Here are a bunch of my poems...hope you guys don't mind me posting them in a big clump.

The Song of Love is a Bitter Melody

Cue the violin.
She’s alone again, surely forsaken. One against a world of normalcy and expectant of sympathy.

On with the melody.
It was a perfect love, she reminisces, full of passion, indiscretions, broken promises. Who knew that four letters could kill? Her heart committed suicide, tired of rollercoaster lies; too many pieces lost in the tragedy.

In comes the harmony.
She had no hope for soul revival, no intention of revisiting what she had lost…no matter what the cost. Suppressing nature, she went on, blind to everything and everyone. “Shame on me,” her subconscious reminds,” it’s my fault he hurt me twice.”

Back to the single voice.
She’s different now, it’s plain to see, the detachment bred from misery. She’ll never be the same—contact equals pain—she has herself to blame. No one can be let in.

Once more, that crying violin.
Self violence.
Now, the only song is silence.

Natural Memory

The forest gropes the sky with weather worn hands.
Sunlight plays on the pines;
shadows caress the grass with formlessness.
An owl voices distaste for the hum of the swarm tending their sticky-sweet bounty
as early spring fills my lungs.
Kitten sits, back against bark, beneath an old birch.
She’ll forget him in the silence.
His grody shoes never caress her floor anymore—her patience is too long, her eyes too entrancing.
Jess says, “non e` speciale, non hai bisogno di lui.”*
She never loved him like…
Time comes flooding back—slaps me across the face,
the pointed hand of desire imparting consciousness,
and I’m running head on into the old sweet gum to my left.
Nothing will soothe this hurt—not like butter on a burn—
or distract my mind, a tattoo needle calming thoughts in a drone of black and blood.
Cellar door.
Non ho bisogno di lui, ma non posso dimenticarlo.**
Seconds tick by,
and still oaken fingers haven’t caught the clouds.

*He isn't special, you don't need him
**I don't need him, but I can't forget him

Journey

I walked through death to see the faces of the damned.
Young and old they stared at me,
A see of hopelessness.
Desolation,
Misery and pain.
Their sins were many.
Gluttony, Envy, Wrath;
All were judged the same.
There are no circles here.
No frozen lake like Dante’s vision.
No demons.
Just darkness and silence—
Oh God, the silence.
One recognizable human being
Among the twisted mass of charred flesh.
He sat on the back of an old woman,
Bent over on her hands and knees.
His face was that of a jolly old man,
Reminiscent of Santa Claus.
There was something sinister in the fire in his eyes.
He said nothing,
Just stared at me in my wonder.
Our eyes locked,
Neither him nor I moving.
I dared not breathe.
He beckoned me to him and I sat at his feet,
Like a child awaiting a fairytale bedtime story.
He reached out to me and I stood at his touch.
He took my hand and pulled me closer,
A forked tongue gently caressing his twisted grin.
He opened his mouth, then;
Swallowed my soul.
The rest is silence.

Cycle of Seasons

Colors bleed and fade.
In autumn’s dance age succumbs to a promise of rebirth.
Ironic reds drift to the ground as auburn dances on the breeze.
Spice lulls my senses to a smile.
The air kisses my neck with a chilled warmth.
Masked children dance on summer wreckage, spinning and squealing with youthful delight.
Days turn pale and nights bitter.
Purity crunches underfoot to be restored by the storm.
Slowly winter melts into spring.
Floral smiles greet the sun.
Life slowly stirs from its slumber, awakening to green warmth.
The world sings, renewed.
Alas, the glory slowly smolders to orange.
Once again the musk of fall returns.

Imaginary

Ignite
my passion.
Set the need
on fire.
Consume me
with a kiss.
Cross the wires.
Expose the nerves.
Torture my lust with your
velvet touch.
Animate me.
Pull my strings
and make me dance.
Wrap me
in your desire.
Be my beloved, Puppetmaster.
Make me a real girl.
Douse my fear.
Put my mind to rest.
Surround me with your
warmth and keep me
as your own.
Steal me away.
Lock me in your world.
Show me how
to live.
Teach me
to feel.
Enfold me
in your arms.
Be my savior, Puppetmaster, and I‘ll be
your real girl.
Cut these strings.
Set me free.
Do with me
what you will.
I’m yours, Puppetmaster,
forever your real girl.

Mourning Glory (the companion to Imaginary)

Love is a beautiful
lie.
Blinded
by a promise of belonging, we dance
in a fallen ballet.
Promises mean nothing--
falsely stated means
to an end.
The song seems
pure and sweet;
lures us into the
morbid rhapsody.
The dream is real,
the reality a lie.
As your marionette I danced.
As your discarded plaything I
weep.
Led astray by my heart I leave it
in pieces.
Never again shall hope lead me to
failure.
I drown in the
thoughts of what I should have said--
the sea of regret.
My eyes are open.
The song is silence.
The dance is over.
All that we were has burned out and flown
away.

I sometimes have morning glory What, I couldnt resist....

In seriousness "Cycle of Seasons" Is my favorite. I dont know why but I think thats cool.

I doubt it's restricted to mornings alone

I'm split between "Journey" and "Cycle of Seasons" though all the others are very good as well. I'm just trying to steer my mind clear from what's behind the others lately ... which is probably why the only two that handle a different topic sprung out.

Great vocabulary and emotion behind your work!

i agree about the use of vocabulary and emotion!...they're all quite good, and you're very talented with the use of imagery and texture in your words and phrases..i would say some of the long sentences in "Natural Memory" seemed not to fit with the flow like the owl one but I suppose that could be intended to fit with the word "distaste" with the owl

overall great work though..i like song of love for the different kind of style you use there and cycle of seasons which sounds very pleasant to the ear

Thanks guys "The Song of Love is a Bitter Melody" I tried to mirror on Panic!At the Disco's lyric style...ya know, incorporating the music thing with the overall theme of the poem *nod*.

I liked Imaginary and Journey.

They had very good imagery and I'm a lover of nature and stuffs.

It makes me regret that I haven't been able to write poetry, but you have a very unique writing style