I have written poetry for as long as I can remember. At first, poetry was just a hobby I suppose.It lacked real meaning to me until about five or six years ago. As one transitions from the innocent years of childhood to the anxiety-filled teenage years (and beyond) , I've found that one really needs an outlet, a way to express one's emotions. For me, poetry (as I often say) is therapeutic. It ... more »
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Soren Valentine Poems
A tree once golden now dies, her bones now marrowless. Her blood holds only goodbyes, Behold! life in its narrowness.
October's Red Leaf
This little leaf I hold in my hand, for fear it should escape into the air and take my joy, my memories and leaving me greying in despair.
Is This Regret?
I try to put it out, but it rises like the sea. I'm full of doubt; Is this all I'll ever be?
Light Show Over The Lake; Part II
Above the earth, below the sky, I can hear the joyful cry, They hug and love under my light, as I display my colours bright.
An Old Tree
An old tree stands by the edge of a cliff, awaiting, awaiting the waters to lift. The waves he cherishes like God's gift, but through weeds and mountains he must first sift.
You are my comfort, yet you are killing me. Your eyes are moons to which part of my heart belongs. Your voice fills me with happiness, yet it plunges me into an abyssal ghyll. It raises me like a mountain, yet it melts me like metal in the fires beneath the earth.
O fire-tongued faery, serene and mute, how your elements have consumèd my heart, leading me, bending me without dispute; with thine evil yet comely art!
Passively Tearing Me Asunder
As I love the summer's breeze, so too do I love you. And as it lifts my eyes to the Azure of the Heavens,
Its been so long since we last met, the forest floor has become our home, How can we live when our blood's been let, and is just another chapter in Love's tome?
The Hearer Who Wasn't Heard
There was once a time when you need an ear, countless times that you'vve needed release; Was I not the one who decided to hear? And eventually you found peace.
You're always so somber, complaining about life and bringing me down. I'm sick of the blame you put on Him when all He has down is fix It. But that was two years ago... Now I find you still stumbling around in Unlight, but guess what?
Ode To The Hollow Bastion Within
Take part of the darkest of fruits and see me lose my mind. My spirit has found repose in Angst's bosom. Will no one save me from the bludgeoning of this life?
The Rush of A Lie
Ancient mountains swept with snow, where a dropp of water begins to flow, is the birthplace of a small stream, and something I would never dream.
A Second Salem
I can only sit here in the dark, crying because I missed the mark; locked and too lazy to reach for the key, as cold and numb as one could be.
(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)
(1 February 1902 – 22 May 1967)
Edgar Allan Poe
(19 January 1809 - 7 October 1849)
(31 May 1819 - 26 March 1892)
(31 October 1795 – 23 February 1821)
A tree once golden now dies,
her bones now marrowless.
Her blood holds only goodbyes,
Behold! life in its narrowness.
The falling of her leaves I cannot bare,
for their veins are shriveled and dry,
uttering their lifeless prayers
as they fill the rotting sky.
Five hundred summers scorched her,
yet those memories she suppressed,
though by tears of flame tortured;
with whispering corpses she's found rest.