dragonqueen

Lines of poetry Fly through my head. As I lie here In my warm bed. I reach for them Like a drowning man reaches for air. They are my salvation. Without them, hope is not there. My words are My angel. Keeping me from sinking To the depths of Hell. I grasp the arms Of my strong angel Saving me from The depths of Hell. He holds me tight And comforts me. My soul is calmed And I am content to let it be.

The first lines just had such a feeling of despair, of having sunk to the ultimate low and being as worthless as you can be. Anyone who can invoke such powerful feelings with words is amazing. That just struck right to the heart, and as was said before, created questions and doubts. An entirely different view on what is supposedly a good thing. Extraordinarily powerful.

Great poem. What sin could be so big, though? Can any human really sin that bad and affect the world that negatively? I'd say we're all to blame.

Amazing poem, but the last two lines are a little confusing. Losing belief, but still having faith? Aren't they almost the same thing? Wonderful rythym and rhyme scheme.

very creepy...gave me shivers...you must have a strong stomach to be able to write something like that. well done.

Walking all alone, Head down, hair shielding her face. No one walks beside her. She hasn't any friends. She's shut them all out. They used to care, But she shoved them away. Locked herself in her prison, And threw away the key. She watches life from the sidelines Too far away to participate. Lost in the world of the internet Too deep to pull free. Too late, she's realized what she's done. And looks for a way to return. But she can't go back to who she used to be. Though she tries so hard. She beats her fists against the walls She built for herself. But cannot find the key. She's her own worst enemy.

They sit, still as stones, spotting the desert landscape. That is all they do, just sitting, and watching, and waiting. Finally one moves, raises its head and asks, “Is it time? Will it happen?” Another stirs itself enough to shake its scaly head. Then they lapse back into silence and wait yet more. They have been waiting and watching for eons, since the beginning of time. They watched the birth of the world, and they will watch its death. They watch the world from the sidelines, unemotinal and uncaring. What is their purpose? Who knows? Do they work for some higher being? Time passes; empires rise and fall. Still they watch, never taking a hand in anything, just observing. Will they ever tire of watching? Hundreds, no, thousands of them participate, watching from the sidelines, shaking their heads and sighing at human foolishness. “How short, how meaningless are their lives,” marvels one. “Hush; you must not mock them. ‘Tis not their fault. That is the way they were made,” a lizard of a deep green hide answers. Their leader glares them both into silence. Their place is not to judge, but merely to watch, and wait. But what do they wait for? After many eons they have a visitor, or rather, visitors. Four horseman; one all in skeletal black, another starved and emaciated, the third marked with hideous sores and pock marks, and the last clothed in blood red. The watchers mutter among themselves, and bow their heads to these strangers. The four acknowledge them, and one speaks to their leader. “How goes it, Green One?” queries the skeletal visitor courteously. “Well, my lord, very well.” the Green One replies. “We sense it coming.” “Very good. Carry on.” With that, the four horsemen leave, galloping off into the horizon. It is many millenniums before the watchers become restless, but finally they do. The creatures stir and begin to murmur excitedly. They sense the end of their task approaching, and are eager. Suddenly, a flash, a boom! A high-pitched keening fills the air, as if the earth herself were wailing. But then, silence, as the blanket of destruction covers the world. The creatures watch benevolently, feeling fulfillment. This is what they have been waiting for, all this time-- the Apocalypse, the death of the world, Judgment Day. The green ones are content, for it has happened. One world is destroyed; another is created in its place. The other world is not mourned, but forgotten, for what do the lives of such mortal creatures matter? For every one that died there are a thousand more. The emerald colored beasts move, for the first time in ages, and depart, traveling to a new world, to start again their task. One lingers, thinking. He is slow to rouse himself, and says, almost to himself, “There they go, and I must follow, for I am their leader. What new world’s doom will we next announce?”

A curse on thee Who did not let the poet be. May your skin grow dry and yellow And your temper not so mellow. Your nature shall turn wild like a wolve's And look down, you've started growing hooves. Back away now, lest ye make it worse, Thee who bears the poet's curse.

Let the tears fall down like rain Let the world see your pain. But they won't look, They won't care. They've got too much of their own to bear.

