So I've decided to write poetry. My poems are simple and complex at the same time.
While it's easy to work out what it's about, some of them may have hidden meanings.
I write poems with simple structures too. 4 Stanzas containing 4 lines each.
So without further ado, here are my poems!
My last verse
There lies my loved one, asleep on the bed.
I wish she weren't gone, but I face the truth, she's dead.
I, only 27, descend to my room.
Will I climb the stairs to heaven? or will the firey depths be my tomb.
I take her hair dryer, and climb in the bath.
Fill the tub higher, death my only path.
As I scrunch up this paper, and throw away this pen,
Know this is my last verse.
Beautiful Caitlin, see you in ten.
SpoilerSat there in the attic, scribbling with his pen,
A man so erratic, stays in his den.
Watching out the window, across Clock Town,
He decides the fate of the people, even he who wears the crown.
So feared is the writer, the townsfolk sent a hitman,
"That cheeky little blighter", he thought, as he devised a counter plan.
The hitman walks up the steps, readying his sword,
The writer took his pen and crept, crept along the creaking floor.
"I'll look at you and decide your fate" said the bitter old man,
"And a wound in your belly I will create" challenged the hitman, as if he can.
So they stood and they stared, face to face.
The Writer, he merely glared, the hitman struck without haste.
Clock Town now safe, the Writer deceased
Stood there was the victorious waif, the bloody body beneath.
The hitman, outside, the townsfolk cheered
"The Writer died! now there's nothing to fear!
SpoilerMen in furry coats, walking on the frosty grass,
dew drops, on every leaf in this grey foggy landscape.
A blue moon, shining through dead trees, is cast,
blue face, the hikers from their icy fate can't escape.
I, here in my lodge, heating is a blue flame,
watching strangers struggling silently.
A roar, I hear, a rattle of chains,
The coldness. An icy lancer. Whistles violently.
I step out. The cold attacks. I shiver and shiver.
My face now blue. the fog deep grey.
I step, carefully, across a frozen river.
The hikers stare. Dead eyes. Nothing to say.
They lie on the colourless, icy grass.
They, fallen. I see their struggle.
I bring them in. The warm side of the glass.
Fire still blue, faces red, they sleep and snuggle.