Facebook | Tainted love poems

Facebook Tainted love poems:
"Realize you mean a lot to me
so I want you to know.
This Christmas I'll think of you
...as I gaze upon the snow.
I'll raise a glass to you,
as i sit beside the tree.
This will be in honour
of the friend you are to me.
My friend you are so precious
like a diamond in the sky.
I miss you every moment
of the days that flicker by.
I send my thought on this page.
What more can I say>
Other than I hope you have
a wondrous Christmas Day."

Facebook

Facebook: "What makes me normal?
Seeing a woman smile.
Seeing her laughing and
not frowning for a while.

What makes me happy?
Seeing a child at play.
Knwing they are not suffering
at least for today.

What makes me chuckle?
Hearing a bird sing.
Seeing it flit about,
soaring on the wing.

What makes me cry?
Seeing people in pain,
needlessly, endlessly
for another persons gain.

What helps me see the world?
An open mind.
An outstretched arm.
And being naturally kind.
Well, it IS the only way to be."

Little Lost Fairies

Longing. They hide behind the wisps of a silver painted brush.
Tragedy. Mourning trees of death that portrays the soul of a crimson wasp.
Malady. Leafs, mouldy, falling slowly through times dark void.
Fear. they tremble, tiny, lost, fearing the way forward, but blind to the way behind.
Evil. Wicked beasts stalk them, claws inseminating the earth with thier poison, through every step.
Wicked. Thier burning eyes, flaming, see all that is good, and hate it.
Lust. They wish for nothing than to end all that walks or breathes.
Death. The lost fairies fear it. The beasts crave it. The forest nurture it.

ALL IS LOST!!!

Smile blankly

I saw a person sitting there,
his face was masked in pain.
He sat on a less comfy chair,
slowly going insane.
But for all his crazy thoughts,
there was one that shone true.
Of a basket of mouldy snots,
and a belly-button full of goo.
A bear-trap where a nose was caught,
and an eyeball up a tree.
A swamp inside a murky pot
and an elephant fighting a bee.
This person grinned a joyous smile
then dribbled down his chin.
I think he'll be there for a while
as he's in the loony bin.
--------------------------------
A crappy poem that I just HAD to share with everyone.

Elvish loyalty

For me they fight, those Elvish kings.
They light my way, under the moon.
They die for me, for love of men.
For royal blood and silver spoons.
No crown atop thier golden head.
Forsaken this is, for fealty's life.
No sons to carry on thier proven legacy.
Taking neither mistress, not comely wife.
Hourglass of life, they fight just to die.
Against rigid foes who bring misery about.
Thier battle is lost, they fight back to back.
They killed and they died, sent into rout.
For me they fought,those Elvish kings.
They lit my way, under the sky.
They died for me, for love of men.
Yet royal men have come to die.

About love of lords, and life.

Memories

Precious women who hug
their bosoms, while the
flotsam of thier thoughts
gather in the nape of thier
minds like a ship, wrecked
on a sea of disease.
Like a misty fever thier souls
desolve into a hazy rage
of murky blindness. And they
stumble into the memory of
thier own self-worth.
Further into the past they
slither, pasthalf-baked
love, sexy horror, misery
laughing at thier sordid
attempts to find themselves.
Through the puke filled alleys
of thier less than meaningful
existence, they wade along.
Past dirty windows, where
comes garbled, wordless songs
of shame and wickedness.
Past open doors through which
are the playful scenes of
demons in fornication, and
angels smiling as they sink into
the quicksand of time.
Blackness, like the swords of
wasps, swims from the depths
of tendrils of light, calling
them back to the pain
of the now. Fighting with
great lack of strength, they
claw thier way from thier bleak
remembrance, back to the
heartache of life. Realization
hits them.
Memories are worthless.
Madness is better.
-------------------------
Morbid, dark, twisted.
I am not really in a good place right now, and this is the result. I like it. It shows how I really think.

Pride in a tomb no longer

Ten sentries stand tall, silent,
dark, proud. Side by side
through the years. No
weather will mar them. No
vandals set them low. No
time will age thier smoth
skins. These warriors,
brothers of blood, family of
heart, mind, soul.

Ten sentries stand, tall,
silent, proud, thier
rocky stone overlooking warriors
in death. Soldiers who gave
their very being for their
countries. Fighting for freedom
their spirits shed the shackles
of life, willingly, patriots
to a cause.

Ten sentries stand tall,
silent, no longer proud. Their
once beautiful land torn, not
by war, but by human
arrogance. Gone is thier love,
thier pride, thier passion. Replaced
only by hate, anger, lust. Fighting
amongst themselves for scraps
of self worth.

Ten sentries, bowed down, silent,
no longer proud. They would
weep at the sight of this
senseless violence. Old men
they would be if alive, and
they would die of shame
at what they were seeing.
----------------------------
The world is an awful place. The young see a terrible future. The old crave for the beautiful past, but have to live in the present. And we are the ones stuck in the middle of it. We fight, we kill, we die. It makes no sense.

