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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.
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.
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
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More from ~ThroneLiesFallow

Aphrodite's DissertationThe sound of catamarans upon the foam,
the march of cavalry and weary knights
who lay their bodies down are coming home
to linens drying like a hundred kites;
if not for love, what force are sword and chain
that they may honor empires with their call,
if not for me, they all have died in vain
and made of Troy the laughingstock for all.
Indeed, your chamois shirts and littered socks,
the tender cartilage of tambourines,
unfinished wine, and little jew'llery box,
and dual hemispheres of nectarines—
belong to me alone in my design:
the air you breathe, your everything, is mine.
My Lips are Ofttimes Blue and Colder FrostMy lips are ofttimes blue and colder frost
when lo, my love employs nor moves me not,
and quiver they like smoke of chimney post,
aghast and ghostly thrust from cooling pot;
so you should know mine inner most parts
now resin dust bestrewn of violins,
a wraith divest of hearth and willful arts,
as erstwhile blood returns to whence begins
to plague the soul anew with old disguise.
Yet stay a while to warm unwanted days
as sight can ease the issue borne of eyes,
device of warmth tho etched in frosted lays;
my lips may blush at yet the sight of thee
tho nevermore shalt thou touch kind of me.
Whenever Fled of Labors Lost in TimeWhenever fled of labors lost in time
or asked of distant years o'ertaken by,
reminded thus of happiness in prime,
and failures swathed in mellow lullaby-
when questioned why I durst recant my dreams
and plainly proffer all my crowns to one
from whom I ne'er shall hear of sacred themes,
and wait for death along an ev'ning sun-
then shall I ask the summer rains when they
are part of clouds no more and downward sown,
or moments when a stone gives thought to lay
and thus elect a mountain where 'tis thrown.
From what a time did flame require her moth?
For moth and flame are never twain, but both.
The King is Coming HomeAlas your king apace is coming home,
the Northern Star who blazes overhead,
and empty stands no more the throne—
O little one, what joy in milk and bread!
He Passed by my Woods on a Snowy EveningWho passed my woods I think I know,
the prints his horse left still may show
betwixt the lake and powdered grove,
tomorrow softened each with snow.

This man, I know, he does not rove,
he must have come by near the cove;
I heard the harness bells so clear
when seated, reading, by the stove,

and wished I more of chimes to hear
this darkest evening of the year
through winter woods so soft and prim,
now bathed in twilight's snowy sheer.

And long the trees have yet to slim,
content with snow my friend may brim;
it shall be years 'till I see him,
it shall be years 'till I see him.
What WondersWhat wonders grieving cannot grant
in all its pageantry and hue
for woes an instant mayn't recant
nor hasty utterance undo.

It shall not cause the sun to rise,
or head the grain, or heal the blind—
the tides recede without its prize—
nor shall it win you back in kind.

Featured in Groups:

:iconrhyme-and-reason: #Rhyme-and-Reason
Creating new classics :iconlive-love-write: #Live-Love-Write
Literature Lovers :iconwriters--club: #Writers--club
A group for all writers! :iconpenandpaperpoets: #PenAndPaperPoets
 :iconpoetsduringthenight: #PoetsDuringTheNight
Best ideas come during the night :iconpoetry-sanctuary: #Poetry-Sanctuary
 :iconwrite-away: #Write-Away
Please Read The Rules! :) :iconwritersink: #WritersInk
What's your story?

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January 24, 2011
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A Grave Futility

:iconthroneliesfallow:

A grave futility of words and sighs,
these fruitless porters void of pregnant means
impeach the cries that tether Ego's ties
to all the magistrate of Id's machines.
And yet, tho stars deride the mortal strum
as liveliness of trifles or disdain,
the founts of Delphi shall my pen become
to scribe on Triton's waves with high refrain—
O come, waters deep, swiftly from your keep!
:iconthroneliesfallow:
Contest entry for the #Rhyme-and-Reason contest [link]

The basic idea is the occasional inability and ineptitude of words to describe anything of great importance ("pregnant means") and serve only to further frustrate the writer (lines 3 and 4). However, that doesn't seem to stop the speaker from continuing to write, because often there is no other thing that brings catharsis like creating a work of art from nothingness. The volta I put into line five because, well, that was the natural break for it.

The rhyme scheme is ABABCDCD EE (in the same line). This
"sonnet petit" form has been dictated by ~tina-go-lightly.

PS. Oh my gosh how do you link people's profiles???
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:icontinpenguin:
~TinPenguin Jul 4, 2011  Hobbyist General Artist
Short but great poem! Glad I found the Rhyme&Reason group, because it's shown me there are people on dA who write actual poetry. :D
Reply
:iconthroneliesfallow:
~ThroneLiesFallow Jul 7, 2011  Hobbyist Writer
Thank you very much! Glad you like it!
Reply
:iconli1121:
!li1121 Mar 20, 2011  Student Writer
So uh... My comments about this in #Rhyme-and-Reason's journal entry pretty much sum up what I have to say on this.

/end cheap way of getting out of writing a critique.

:)
Reply
:iconthroneliesfallow:
~ThroneLiesFallow Mar 21, 2011  Hobbyist Writer
WHOOOOOOO yaaay! Thankies much!
Reply
:iconchess411:
~chess411 Feb 1, 2011  Hobbyist Writer
Very interesting. Forgive if I misread, but I love the mix of Freudian reference and Classical mythology.
Reply
:iconthroneliesfallow:
~ThroneLiesFallow Feb 2, 2011  Hobbyist Writer
Yup you got it right, Freud and Greek classics. :P
Reply
:iconrlkirkland:
*rlkirkland Jan 29, 2011  Hobbyist Writer
A pleasing style with unstrained rhyme. Nice! :)
Reply
:iconthroneliesfallow:
~ThroneLiesFallow Jan 29, 2011  Hobbyist Writer
Thank you!
Reply
:iconparsat:
*Parsat Jan 25, 2011  Student Writer
Use the syntax :icon<username here>: to link to a person. It looks like this (if I use you as an example): :iconthroneliesfallow:

The other one to link straight to their name. You can do that by using :dev<username here>: That shows up as ~ThroneLiesFallow.

As for the poem, I thought it was much easier to understand than your other works, but no less deep. Your allusions to Greek mythology are a unique distinguishing feature that I like in your poems.
Reply
:iconthroneliesfallow:
~ThroneLiesFallow Jan 25, 2011  Hobbyist Writer
Ah thank you so much. :dev<reader2951> *crosses fingers*.

I hope it gets a placing in the contest!!! I love Greek mythology; it's so fun.
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