I write poems not to fulfill any higher purpose other than to entertain myself. I have found that poetry is a simple way I can express my views and thoughts about life. more »
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Emmanuel Stone Poems
I have spent much time living, breathing, feeling every heartbeat and emotional twang as the story grew around me.
This boy is making sandcastles that tower over his head. Great golden piles of joy an imaginery empire created.
Wolf, the Teacher
Wolves howling in the distance never been so near constant rythymn, perpetual motion not a sign of fear.
Stranger, I see you on the street You pass on your side I pass on mine
Dragon Of The Neverworlds
Into the Neverworlds I shall travel with you So grab your sword! Grab your shield! Hold them tight! For where we go there shall be war! and bring too the scrolls where those wiser than we
'This city is an animal, fierce and complicated. To understand it I read its droppings, its scents, the movements of its parasites' -Rorschach Living in the city one loses oneself
Created to Unite
Music built from nothing, face with resistance, but created to unite. Making the best of absence
A little bud of Mary Jane Would be all I need to free My mind from complication And from woe.
Spit that Blood
Spit that blood from your mouth whats it like to feel alive? The drugs pumping through your veins wake your mind like never before,
Do not worry, do not fear
I do not worry about where we are headed society always evolves and we once lived in caves,
Well, when you're chasing birds what do you know other than the wind at you feet and the sky above your head?
Cold hard fists in the morning just to wake you up. They hurt and sting and bring you to the glary light.
The End of the Jetty.
A lone person standing at the end of the jetty While the storm rages on around him The others stand on the shore Fear the rage of the storm.
He is watching in a tower above all. So removed, yet so intricately aware.
(4 April 1928 - 28 May 2014)
(March 26, 1874 – January 29, 1963)
(10 December 1830 – 15 May 1886)
(26 April 1564 - 23 April 1616)
(12 July 1904 – 23 September 1973)
Edgar Allan Poe
(19 January 1809 - 7 October 1849)
(1 February 1902 – 22 May 1967)
(31 May 1819 - 26 March 1892)
(31 October 1795 – 23 February 1821)
I have spent much time
living, breathing, feeling
every heartbeat and emotional twang
as the story grew around me.
Now it shall grow no more
like a tree before dying
but its endless leaves and branches
wrap around, and hold me tight.
I watched it unfurl and blossom
but i know now it is at an end
I savor every remaining flavour
and relish the aftertaste.
It is sad to watch a friend fade away
but all things must come to this end.
This story is finished
but mine has yet some way to go.