My phobia

What would you think
if you saw something as
small as the tiniest crumb
attacking you with a vengeance?
How would you feel?
Excited, curious, uncaring,
anxious, frightened? If you
found evidence of it in your food,
your clothes, even as you
bathe yourself. Paranoia sets
in. Is this thing after you
or is it mere coincidence? Is
it struggling survive or
threatening your being, your very
soul as it worms its way
into your thoughts and you
find yourself constantly thinking
about it, unable to sleep for
fear. And even if you manage
to catch the bliss of
sleep, it haunts your dreams
turning them into terrifying
pursuits down dark enclosed
hallways where your mind
begins to unhinge itself
and you wake up screaming,
your body awash with a
cold slimy sweat.
You feel something
move on your leg.
You look down and
it is there fangs bared,
legs poised to spring and
paralyze your body
with its poison at the
slightest movement.
Your body starts to tremble.
Unbalanced, the spider walks
to its left, its malevolent eyes
always staring into your.The
darkness in those frightens you
more than the spiders mere presence,
for their is an intelligence there,
fierce and unyielding.
The spider jumps. Yet
you don't see it, for
your mind shatters from
terror. You don't feel the
sharp fangs as they rip into your
eye. You can only feel and
see the darkness that is a
sure herald for madness.
Ugh. Spiders. I can't stand them. They make me feel fear, like I have never felt before.
A sort of out of body terror.

For life and for courage,
I purge my soul of vanity.
No more will my blood
be a colour of affection.
Nor will my heart be something
to extend my ego.

My mind is made up,
my chivalry will remain true.
My honour is inside my bones.
My spirit is the colour of meadows.
I am pure, golden, free.
I follow no rules, suffer no orders.

I stretch the social order to its limit.
Lawless but law abiding.
Independant of government and dictators.
I love life and hate it.
It takes everything I have, but gives more.
I am lonely beyond saving.

I am sad but won't weep.
I enclose my heart in a wall of pain.
I trust not a lot of people.
I hide my mind from those who would take it.
I am normal, as I am a
member of the human race.

Government 1
It begins as a brightness,
solemn and proud.
A love so warm and deep
it's as soft as a cloud.
It's there for the people
and for awhile that is true.
It's greatness is witnessed
through the things that they do.
Then over time time, it grows
less bright everyday.
And you very soon realize
those good things have gone away.
A dark spot remains
and sadness is rife.
And you know you were
better with it not in your life.
And when it all gets
destroyed, from continous trouble,
you are left to sort through
the remains of lifes rubble.
 
This is the first part...

Wrath of God

I hear a bell,
T’is softly ringing.
Seems to foretell,
An angel singing,
Of death and glory,
that heaven is bringing.
To the ignorance of souls,
their minds they are flinging.
They doubt in their haste,
knowing nowt of disease.
They walk on their heels
doing whatever they please.
I'll take my whip of justice,
bring them to their knees.
They'll taste my wrath
like the raising of seas.
And the lands will be rid
of malice and hate.
They will realize their folly
one second too late.
Their lives will be taken,
they will come to my gate.
But the gate will be locked,
they'll not eat from my plate.
Their misery will be that
of a bottomless well.
A mire so deep into
which they all fell.
And they'll wish they had  listened
to the foretold angels bell.
Since now they are in pain,
and rotting in hell.
It is the first religious poem I have ever written and I think it has gone quite well.

Random

Winged death in unknown space.
Souls fled without a trace.
Night has come, quiver in fear.
What the hell am I doing here???

LOL. A random one about nothing.

Untitled
The love of a world
flickers and dies.
The pain in your
heart as your brain
denies, the gloom that
comes with knowing
the end, when you're
all alone with not
even a friend.
No family members
to hold your hand.
Left all alone in a
dangerous land. A loner
by heart and by nature
a thief. Death will come
swiftly, it will be a relief.
 
Based on true events.

Silence

Two blades ring out, upon
a field of Eldritch light.
Shapeless shadows, elongated,
burning with hells dark night.
On and on, they fight, battling
for fury's painful gift.
Intricate dancing from weapons
of blood, ever swift.
Silent ghosts watch closely,
judging every leap and twist.
Waiting, flame-filled eyes staring.
Waiting with a cold steel fist.
Two blades ring out, upon
a field of empty bones.
Warriors balanced steps,
clinking on the dirty stones.
Blades swinging faster,
urgently seeking the others heart.
Until one cries victory,
and the others soul is torn apart.
Watchers, no longer silent,
they disappear one by one.
There's no point in watching shadows,
when they're dead, it's the end of the fun.
 
The last two lines are crappy. I could'nt think of anything else.

Loneliness

I sit here, solemn and low.
What's wrong? I ask my soul.
It does not seem to know.
I'm split, no longer whole.

I write, right here, for peace.
I write, so I can be glad.
So my sadness will one day cease.
And I'll remember what glories I once had.

Friends, family, posessions and more.
Love, life and an existence so great.
Stripped now, gone out my hearts door.
And I realized this one moment too late.

Anger I have, rage, oh so much.
Pity, I feel none, it is true.
Guilt my body seems never to touch.
And I worry constantly 'What to do?'

