This sounds very interesting! I’d love to see where this goes.
Awesome!!! I’ll send you a link!! what is your email?
Grey Mists surround me,
Broken only by my own arms,
Looming in front of me.
I watch as it collects in small beads,
Only to drip down and plunge,
Into the soft moss underfoot.
A silence as unbroken as the mists,
Weighs down upon me.
Pressing harder and harder.
I’m left here alone.
Only the mists and I.
Forever wondering which direction,
Would lead out of this prison.
And doing nothing,
But standing here,
Watching the misery run read down my arms.
The Rebirth of the Druid
Spirits of The Druid, leading me forward.
Across this vast Wasteland, the Plague of Life cured.
Red sands and bleached bones,
This is all that remains of my Home.
The glaring sun reigns from above,
The bloodstained sands rule from below.
A Desert Scar where once the Forest dwelled,
Forgotten Skulls leer and whisper their hellos.
The Twin Spirits of the Druid call my name,
Calling me back to the days of fame,
The days of old, where the Druid was King.
And there in the sand, almost forgotten, lay Life’s Ring
I reached down and picked up the artifact,
A strong wind rose, and there was no turning back,
Rain Poured, Thunder Rang,
The Druid King lives again!
Power courses through my body,
As liquid metal flows over my skin.
Life has returned to The Waste,
The Dark One shall not Win!
The Trial of The Hero
I stand atop a Spiral Stair
An Oracle confronts me there.
He barrs the path to lands unknown,
Rusty Gates, Cracked grey stone.
A Journey of a Thousand miles lay behind,
A Thousand memories fly through my mind.
All that has crossed my path before,
The Hate, The Challenge, The Blood, The Gore.
All paths lead to this peak,
Awaiting the Hero to complete this feat,
To prove thyself worthy of heart,
To face the worker of Black Arts.
I approach the Oracle’s broken form,
Hunched beneath the eternal storm.
I draw my blade and bow my head,
He turned, let loose a spluttering cough, and said,
“Another traveller has found their way,
To me, the guardian of the Gateway.
Speak now, and make thy Plea,
What makes you worthy to set the humans free?”
I looked into his glowing eyes,
And gaze into the black skies,
A swift flick of my blade,
His head fell to the floor, his body swayed
I regarded his corpse and the path beyond,
A Golden Path leading to a Still Pond.
Once more I looked at the dark mana, from his body was Gushing,
And let my breath fly on the wind
I wish I was this talented so my English teacher wouldnt despise me (I probably spelt that wrong)
well thanks haha. these two are the first in my new album. The whole album will tell a post apocalyptic story.
not exactly poetry, but I have nowhere else to put my writing.
I had forgotten the feeling of having your self worth, your heart, and your very soul crushed in a single blow. A single shouted sentence, spewing forth with hate and rage, sends me to my knees. I feel something deep inside my chest turn red hot, then ice cold, and finally shatter like glass. I see His visage from above, glaring down at me. Finally, after what seems like an eternity, He shakes his head and storms away, slamming the door, which seems to quiver in its frame.
Still trembling, I finally pick myself up off the cold hardwood floor, stumble away through the pitch black house to the back door and through it open. I grab the soft warm red flannel that hangs on a hook next to it, and quietly step outside barefoot into the cold. The snow and gravel dig into my feet, but the cold and the pain seem to be a thousand miles away, like they are sensations in someone else’s body, not mine. After a time, I reached the great sliding door of the ragged old barn, heave on the rusted old handle, and threw the door open, which let out a great grinding hiss. I flipped the light switch and heaved the door back closed, offering me some protection to the cold.
The radio crackled to life, and under the warm yellow light of ancient bulbs, I pulled out my guitar case from where it was stashed in an old stall and opened the latches one by one. There it lay, my most prized possession in the world. I slowly, carefully lifted it free of its home and let my fingers fall on the strings. First came one note, almost of its own accord, then another and another. Soon I was strumming away at the few chords I knew, and humming along to old gospel songs. The cold grew colder, and the dark grew darker, yet still I played that old guitar. Eventually, the black gave way to grey, and the grey to white, and the alarm clock sitting up on the old tool box screamed out its songs, and I knew that the impossible had happened. Another day had come, even after all that had happened to me, the sun still rose.
I have a small poem that goes with only 3 words and it’s.
"My wet pet"
There once was a man from Peru
Who dreamed he was eating his shoe
He woke up with a fright
I’m the middle of the night
To find out that his dream had come true
I’ve missed you & your heartfelt poems