Ohh, well now I understand.
I don't think my poetry's amazing - I like some, but definitely not all.
Place of Ghosts
It pierces through
The cones of salt
Compressing the emerald
To a halt.
Silent whispers are
Haunting the streets.
Voices of the morning birds,
Are long died out and
The diner says everything but words.
A woman's fiery red locks
Dazzle against the lighting in battle,
Whilst her husbands nose
Points selfishly at the bartender
And their eyebrows rose.
Tension never grasped
Inactivity in the thickness that it did
With wisps of inexistent sounds,
The novel I wrote of romance
Stands severely out of bounds.
This hour is the place of ghosts.
This one, I did for Creative Writing Enrichment in college - the teacher was completely amazed by it, but it's just like my ordinary kind of poem. I'll leave the judgement up to you. Basically, it's about a diner in 1920s America where everyone thought "god was dead" - might sound depressing, but my poem is meant to signify how people go on, living life as they would have done, before.
Thirteenth Day of the Second Month
An emptiness where there was a whole,
Erupting through hearts, ice cold.
A sign for all, to cease.
Rain droplets caress the relished earth,
When clouds part to celebrate her,
And a clock ticks with all but ease.
Emphasis is pronounced upon the date, set---
Youth has been granted an unmistakable concept.
The thirteenth day of the second month;
Dry eyes, silence, unfounded pleas.
And as the day paints itself into reality,
An absence is found amongst the woes.
An aspect of the future, written as her,
The truth of God begins to disperse…
And a new tomorrow is born.
I don't want to explain this one - it's just there for show.