Old Poems/Crappy Poetry

Going through some poetry I wrote varying amounts of multiple years ago, I'm offended by its grammatical errors and clear lack of talent, yet it makes me realize I am largely the same (with perhaps a few more shades of gray sandwiched between my abstract concepts of extremes [and also my physical extremities?]). This post is more of a self-indulgent documentation of the self.

1. For example, the following demonstrates my unchanging pretension and egotism:

"My Dearest"

My dearest one, my heart apart,
My love is yours alone.
Air is fresher; seas are bluer;
My death do you postpone.

Tears are unbeknownst to me
Except in times of bliss.
Hand in hand we walk the earth,
Forgetting all but this.

Never shall I say farewell.
Your side is where I’ll be.
Now we are entwined as one,
My dearest little Me.

2. This one had a prompt ("Wouldn't it be great if..."), but apparently no one informed me of the subjunctive! Furthermore, I'm not sure if the original had any punctuation. Also note the pattern of bluer/cleaner/fresher/greener mimicked by the previous poem which is likely much more recent. Yet what I choose to draw from this is that I was already quite a hippie by the age of 9...

"Wouldn't it be great if"

Wouldn’t it be great if the skies were bluer and the seas were cleaner
If there was a solution to pollution
And the grass was greener
If everyone was happy with what they had
But the poor would get a little more
If the animals had much spacious and gracious land
Then the world would be so grand

3. Finally, I'll end with proofs of my tendency towards negativity/pessimism/morbidity and my sad attempts at creating meaning:

"Time"

I watch as time rushes past,
Pulling me along by my chains.
Each unit is both first and last,
Indifferent to joys and pains.

Dragging me continuously
While my youth is stripped away,
Until my youth is gone from me
Time mandates my everyday.

"A Final Request"

When I in myself am no longer possessed,
When waste is naught but a statue,
When spirit be gone from my bodily pawn,
When stone cannot do what pray that do,

Let fiery flames feast ‘pon froze flesh
And kill flint which once used to live!
For I’ll not have eyes left alone with demise
To stare down and yet not forgive.

I’ll not have fair looks at the end of my book,
For look I will have none at all!
Let fire devour with all of its power
And make me no porcelain doll.

I’ll be remembered in burning red embers
As the (flame of) (engulfed me in) life.
Do not deny me nor try to defy me,
For I’ll give those maggots the knife!

"Life Beheld"

Death can’t be so simple,
For life is too complex.
The end should be as great
As the start which it reflects.

Perhaps it’s not the grandeur,
Or the death in dancing flame,
But the life that one has given
In the scheme of the Grand Game.

A time-enabled exit
With one swift final show
Doesn’t mean it’s over,
For that life is man’s to know.

---

And on that note, you just lost the game.