Ksndr26
May 26th, 2012, 06:52 PM
hi. i'm Kassandra, and i just thought i'd maybe share my poetry with you all today.. its a mix-mash of quite a few different styles of poetry. so yeah, i hopw i don't waste you're time. comments, questions, critiques and concerns are always appreciated.
also, sorry for the initial awkward, here goes:
The richest colors lie in honest eyes
Greens, blues, dark brown
Colors bursting with truth and loyalty
Sparkling with laughter
Never dull
Wise beyond their years,
eyes show true knowledge
Never judgement
Always bright
The richest colors lie in honest eyes.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~
the conciousness of self destruction.
Women, by nature,
are self destructive beings..
It’s like we’re hard wired
to ruin everything we love..
Our relationships, our bodies, our lives..
We’re never satisfied,
always trying to fix ourselves,
yet in the end
we cause more damage than we ever meant to.
Sometimes I wonder if this is just a trait of all women,
or an underlying characteristic of the human race,
which simply haunts us all,
whether we’re concious of it or not.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Honest smiles
The smell of saw dust on a damp day;
the tickle of sand blowing in drifts by my toes at the beach.
My cat; the vibration of her purr as she lays by my side,
lulling me to sleep.
Popcorn, and the taste of vinegar
off well soaked wisps of wet air rising from the bowl.
Thunderstorms, the thunder shaking my home,
like the bass of twenty stereos roaring through my walls.
Lightning on the water;
acting as my own personal fireworks, only more deadly.
The poetic justice of one single, dead tree in a bare sea of golden hay.
The thrill of spotting a humming bird in spring.
The crunchy noises of crushed dead leaves as you walk through a forest,
And the clean smell of decomposition leaving my lungs feeling renewed.
City lights, the thick smoggy blanket of pollution surrounding the sky like a halo,
Reflecting the light off the clouds like a welcoming beacon.
Crowded restaurants,
loud conversations blurring together,
until all I hear are bees.
Honest smiles on the faces of the ones I do love,
Pride in their eyes when we both know I’m alright.
~~~~~~~~~~~~
It’s not a disaster; it’s a masterpiece.
On my walls? Paint. Grey, green and blue.
Photographs of lost loved ones, paintings of tulips and dinosaurs.
On my floor? Socks.
Worn maybe yesterday, I suppose possibly clean even.
A fuzzy matt, and an even fuzzier cat on top of it.
My ceiling? Equal squares of white, dotted with glow in the dark stars,
which eventually lost their glow without me noticing,
some pealing at the edges from neglect.
Sixty-four in total.
In my dresser? Books, everything from Philosophy to science fiction.
Even though some philosophy is fiction.
A collection of pennies and a set of dried out markers also contribute to the contents.
On my bed? Five blankets.
One pink, two blue, one leopard print,
and a purplish disaster that haunts my nightmares.
There is also a stuffed rabbit, belonging to one of my photographs,
and two pillows, one to keep my head at rest
and another to remind me to sleep.
I never listen to it though.
~~~~~~~~~~~~
Where I’m from
forgotten.
I am from forests of chairs and blankets,
where no one dares go.
From jungles of ice and seas of green.
I am from pirate ships made of cardboard,
which mother always warned me would sink.
I am from warm black asphalt, roller blades and skinned knees.
The large rotting tree house which taught me television,
isn’t all that fun.
I am from late nights and early mornings,
sleep as important as the color red.
From country roads and city streets,
darkness and stars,
bright lights and smog.
I am from day dreams, and a curious mind.
Bee stings and grape stained lips.
I am from the lilac bush, that never did bare its name..
On my walls were stories,
of gigantic creatures I’d never meet,
inspiration for my game.
I am from my time spent,
and though it is why I am who I am,
I’ve begun to forget where I’m from.
~~~~~~~~~~~~
teen angst.
It’s hard to be unique without being stereotypical now a days.
It’s hard to be yourself without being judged.
It’s hard to make your own decisions without being influenced.
It’s hard to smile when all you want is to frown.
Its hard to laugh when every spasm of your diaphragm,
makes you want to choke up tears.
It’s hard not to feel alone, in a world set out to isolate you.
Born alone, die alone.
I never did understand that saying,
We were obviously not born out of nothing.
It’s simple biology,
Therefore, we aren’t entirely alone.
But I’m not really thinking in a scientific manner.
More like a spiritual one.
But spirituality,
Always leaves me confused,
Pondering lifes greatest questions,
While I’m still young and angry at the world
I was born into.
~~~~~~~~~~~~
Autumn leaves
Autumn leaves as they fall,
Blowing in the breeze,
Tangling in their wind swept hair,
As they run along the path,
Heads tilted down, charging at full force.
Runners barely gripping the gravel,
As their feet slip and slide with each leap
on the wet patches still untouched by the noon sun
Only acting on instinct of their clever games,
Taking no direction as its called.
They go too far,
and as the scene slips out of focus,
I simply smile as I watch them go.
Jealous I can’t join them..
With the sun reflecting off my glasses,
Blinding me from seeing the actions that caused
All the laughter and shouts.