So I sit here and write my feelings out loud.
I write about what I used to feel.
I am low, I am sad, no longer proud.
And I finally understand what it is to be real.

LOL. Loneliness is terrible. I only realized I was this way today. It hurts a lot.
Anyway. ENJOY!!!

Oh! Misbegotten chance that
drove this family apart.
It's love wavers in the
wind with so many cruel
said words.
Emotions war in the hate
filled souls of us tormented
spirits, so that we are left
emotionless, to wander strange
lands like empty husks.

It was the first REAL poem I ever wrote. I wrote it when I was around 18. It has a basis in truth.

Of love, not less from pain.
Am I mad, or just insane?

One about nothing at all. LOL...

Dead animal on the road.
Bones brittle,
bodies cold.
Eternal slumber not for the old.

I saw a dead pidgeon and thought of this. Morbid, cruel, but true. Too many dead animals are on our streets through the cruelty of humans.

And so were the lands sowed,
by the one's on whom beauty shone like a star.
And the one's who came first were amazed
when they spied that beauty from afar.
But the one's who came second were jealous
of the lands the first had secured.
And the first heard of the pure hatred,
for they were friends of the beast and the bird.
Though the first and the second built great structures,
and those buildings were amazing to behold.
They all knew the intense ferocity,
of events that were about to unfold.
For the seconds hatred was long and unyielding,
And when they could contain it no more.
They let fly their banners and sounded their trumpets,
and set out in pursuit of war.
The world was scarred and burned all around them,
for the turmoil went on for years.
The dead outnumbered the living,
and were lost in uncounted tears.
 
I wrote this, because I love the book, The Silmarillion. It was supposed to be one written by me and another, but I finished it before he got a chance to add anything. ENJOY!!!

Old World

Grieve for a world man
will never know again.
Of swords and shields
and warring Kings.
Bows and arrows
and poet sings of
adventures gone and yet
to come, villages sacked
and knights killing men.
Of chivalry in most and
hope in all. A mans
cry, a womans call, a
childs laughter, and winds
song, flames dance,
earths soundless gong.
Waters shed in silent tears.
Grieve for a world lost
down the years.


I was thinking about what it must have been like to live back in the days of knights and Kings when this came to me. Enjoy.

Let's assume all life is boring.
That excitement is just out of reach.
That joy is a mythical creature,
and happiness a wall that is breached.
That sadness is a thing of the future,
and pleasure a memory of the past.
That depression is a constant in the present,
and fortune's an unknown contrast.
But assumptions are made by the foolish.
Always theysuppose too much.
Wisdom is found in silence,
and in wisdom all life is touched.


I don't know why I wrote. I remember writing it, just not why or when. Maybe I was having an off day?

No matter where,
no matter when,
if there is death,
expect the vultures.


Not really a poem, just a morbid saying I made up.

To live with guilt,
and more, in pain.
To die with hope,
not less for shame.
Light will end,
darkness begun.
Shadows eternal.
No more the sun.

This is good. I will say that, even knowing I wrote it.

I will battle against death with great strife.
For to die I must relinquish my soul.
And though that sometimes sounds appealing to me,
I know that to live, my soul must be whole.

I know my soul's chained to my body,
and to die it must be by my own hand.
But I will fight death with all of my courage,
guarding my soul until I make my last stand.

My spirit will be robed in crimson armour.
In my hands I will weild swords of flame.
Until I fall to the ground, body broken.
Only then will death make good his claim.

My life he will pluck from my body.
Holdiong it aloft in triumphant glee.
The aura of my spirit will wither.
And I will try with no hope to flee.

Death is a permanent master.
With no mercy to let his victims choose.
The moral of this story is simple.
Take arms against death, and you'll lose.


This is one of my favourites. It took me a few days to write it.
It is about the inevitability of death.

A sword was born,
At great expense.
The hammers rang,
The heat intense.
A fierce warrior came forth,
Strong and proud.
"Smithy" he called,
His call was loud.
The blade was bought,
The price was great.
The warrior left,
It was his fate.
He fought great fights,
Many a heads was hewn.
He was not evil,
That was his doom.
A great battle was fought,
Upon a green field.
Many thousands died,
Yet none would yield.
Two warriors fought,
Their strength renown.
They needed no help,
They fought alone.
Their blades rang out,
Clear as the day.
The battle stopped,
Such was the frey.
The warriors were grim,
Both hard and true.
They both fought for good,
Sure they would not lose.

One blade sang brighter,
It could be seen from afar.
It gave the men heart,
It shone like a star.
It’s blade gave strength,
To the wielder it fought for
The sword came down,
Through iron, skin and sinew it tore.
The duel was won,
An army destroyed.
The warrior was triumphant,
Our hero the people cried.
He is now long dead,
The kingdom long gone.
His might’s not remembered,
Not even a song.
The sword is now dull,
Its edge is now lost.
The hilt is now rust,
With many winters frost.

This is nowhere near the best poem I ever wrote.
I wrote it with my uncle. He of the artistic genius. I can see why he is an artist and not a writer. LOL.