A young girl with shining red hair sat at a large wooden table in a tavern. Bored, she drew designs on the tabletop with her finger, while her mother and father talked with her cousin, Rayon. “Rayon, how do your studies go? And how is your mother?” the girl’s mother asked, leaning foward, eager for news of her family. “My studies are progressing well. In just a year I shall be a full-fledged water mage! Mother is fine. She had a mild cold in the spring, but now she’s right as rain!” Rayon told his aunt. His cousin, not interested in the news, began to talk to herself, muttering nonsense things. The three adults looked at her. Shaking his head, her father said, “Here Flairette, see if you can do anything with this,” and tossed her what looked like a translucent glass ball. It was an element sphere; mages could summon images of their element in it, and it was often used to visualize spells. Flairette caught it neatly, and began to study it. The conversation progressed, but Flairette, occupied with the ball, did not intrude anymore. Holding the ball firmly in her hands, she concetrated on her favorite element, fire. Slowly, a faintly transparent flame appeared in the bauble. The fire grew to fill the entirety of the small glass ball, and Flairette smiled triumphantly. She formed the flame into a fiery unicorn, and her grin grew broader. “Flairette, what’ve you got there?” Her mother leaned over to look at Flairette’s handiwork, and Flairette proudly gave her the bauble. “Why, look, Tirone, look what Flairette’s done!” Flairette’s mother exclaimed proudly. Flairette’s father took the glass ball from his wife. “Amazing! She’s conjured a flame! Arina, she’ll be a mage!” he said excitedly. “Send her to the school when she’s old enough,” Rayon suggested. “She’ll need it. Looks like she’s got a good, strong affinity, and if she doesn’t learn to control it, I reckon she’ll hurt someone.” “Why, of course she’ll get all the schooling she needs! Flairette, you’re going to be the greatest fire mage ever!” Arina said fondly to her daughter. Flairette grinned, pleased by the praise the adults were giving her. She held her parents’ hands as they walked out of the tavern, and the crystal ball lay behind on the table, forgotten. Rayon stopped and picked it up, and as he did a shadow came over it...

My heart's a cold and lonely place Where it rains day in day out. I wish that I could fly away To some better unknown place. But I can't. Because I've trapped myself In the walls of my mind. Too afraid to step out But not afraid to step in. And so I live a shadowed life Ever retreating further into The dark hallways of my mind.

So long. It’s been so long, since last I walked the earth. 10,000 years. But after a while, the time doesn’t matter. You slip into a stasis, not thinking, not living. Now finally, finally, my chance has come, to rise, for a few precious hours, and feel the breath of night air on my face. Slowly, achingly slowly, I stretch out my arms, and feel them hit the rotting lid of my coffin. I push it open, and, beginning to learn to move again, rise up as the wolf howls. My flesh is rotting, my innards eaten, but my mind is still whole, and thus I step out of my final resting place. I feel the wind blowing the greasy, lank hair back from my face. Ah, my hair. It used to be my pride and joy; long, shining, the color of ripe wheat. Now, it no longer matters. The dead have no pride, no joy. All around me, I see my brethren rise. We have come from every corner of the earth to this hidden graveyard, but we share one thing in common. All of us have paid the terrible price for this chance to live again, once every 10,000 years. Was it worth it? I don’t know. The agony of being in between worlds, being the living dead, the waiting, it doesn’t seem like it. But then, walking the earth once more, I know it was. Anything would be worth it, this chance to live again. The night warms my sleeping bones. I try to speak, to shout, but nothing emerges. I cannot speak, for my vocal cords distengrated long ago. Momentary disappointment strikes me, but I brush it away. I will speak soon. The night is dark and cool, the moon shadowed by clouds. Suddenly, the clouds are pushed aside. This is what we have all been waiting for. The fragile, ethereal moonlight falls upon us, restoring to us our former glory. I feel my flesh restore itself, and the hands of time are turned back. I shriek for joy, hearing the shrill, unused voices of my fellows all around me. I smile, for I am beautiful once more; an otherworldly being, my platinum hair floating around me in an eerie halo. I know what I look like. An angel, cold and glorious. I am no angel, though, but a devil, who has sold my soul to Satan. Such was my ambition to live again; such was my fear of eternal death. What use has a dead woman of a soul, though? Surely it is worth it, to be offered this once in a lifetime chance. I have no time to ponder this, though, for now I must perform the Dance. Our movements quickening with a strange urgency, we form a circle, and begin to whirl. My hair is flying, and I feel young and energetic. The Dance possesses me, and it is my only thought. But finally, finally, I fall to the ground, my sudden energy depleted, the elation departing from me. I lay, panting, and the moon disappears. I scream, begging to stay just another moment, but the dark steals my voice from me, and I am returned to my rightful condition once more. Wishing I could weep, I slip back to my tomb, and fall, as if fainted, into my coffin. The lid closes over me, and I am screaming in my heart, screaming with the pain of the doomed. It will be another 10,000 years. Already, the memory fades from my mind, lost among countless others. So long, so long have I been trapped in this endless circle. Oh, dear Lord, it was not worth it, I know this now. Please, dear Lord, tear me from this doomed circle. It has been so long, so long.