I merely set down the camera,
And join what is the beginning
Of one of my fondest memories.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~
PEI beaches
Dusty red sand dunes
Like cinnamon on oatmeal
Sand drifts in the wind
~~~~~~~~~~~~~
city crosswalk
Bustling with life
Everyone blending as one
Yet separated
~~~~~~~~~~~~~
also, sorry for the initial awkward, here goes:
The richest colors lie in honest eyes
Greens, blues, dark brown
Colors bursting with truth and loyalty
Sparkling with laughter
Never dull
Wise beyond their years,
eyes show true knowledge
Never judgement
Always bright
The richest colors lie in honest eyes.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~
the conciousness of self destruction.
Women, by nature,
are self destructive beings..
It’s like we’re hard wired
to ruin everything we love..
Our relationships, our bodies, our lives..
We’re never satisfied,
always trying to fix ourselves,
yet in the end
we cause more damage than we ever meant to.
Sometimes I wonder if this is just a trait of all women,
or an underlying characteristic of the human race,
which simply haunts us all,
whether we’re concious of it or not.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Honest smiles
The smell of saw dust on a damp day;
the tickle of sand blowing in drifts by my toes at the beach.
My cat; the vibration of her purr as she lays by my side,
lulling me to sleep.
Popcorn, and the taste of vinegar
off well soaked wisps of wet air rising from the bowl.
Thunderstorms, the thunder shaking my home,
like the bass of twenty stereos roaring through my walls.
Lightning on the water;
acting as my own personal fireworks, only more deadly.
The poetic justice of one single, dead tree in a bare sea of golden hay.
The thrill of spotting a humming bird in spring.
The crunchy noises of crushed dead leaves as you walk through a forest,
And the clean smell of decomposition leaving my lungs feeling renewed.
City lights, the thick smoggy blanket of pollution surrounding the sky like a halo,
Reflecting the light off the clouds like a welcoming beacon.
Crowded restaurants,
loud conversations blurring together,
until all I hear are bees.
Honest smiles on the faces of the ones I do love,
Pride in their eyes when we both know I’m alright.
~~~~~~~~~~~~
It’s not a disaster; it’s a masterpiece.
On my walls? Paint. Grey, green and blue.
Photographs of lost loved ones, paintings of tulips and dinosaurs.
On my floor? Socks.
Worn maybe yesterday, I suppose possibly clean even.
A fuzzy matt, and an even fuzzier cat on top of it.
My ceiling? Equal squares of white, dotted with glow in the dark stars,
which eventually lost their glow without me noticing,
some pealing at the edges from neglect.
Sixty-four in total.
In my dresser? Books, everything from Philosophy to science fiction.
Even though some philosophy is fiction.
A collection of pennies and a set of dried out markers also contribute to the contents.
On my bed? Five blankets.
One pink, two blue, one leopard print,
and a purplish disaster that haunts my nightmares.
There is also a stuffed rabbit, belonging to one of my photographs,
and two pillows, one to keep my head at rest
and another to remind me to sleep.
I never listen to it though.
~~~~~~~~~~~~
Where I’m from
forgotten.
I am from forests of chairs and blankets,
where no one dares go.
From jungles of ice and seas of green.
I am from pirate ships made of cardboard,
which mother always warned me would sink.
I am from warm black asphalt, roller blades and skinned knees.
The large rotting tree house which taught me television,
isn’t all that fun.
I am from late nights and early mornings,
sleep as important as the color red.
From country roads and city streets,
darkness and stars,
bright lights and smog.
I am from day dreams, and a curious mind.
Bee stings and grape stained lips.
I am from the lilac bush, that never did bare its name..
On my walls were stories,
of gigantic creatures I’d never meet,
inspiration for my game.
I am from my time spent,
and though it is why I am who I am,
I’ve begun to forget where I’m from.
~~~~~~~~~~~~
teen angst.
It’s hard to be unique without being stereotypical now a days.
It’s hard to be yourself without being judged.
It’s hard to make your own decisions without being influenced.
It’s hard to smile when all you want is to frown.
Its hard to laugh when every spasm of your diaphragm,
makes you want to choke up tears.
It’s hard not to feel alone, in a world set out to isolate you.
Born alone, die alone.
I never did understand that saying,
We were obviously not born out of nothing.
It’s simple biology,
Therefore, we aren’t entirely alone.
But I’m not really thinking in a scientific manner.
More like a spiritual one.
But spirituality,
Always leaves me confused,
Pondering lifes greatest questions,
While I’m still young and angry at the world
I was born into.
~~~~~~~~~~~~
Autumn leaves
Autumn leaves as they fall,
Blowing in the breeze,
Tangling in their wind swept hair,
As they run along the path,
Heads tilted down, charging at full force.
Runners barely gripping the gravel,
As their feet slip and slide with each leap
on the wet patches still untouched by the noon sun
Only acting on instinct of their clever games,
Taking no direction as its called.
They go too far,
and as the scene slips out of focus,
I simply smile as I watch them go.
Jealous I can’t join them..
With the sun reflecting off my glasses,
Blinding me from seeing the actions that caused
All the laughter and shouts.
I merely set down the camera,
And join what is the beginning
Of one of my fondest memories.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~
PEI beaches
Dusty red sand dunes
Like cinnamon on oatmeal
Sand drifts in the wind
~~~~~~~~~~~~~
city crosswalk
Bustling with life
Everyone blending as one
Yet separated
~~~~~~~~~~~~~