wrote this about a man, I can relate this to many men I have known. They always seem to know how to trigger the pessimist in me. It also conveys a longing I find inside me that one day I will have a saviour. I do not write with any knowledge of poetry I am merely trying to express myself.

I am alone, afraid and hollow inside
I want someone here to keep me alive
To save me from this hell of a life
Where pain is constant along with my strife

Its not fair for you to ask this of me
To be fine with the insults and the things that you say
To smile and act like I'm happy alive
Take myself to the top and get ready to dive

Down towards hell and where I suffered alone
Told them but they won't bother to learn
How it feels to wake and wish yourself dead
They think life is fine and the drama is all in your head

A pyschotic swirl of emotions around me
I cant pick and choose the ones that consume me
They're merciless and hate the person I am
Life is a pain and a cheated exam

Zoe

This is a poem about all the good people in the world, and those looking out for us.

"The Virtue (Guardian Angel)"

The angel screams in a voice so heavenly,

So laden with fatalistic and unanalytic virtue,

So unpresuming and inclusive,

Booming out across the countryside,

Clear like a note from a bell,

With all the killer graces of a bull,

But with all the tenderness of a lamb as well,

Nestled inside the sacred notes of the beckon.

It laments the proven appliances of the badlands it inhabits,

All night, keeping close in sight of the promised land,

And breaking each vow until his purpose is understood,

And it leaves behind the cherubim's proclamation,

To speak the trouth to a troubled soul down on the actuated, fixed, paradoxical range of a world,

That can never make a difference to those who know the angel's truth.

The angel has sprung  from the farthest reaches of the world,

To tour across the oceans,

And bring its sweet notes to all who wish to know true exultation of a godly proportion.

Somewhere, tending a garden, an old widow sighs,

For her lack of glorious dreams to reach across the sky and touch,

The angel stalks the road and weathers the night,

Before taking her hand, if only for a moment,

To touch her life as only he can, in a cascade of passion-filled beauty,

And perhaps a true love and compassion,

Or perhaps he is just suspended in his spectacular performance,

From strings emanating from heaven like wispy tendrils of tears on every city of the night.

Frozen in a moment of time so sincere, so exclusive,

So as to transcend in a wormed-out hole of a deep perfect blue,

As the golden bars swirl and entwine the blue in their luster,

Only to be swallowed themselves in the black,

That leaves the angel unharmed.

Heaven's angel, God's secret assassin, the Devil's ambassador,

The angel wears many faces,

But it can only wear one soul on the outside.

For if one is to split one's soul, as we wear many faces,

One is then to sacrifice that which makes us at the level of the image in the eyes of God,

But in the eyes of man, only black and white,

For in the angel, we rise forever dynamic,

But in the eyes of man, we lie forever static.

Yes, the soul remains an angel of heaven,

A minister in the palominic panorama,

That Apollo so willingly rides.

The angel remains futilely emotion-bound,

As I echo so many a time,

How futile are our attempts to alter that which is stone!

The angel does not echo sentiment,

But brings a sentiment entirely different from the widow,

To the next man or woman to which he will touch with so close an intimacy,

And so tender a compassion,

So as to be clasped in the golden bars,

Hidden in the blue,

And enveloped, but lying unharmed, in the blackness of space.

The angel's laments are overdue,

Overdue as well are his joy and trumpetous blasts,

Screams all across the countryside.

The Lord looks upon his servant with respect and

Admiration in an unparalleled and unduplicated, yet unimitated, yet unattempted,

Complete form in his prophet.

The angel's main face is the prophet from God,

And so this face it wears as it takes the hand of those who find themselves

In dire need of something to believe in.

Thanks for reading! I hope you liked it! Remember to please keep all criticism respectful--you are the first people to read my poetry, comments and constructive criticism please, I'm young and would like to improve. I realize my poems are rather confusing sometimes. If anyone doesn't get what this is about, just ask. I will tell you immediately. More to come...unless no one liked this.

If you are looking for love poems, you have come to the right place.

Timeless Valentine

As time goes by from year to year,
One thing is surely true, my dear;
Though decades come and decades go,
Just seeing you sets me aglow.

Time shifts my body; I start to sag,
When I pass a mirror, it can make me gag.
My joints all ache; I can hardly move;
Still a smile from you, and I'm in the groove.

Getting older can be a pain,
But with you along, I can't complain.
Despite the things that we go through,
I know I'll never stop loving you.

Your loving heart turns life to play,
As we laugh at time from day to day.
So I write this poem, and I'll hang my sign,
Saying, "Always Be My Valentine."

Lets wear our heart on are sleeve shall we?

Lay the cards on the table and go all in.

Lets sit and wait, and watch and laugh, as life goes on, lets make this last.

But what is it really that your betting, is it worth the risk your risking?

Tick tick the clock hand moves for 7am to 9 and then 10pm.

Let's watch him make his finally move pair of jacks against a pair 'o pocket aces.

Lost his game he cashs out and the winner gets the pot amount.

What's left of a once vibrant soul is nothing but an old friend and fool.

His eyes decieve the truth, or not?

Is his risk worth risking or is it not?

If not all that glitters is gold

Then pardon me to be so bold

There’s a lady that says bring her the different smiles of the world

If only to strengthen her resolve

She seeks to capture the nostalgia before it dissolves

But the man in the moon whom she loves

Seems to turn a dark eye to her for only he knows

So she closes her eyes only to rest her head on the pillow

Descend into dreams of the fallen hero

Reminisce of a time when she looked through untainted eyes when the man would shine through her window

Alas the man shines no more he is all but captured by the shadow now

he rarely smiles now and even so it but only from the corner of his mouth

He smiles for the lady that awaits him upon his journey from north to south

We use to smile too but alas she has taken the smile of our mouth

Only to complete the man to whom she gives her love

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