Just a year gone, memories piled, Looking back to the while, When you had a smile Whenever you heard my name, Or saw my face, or whenever I came Anywhere near you, Or when I’d look to The desk where you sat in middle school. Ah, those days, when you thought I was cool, No, the coolest boy who’s ever been, The smartest boy you’d ever seen, How used to smile, in your childish pleasure… You don’t think of me now, do you, Now you’re so mature?
This poem is written in perspective of a 16 year old boy called Ryu, for his cousin, Knzryo.
And soon he was lost, for he didn’t know the way round
The forgotten little forest.
He stared at the forgotten little cottage
With fear-laden eyes.
He looked to the ground, he looked at the skies,
He called his friends loud, he chanted prayers,
But there was no-one, nobody to help him there.
But there was someone in the house who’d heard the boy cry,
And there from the house, out came the most peculiar guy,
“Come he said my dear,” said the man who was not touched by age,
And there went the young guy, right in the cage.
Well, here’s something about the “young boy”. There he is, do you like the way he looks? So, this time, I’m trying to write a story with characters from different parts of Earth and he’s one of them. Thanks so much for reading, have a great day (:
And I still stare at the streets where once I met you,
Where once we walked together but now I’m lone.
This is actually from the point of view of the main character, Yuma, of a story I am writing now. He is a 16 year old former gangster, thrown out of the gang afterattempting to kill a mathematics school teacher when he meets a quiet, studious 16 year old student Kenjirou. It’s a story aboutsacrifices.
Exams are still going on, but Tatsuya had an emotional outburst. Too hard to be swallowed. Too bitter to be told aloud. That’s why a poem outlet.
A deep shaking down my heart, Like quakes, soft tremors, Going hard, Shattering hearts with Knives of broken trust—- Like pieces of glass. Awful rumours, Swallowed hard, False believes, false myths, Dreams rust— In this awful cage of reality.
I am hurt— Like a wounded bird, Can’t sing, can’t dream, can’t tell. Hopes fell, Trust fell, All gone down, down the life’s well. It hurts When people you care turn back, Stare you cold looks Throw in their black books— Just because of an unknown mistake. Can’t take, Pleading help from myself to recover A cold feeling nobody cares, A forbidding feeling that never lets me dare To go out and seek the world.
He wanted to ask, what did you do when someone you really care turned back? And I apologise to anyone whose feelings I’ve hurt for my delayed responses. Everything is going so muddled for me…
P.S. Would you please tell me, do I sound too “fake”? Do I seem too emotional?
I know, I have met you just a few days ago but already you have won a big place in my heart. I don’t know of enough words to describe the lovely and cheerful personality you have. You certainly are really sweet and lovely and amazing! I am really happy that I had found your lovely, warm place. You are a warrior, and a protector indeed.
A warm ray of happiness,
Always smiling, full of cheers
Always accepting, always helping,
Spreading light everywhere,
Dear Yeka, you know the beauty
And the real shape of love,
You the silver lining,
Of every grey cloud, looming above,
And that’s what makes you so pretty.
You are brave, always sweet,
You know how to take defeat
With a smile. You are brave,
For you fight for the right.
I admire you a lot,
And with you, it’s all about love.
I thank my lucky stars, that our paths have crossed.
Today, while browsing a few diaries, I came upon a few poems written in 2017, by my 12 year old self. There aren’t that nice, but I decided to give my little self a chance. So here is a poem by hers, not a single word changed by me. (That time, I used to read a lot of classics, so it had a tint of olden days 🙂
O Great Scholar! Not a wise man as thou
Why then ask a fellow boy, write verse- form of prose?
Why make a flow confined in lines?
Why stake a blow of compelled rhyme?
Why divide theboundary-less, free moving words in narrow groups of fours?
Why then, asks a fellow boy write verse-form of prose
O Great Scholar! Not a wise man as thou
Can’t you see he inner beauty, of an unversed prose?
The lines are independent, wherever they roam,
Why burn with shiftingwords and turn them into foam?
The words that flow ever where, without limitor fear, why rules you impose?
Can’t you see the inner beauty, of an unversed prose?
O Great Scholar,! Not a wise man as thou Can’t you see, verse goes with poetry, but not with prose? Do you not realise,poetry is the free spirit which lives after death? Do you not realise, verse is just the body who is left in the berth? Why can’t you unite the body and soul, and remove the burden you force? Can’t you see, verse goes with poetry, but not with prose?
Written from the perspective of a medieval prince, Dai, of Mhokaizi (spelled Ho-kai-zee) empire from Cygnet.