Thanks to my friend for the idea... A garbage can Is a Museum. It showcases Broken remnants Of our lives. Discarded thoughtlessly, recklessly. Buried beneath Layers of filth, And pieces Of other Lives. ‘Till careful hands, Sifting through, Uncover them. Each piece Tells a story. Of a life Lost Long ago. Shattered remains Of our lives.

A story of a teenage girl's unexpected suicide. I was depressed and angry, but rarely do the words flow so smoothly from my fingers. I believe I shall consider it a masterpiece. “Sara, do you know where Kyra is? I haven’t seen her all day,” Mark Tremoli asked his wife. “No. She was gone when I woke up and I haven’t seen her since. I’m beginning to get worried,” Sara answered. Her teenage daughter had been a little distant lately, and it made her nervous. Just then, the phone rang. Sara reached over and picked it up. “Hello, Tremoli residence. Sara speaking.” “Hey, Mom. It’s Kyra.” Kyra sounded calm and casual over the phone, like she hadn’t been missing the entire day. “Kyra! Where have you been? Your father and I are starting to get worried!” “Take a chill pill, Mom. I‘m at the beach.” Kyra soothed her mother. “Yoan beach? Kyra, why didn’t you write a note, or something? You know you have to tell me if you’re going to the beach!” Mrs. Tremoli was frantic. “Not Yoan beach. Traisi beach. And I didn’t leave a note for you because this time is different. I wanted to tell you in person.” Kyra explained. “Tell me what?! Kyra, that is no explanation!” Sara was frightened and unnerved by her daughter’s erratic behavior. Why was she doing this? “I’m going to jump, Mom. I’m on the cliff at Traisi, and I’m wearing my dark blue dress, you know, the one with silver flowers on the edge. Just wanted to be dressed the best when I die. Listen closely. If you really want to, drag my body up after I’m dead or, just leave it there. If you insist on bringing it up, I wish to be cremated on that same cliff. Got it?” Kyra’s mother was silent in shock. Then she whispered to her husband, “Mark, you better put her on speakerphone. You’ll want to hear this.” Quietly, Mark rose and pressed the speaker button on the phone. His daughter’s voice flooded the house. “Mom, are you listening? You had better be, because you can consider this my suicide note.” Kyra told her parents. Mark’s jaw dropped in shock. “Oh my god,” her father whispered. “Why? Why is she doing this?” As if she could read his mind, Kyra said, “You probably want to know why I’m doing this, what you’ve done wrong. I’ll tell you what you did. You never appreciated my talents. Never accepted that what I was doing was right for me. Like music. When I ditched classical, you criticized me, even though I knew what I was doing was right. You said I was burning my bridges too soon. You said you were over it, but you weren’t. Don’t think I didn’t get all those little quips. I can read between the lines too. That hurt, Mom, that really hurt. And my art! I loved art, and yet, where did my effort go? Music, other things. My art, my writing, it all went unrecognized. Nobody ever knew I was an artist. It’s all the little things, Mom, the little things that make the difference. And that’s why I’m saying this now. Goodbye. Tell the world goodbye for me. Oh, wait, one last thing. In my room, you’ll find a bookshelf. It’s got glass doors, and it’s white. You’ll see it. In there is all my art and writing. I want you to take the best, and publish it. I’ll be just like Emily Dickinson, unrecognized until after my death. What a splash that’ll make! An anonymous teenager, a writer in secret, committed suicide and left instructions for her work to be published. Nobody knew what a great author she was until it was too late! Anyway, I better be going. I’ll be gone in 30 minutes, Mom. 30 minutes, no less, no more. Goodbye, Mom, Dad. Goodbye, world.” “Kyra, wait, don’t do this! Talk to us! Maybe we can fix it, go to counseling, make it better!” Sara cried frantically. “It’s too late, Mom, too late. You should have thought of that a long time ago.” Kyra laughed bitterly at her mother’s efforts to save her life. “Please, Kyra, just wait for us to get