Poetry

Yes indeed, the Monkey does scribble the occasional poem as well as fantasy novels! And here are some of them for you to enjoy. :3
Please comment if you like these and I'll post more!
Since the page is quite long, here's an index:
(simply press CTRL + F and search for the poem title)
- Dreams
- IRONY
- Love, Must Be
- The Inking Pen
- What I Carved Upon a Tombstone

Dreams
(Written 14.Dec.2010 12:38 am)

I'm living someone else's dream.
Someone somewhere is wishing to be,
here, being what I am and doing what I do.

I'm living someone else's dream.
Someone somewhere is dreaming of this,
and praying that God let them trade places with me.

I'm living someone else's dream.
Someone's who would give my life,
the same value I grant my own dreams.

I'm living someone else's dream,
and knowing thus gives whole new pride,
to being alive and being me.

Love, Must Be
(Written 16.Nov.11)

I conceived love to be,
something like the our western friends,
describe in movies, magazines and trends,
I conceived it to see.

I conceived love to form,
something that I simply chose,
that then arose,
a knight riding through the storm.

I could have sworn that love was so,
a miracle to heal all woes,
a high to handle all one's lows,
better I ought to know.

Love must be a childish thing,
she must have it in for me,
playing mischievous tricks freely,
claiming she likes it when I sing.

Love must be a bitter foe,
I've upset her and now she's peeved,
all I can do is watch her seeth,
she'll never let her offend go.

She is ready to war,
watch her paint a nightmare scene,
across my midnight dream,
and yet there's so much more in store.

Run, run fast if you can,
she's out for blood, and you're her man,
what she wants, you better have in hand
or watch your world turn to sand.

Still, love; must be...in high demand.

IRONY
(Written 4.Oct.09)

Irony:

The bitch,
with a whip,
and an iron fist.

Who beats,
remorseless,
to effect justice.

Irony.

The Inking Pen
(date unknown)

She whom, by
the rising currents takes wind,
the inking pen sets free,
the things the mouth cannot.

By the sleeping eye,
paints the landscape colourful,
reconstructs the world,
to her own liking,
dances in the armour of black and blue.

From the snows of the North,
to the suns of the East,
and re-discovers fabrics woven,
partially frayed, unfinished,
foot prints on the sand.

Wrinkle your toes,
slither into slumber beneath,
the warmness of the covers,
of clouds in the sky.

The throat aches,
the finger throbs,
the head droops,
the inking pen keeps writing still.

What I Carved Upon A Tombstone
(14.Feb.2012)

We thought it would last forever,
now everything is gone.
Everything we thought was right,
ends up being wrong.

We were everything,
we were the world,
we were the end-all.
Our thoughts were what finally,
made it fall.

It's only poetic justice,
this is where it began,
this is the place you melted the ice,
this is where I first sang.

Thus it's perfectly right,
that this is where it ends,
and it ends here tonight,
and is where my heart rends.

I thought putting together pieces,
of that which was already broken,
would make something new and whole,
but it only made upsets and the unsaid galore.

All I made was a mirror,
poorly sown,
pieced-up,
broken-down.
Don't make a sound!
Unspoken apologies,
only feed the furor.

It's all empty words,
a wounded bird made to fly at must,
it was my fault,
for not seeing it for what it was.

Thus I took it all,
I took a fall and made it real,
you feel hurt, and I understand,
underhand was not what I planned.

Now we're lonely,
only nights away from each other,
eternity won't heal, but it will bury,
the hurt, the hate and the sorry.

I hold shattered glass in my hands,
I don't know if it will bloom anymore,
but we'll walk away from here again,
we'll be in doubt, we'll be sure.

I don't blame you, I should have known,
this path I've chosen, I walk alone;
Perhaps there is no place I can call home,
hurry and speak now before we're gone.

We weren't wrong,
We were just young.