Why do we love,
If we know of the pain.

Why do we dream,
If we do not think.

Why do I write this,
Believing that it will not be seen.

For what is love,
Without it’s price.

For what is to dream,
To not relax from this world.

For what is it to write,
If it is not seen.

For what and why,
Is our questions of the day.

For what and why,
Do these three questions have to say.



Questions
-Tenebrae Darkamist

Dreaming at a time
That is lost,
Is a painful thing.
Why is it painful
Is it the way.

Waking in the morning,
One may feel great.
But soon he may feel dizzy.

And for that,
He may die.
Dieing comes easy for him,
His family died in front of his eyes.
Plague and disease.
The rodents that came with it.

Curse them yes,
But what can he do?
Moan and move over,
Best to move on.
No time for idleness.
No time for break.
Just move and go.



Rats
-Tenebrae Darkamist

I am sorry
Is that what I am supposed to say
I am sorry
Is that what I am supposed to say to day.

Am I sorry
But is that what I mean
I am sorry
But is that what I should say

I was cruel,
I was mean,
Is that a fault that was did on my own.

I am stupid,
I am bad,
My mood is not good enough to make anyone glad.

My faults are clear,
As clear as rain.
My words are unmoving,
As unmoving as the wind.

I am sorry,
That much is true.
I am sorry,
And yet I am not blue.

This was my fault,
Please let it stand,
I am sorry,
I really am.



I am sorry
-Tenebrae Darkamist

The worlds are watching, waiting, holding upon themselves an Epperson of health.
What was once wondered to be the truth, is now hold upon itself on death’s doorstep.
What can be but said of love,
But that it is a bitter flower.
Broken to a sense,
Within itself, it adheres.
What can be said, of the truth.
Love is but a bitter rose,
To where it blossoms out-with a spider.
To what the spider bites you,
And you wither in pain.
For this is what love is,
And how it hurts,
All in all, the same..


Broken Rose
-Tenebrae Darkamist

Kisses along the teardrops revere my soul,
give it bitter odes that shake upon itself things unknown.
I wish I was here to tell it otherwise,
the things that can draw lines upon my soul.
Yet it did not,
and what I wish is for a different world,
As what is here is what I dream for,
not instead wash upon the worlds.
I ask for a kiss on my ear,
And then would leave to have some fun…
I would ask for a lick on the shoulder,
And then would ask upon myself to leave…
I would ask for my soul to be sown up with love,
Than tied up with hate.




Askance
-Tenebrae Darkamist

I can walk upon the waves,
Of the bitter hue,
And stroll to what was to see.
And still not find your face among the roses.
Just as who I can be.
May I trod for many nights,
Only to find an alcove for a home.
And yet still I have my dreams,
Of coming to my home..
Upon the worlds of my heart,
I can feel a pang of dust.
Just as I strummed on away,
I can’t feel you within my heart..
The bitter colds have brushed upon me,
A sardonic smell,
To what I don’t know what to say,
But a farewell,
So farewell…



Farewell
-Tenebrae Darkamist

Can for one moment you see,
The feelings that binded me,
For all it’s worth, for all it’s naught,
I am in the end going to fly…


Momentarly feelings of freedom
-Tenebrae Darkamist

Poetry's better when the words actually exist, y'know

Dude, you have to -feel- what doesn't exist. There's profound meaning in the unknown. I once made a poem titled " ". It was very moving, I actually won an award for it.

And next week, an in depth discussion of the music of John Cage.

There is nothing wrong with coining two different words. It happens all the time in slam poetry and soliloquys. Shakespeare even did it. Maya Angelou did it. Robert Frost did it. Kali Amariu did it. If the great's can do it, I see no reason why modern poets can't do it.

Shakespear has twice the amount of words that any normal person would have, as he would mix the words together. And the name for writing like this is softism, if you are the writer who uses imaginary words, you are a softist. The true meaning of the words is whatever you truly feel it is. If you read through the whole thing, then you would seem to understand the words used, but if you single out the word, you will have alot more trouble understanding it.

The pain is brimming, from the fear,
The coldness swept and furrowed.
I cannot believe what can be said,
For the night is sooner than what is to be believed.

I cannot fortell what is dying,
I cannot fortell what is of naught,
I can only understand what is open,
In the light, is all.

All I can see is darkness,
I am having trouble opening my eyes.
Clear is the realms I have digested,
Into my open heart.

Yet with this pleasure comes a pain,
A pain that wakes me within,
A pain that asks for me to stay up,
And finish what has been beginned.

Now I am waiting for an answer,
So I may be able to rest again,
I am waiting for that answer,
Can we start again?


Beginning again
-Tenebrae Darkamist

Moved this to the real world, because the creative arts section under "life in lusternia" suggests you're going to be writing about something Lusternian.

From what I've read, it is about life in Lusternia.

He said most of these were old poems he had lying around.

they are about me, my character is me. They are about my character.

That's pretty deep.