there! We can work this out!” Mrs. Tremoli pleaded desperately. “I told you, Mom. 30 minutes, no more, no less. Well, see ya. I really do have to get going. Dusk doesn‘t last forever, you know, and this is my chance to make a dramatic exit. Besides, you‘re using up your 30 minutes.” “Oh my god! Mark, get the car! Kyra, we love you! Please, just wait!” There was a click on the other end, and after a moment, the dial tone. Sara was in tears, unable to believe this was happening to her. She should have known something was wrong, should have talked to Kyra, should have been a better parent. She rushed out to the car. Mark Tremoli pulled out of the driveway, and floored the gas pedal. He drove recklessly, making horrifyingly sharp turns, but Sara was too distraught to notice. They couldn’t reach the shore soon enough, and Sara leaped out almost before the vehicle stopped. She ran towards the sheer edge hoping desperately that she was not too late. Her husband followed behind her, scanning the horizon for any sign of his daughter. His eyes almost passed over her, then flickered back. She was silhouetted against the setting sun, her dark hair blowing in the wind. Mark ran towards her, calling her name, but his words were whipped away by the vicious wind. Sara reached their daughter before him, and grinning cruelly, Kyra looked up from her watch. “Just in time, Mom. 10 minutes left. What do you have to say? I’ve already said my last words. Want to take any pictures? Try and talk me out of it? Call the police? Take your pick.” Kyra suggested. “Oh, Kyra,” Sara said tearfully. “I wish you wouldn’t do this. Your father and I love you very much.” “Yeah, well, you could have said that a little earlier, couldn’t you? I’d say you’re a little past due now. The clock’s ticking.” Kyra was unsympathetic to her parents’ distress. “Kyra, please rethink this. I’m sure there are better ways to deal with this.” Mark begged his suicidal daughter. “Please, honey. Don’t do this. You have friends, and family, and people who will miss you very much.” Sara told Kyra. “Haven’t you been paying attention? I don’t have any friends. I’m an outcast. If you’d been paying attention to me, you’d know that, and maybe it wouldn’t have happened.” Kyra blamed her parents, without a shred of guilt. “Oh, three minutes left.” “Kyra, please. Mark get the camera. I want one last picture of my little girl.” Sara instructed her husband as tears streamed down her cheeks. Mark Tremoli obeyed, his own eyes filling up. As Kyra moved into position, he snapped a picture, and then another. Smiling, Kyra said softly, “Mom, Dad, goodbye. I wish it could have been different. Maybe I’ll see you again someday. Remember to publish my writing and art. Goodbye and God bless the world.” Waving to her parents, Kyra began to step backwards. Sara rushed forward and threw herself at her daughter, hugging her distraughtly. Mark followed, putting his arms around both of them. Still smiling, Kyra gently shook her parents off, and whispered, barely audible, “Finally, escape.” Graceful as a swan, Kyra launched herself off the cliff, arcing through the air. She cut the water cleanly, and disappeared into the depths. Her parents clung to each other and wept despairingly. They stood there long into the night, unable to cope with the enormity of their grief. Finally, they stirred themselves, and Sara, her voice trembling, called the police. She wasn’t sure why she hadn’t before, but she hadn’t wanted to mar her daughter’s passing. They dragged the ocean beneath the cliff, and divers searched endlessly, but they never found the body of Kyra Tremoli. It is said that if you go to the cliff at dusk, when the gates between worlds open, you will glimpse her, a pale, wispy figure walking desolately along the cliffside. The site has become something of a landmark, and Kyra’s work was published, exactly as she had wished. Occasionally, she still walks through the empty hallways of her old home, reaching out to her parents with a chillingly cold touch. Many have wondered if she ever felt any remorse for what she had done. Her story is a sad one, and remains as a timeless warning.

