flashrox

This is a collection of some of the poems and stories I have written over the years. Most of them are pretty dark and depressing but thats what happens when you think as much as me I guess. The few light ones are a pretty pleasant read, but the dark ones more than make up for that. And before you ask, I don't want to kill myself, I don't slit my wrist or any of that c***, I just think a lot. If you're stupid, you can run through life happily, not having to dwell on the fact that there are people who would sell their own grandmothers, just to have all the stuff you take for granted. If you're smart, then one of three things could be happening. Number One: You could ignore all of that stuff and go through life like the stupid people. Number Two: Your so stupid that you think your smart. Trust me, this is the most likely occurance. Number Three: You acctually have a brain that you use, and can feel emotions that the rest of the populace will only feel when their pet gerbil dies.

Geez, I just reread that passage and it makes me sound really cynical... Oh well, the whole thing is true anyway. NOW ON WITH THE POETRY!

By the way, some of these are neither poems, nor stories. They're sort of refections... I dunno what you could call them.
Free Verse poems, perhaps?

This is a very old one, written when I was in primary school. It was one of the earliest ones good enough for me to show on this website without suffering extreme embarrasment.

Why

Why?
Why must we hurt and maim?
Why must we be cruel and shallow?
Why must we destroy everyone but ourselves?
We wish not to be alone, but we try to make it so.
At what point did we go wrong?
At what point did we demand of ourselves to kill?
We dropped mercy like the leaves of autumn, pity like the lovers gown.
And what did we gain?
Hatred, greed, rage and pain
We can not be called beasts.
We are not worthy of the title.
Beasts kill only if they must.
Very few things remain pure.
A gentle breeze, a beast’s loyalty.
And love.

These two are fairly recent. They are both quite enjoyable.

Home

Here, is the land,
Connected to me,
Fields, mountains, rivers,
And the endless sea,

I walk here, on my own,
In forests, thick with leaves,
Alone, yet with friends,
With sunlight shining through the trees,

Sit and listen, and you will hear,
Bird’s singing, and wind blowing,
Inside me, outside me,
All is one, in my heart, never slowing,

To the west, the storm rages,
To the east, the sea calls,
To the south, the wind is blowing,
To the north, the rock falls,

This place is mine,
And I belong right here,
In the centre of my mind,
The things that I hold dear,

This is where I truly live,
Feel, mourn, breathe,
And this is where I shall stay,
Never shall I leave.

Darkness

Darkness…
Darkness in the air…
Darkness in the water…
Darkness in the soul…

What is this?
What is this darkness?
What is this that makes me feel safe,
Comforted, sorrowful, and scared,
Of something unknown?

Yet I know it well…

It is night.

And dark.

And sorrow.

This is the sprit of silence,
Of sleep,
And of gentleness.

This is friend yet unmet,
And unknown.

This is a short story I made last year in year 7. I thought it would be interesting to write from Death's point of view. this also marks the place where I wrote the poem Colour, included in the story. By the way, i have decided not to put some of my poetry on this site, partly because I don't want someone stealing it and calling it their own, and partly because some of the poems I write are very personal. For instance, a while ago I wrote two for a funeral. If you are collecting my poems (highly unlikly) say so in the chatbox and I may consider giving you my other pieces. Anyway, here is the short story, Night.

Night

I travel through the forest, eyes alert for danger. In this forest the dead walk across the blackened ground, trees struggle to grow from the tortured land, and no bird flies the updrafts caused by rotting flesh. Half-imagined shadows creep away from the light of my torch, while cries of the victims of the un-dead echo throughout my heart. I am cursed to live in this place, forever fearing, forever hiding. I ease the passing of those left dieing slowly, victims of the torture of the un-dead. I had a name long ago, now I am known only as Death.

The night is heavy upon me, yet I am glad. Darkness cloaks me in shadows of lies, numbing the pain of those who are dead. They call me seeking blood, seeking my blood. I hear the weak struggles of a wounded beast. I approach, and look into her eyes. She is old. I enter her mind, and feel pain. Swing my scythe, the walk into the night as the tiger’s sprit flies from her body.

I know where they go. I know. Yet I am barred from that place. I can never enter. The un-dead are the only ones I have for company. Mindlessly they kill, torture and eat the souls that scream as their bones are stripped of flesh, and burnt. The river is red with the blood, flesh, and bone of their victims. I cross the sluggish water, using fragments of smashed skull for handholds. I reach my hut and lay on my bed of stone. In my dreams I feel the pain of the universe. Only pain. I feel no joy, happiness, or love. Just pain. I cannot escape this nightmare. This nightmare is my life. I am the only being that is truly… alone.

Darkness swirls before me,
Yet I am not afraid,
Because I know without it,
The world would come unmade,

All light makes a shadow,
All darkness makes my life,
All color makes the birds sing,
All grayness makes is strife,

One thing isn’t made,
One thing is alone,
One thing stays together,
With nowhere to call home,

I float through time and space,
Searching for a home,
But I am only one thing,
And that thing is alone.

Piczo