(no subject)
just recently, i found one of my old poetry books. and i think i figured out why i cant write really anymore. I think it is because i am not sad. i am going to share some of my poems, tell me what yah think
A dove falls to the ground,
as gracefully as if it where aflight.
It's wings crumble upon imact,
like the bark of a timbered tree...
This happening, willed by god....
Shows his putrid strengths.
Just how deep do these strengths go??
How good can this so called savior be?
We find this... By looking at his counterpart,
Supposedly surrounded by heat so hot it can burn the dead.
Satan, Lucifer, whatever you want to call the the guy.
He is our saviour... reality, is our saviour.
God shows that of fantasy, puffy clouds and wings...
a life we would all like to have, but could never smell, hear, see, or touch.
But like the dove's wings, our dreams crumble
and as they do, we realize who our saviour is
and embrace him...
more later, it's alot to type
A dove falls to the ground,
as gracefully as if it where aflight.
It's wings crumble upon imact,
like the bark of a timbered tree...
This happening, willed by god....
Shows his putrid strengths.
Just how deep do these strengths go??
How good can this so called savior be?
We find this... By looking at his counterpart,
Supposedly surrounded by heat so hot it can burn the dead.
Satan, Lucifer, whatever you want to call the the guy.
He is our saviour... reality, is our saviour.
God shows that of fantasy, puffy clouds and wings...
a life we would all like to have, but could never smell, hear, see, or touch.
But like the dove's wings, our dreams crumble
and as they do, we realize who our saviour is
and embrace him...
more later, it's alot to type