The wind swirls around me, Whispering, whispering, whispering. It murmurs to me of long-lost kingdoms, And sings the praises of mighty heroes. The wind swirls around me, Like a mother’s loving hands, Caressing, stroking, soothing. It tugs me towards the trees, And under their leafy branches Tells me of far and distant lands. The wind swirls around me, Teasing playfully. Coyly, it informs me of scandalous rumors. Giggling as it breezes past the bushes. The wind swirls around me, Sighing regretfully, Reluctantly bidding me farewell. With a few lingering embraces, It wafts away from me Whispering that perhaps, it shall return another day.

In a cottage by the sea, There lives someone who might be me. Her hair is the color of the sun, Like mine once was done. Her eyes are the color of the darkened sky, The same color of my own two eyes. She lays claim to a lovely name, And mine is just the same. But she's got a certain shine, That never could be mine. In a cottage by the sea, There lives someone who might be me. If I'd lived in a better time, When gods walked the earth and with mortals dined. I was reading Patricia McKillip's Something Rich and Strange , and a line came to me, "In a cottage by the sea," and the second line just naturally followed. I worked on it from there.

I wrote an acronym about sleep, in class, when I was very tired. Send me to the Land of dreams, where Evermore I wish to drift, Eternally fast asleep, with Purple cows and flying sheep.

A amazingly bad joke, but still one of my favorites... What did the mushroom say when his girlfriend dumped him? Come on, I'm a fun guy!

Personally, I love quotes, and I have quite a collection. I will post a few... Faith is believing in things when commen sense tells you not to. - Unknown If it's a good idea, go ahead and do it. It's much easier to apologize than it is to get permission. - Unknown If you can't learn to do it well, learn to enjoy doing it badly. -Ashleigh Brilliant Maybe this world is another planet's hell.-Unknown Never be afraid to try something new. Remember, amatuers built the ark and professionals built the Titanic.-Unknown

I'm new here, but hey. Here it goes! Most often, inspiration strikes when I am at school. Thus, the poetry gets wrote down in my agenda, a dayplanner-like thing. ****************** Kind of choppy, but it says what I meant it to. I wanted to express how much I loath and despise gym class, especially since I am athletically challenged. I'm not cut out for this. This isn't what I'm meant to be. Why can't you see? Don't make me do this. I don't want to. I don't want to hear the boos. I hate this. I don't want to be here. Isn't that clear? I'm an artist not an athlete. My talents don't lie here. I won't do this; is that clear? ****************** It was running through my head and wouldn't get out. Stay on the sunny side, Never on the dark side. Smile and be cheerful, Never be fearfull. Look on the bright side, Never on the dim side. Sing and be glad, For all the wonders to be had. Stay on the sunny side of life, Never full of strife. ****************** They always make the world sound like such a bad place...it drives me crazy. Not that the hood is a bad place(I don't really know, actually, but I don't want to offend anyone). Say it ain't so. I don't wanna know. They say all the world's bad. That there's nothing good to be had. But I know it can't be that way. Somewhere there's gotta be some good. We can't all live in the hood. Tell me where people are good and kind. They can't all have a criminal mind. 'Till you say it ain't so, I'll just ignore it. I don't hafta know. I don't hafta bear it. ****************** Inspired by a discussion of idioms. It's raining cats and dogs, Oh, it's raining cats and dogs. Quick, quick, everyone run for shelter, Everyone run, helter-skelter. Faces from the window peek, For years, of this they will speak. Oh, that rainy dismal December day, When it rained cats and dogs, or so they say. ******************* We had to write a poem based of 'Theme of English B' by Langston Hughes. She said, "There will be a quiz on Tuesday. On the countries of Europe. Memorize them, please." It seems so simple. But it's not. These names, these words, they mean nothing to me. How can a word convey a country, a culture, a people? It does not, cannot. I thirst for knowledge of the world. I must know more. I must have something to link with the name. Else they fall through my head, meaningless. I know some words. New Jersey - New Jersey is my home. It means me, and Raritan and Somerset County, It is the Garden State. I know this, but Belgium? Belgium draws a blank. Who are it's people? Are they black, white? Poor or rich? Are they good people? What is it like in Belgium? I know nothing. I am innocent and naive, living my sheltered life. But I can change this. I will not fill my head with empty words. And I cannot learn them so quickly. For how can a culture, a country, be learned, just like that? But over time, I will fill my head with knowledge of the world. And the names will not be meaningless.