~Poems~

When did this start?

The falling apart.

Watch what I say,

I’m only in the way.

When did it become so much?

Even just the slightest touch.

Holding on by a thread,

Tried to ask for help instead.

They didn’t see,

Even the smallest degree.

But that’s alright,

I can pretend to be light.

Why should they worry?

Quagmire (rhyming story) wrote based off the battle of Passchendaele and from the view of either a Canadian or some other country which was brought into the war by alliances.

Looking across the land,

I came to understand.

They swallowed the men,

Would you never see the light again?

The water in cases them,

To the water death they were condemn.

A quicksand of mud,

Covered in blood.

Do not let this step be my last,

I dearly asked.

Are my feet still there?

I wonder in despair.

When will it end,

This battle of a friend.

I fear I will not last,

The land is vast.

And so muddy,

And I have not seen my buddy.

Please do not swallow me whole,

I wore what I wanted,

Whether it was red or spotted.

My hair didn’t matter,

There was no chatter.

Being little is calm,

Growing old is like a bomb.

Now it matters how I dress,

My personality is less.

The people are mean,

Saying words behind a screen.

Being little meant,

You can be content.

Everyone was a friend,

To whatever end.

Where did it go?

Pocket size screen,

It’s almost a routine.

It’s always there,

Like something we wear.

The click of a button,

A connection is sudden.

We know the news,

We see the views.

From this screen you can see,

Anything for free.

There is no need to leave,

This world of misconceive.

From our home,

We could see Rome.

No longer is it our need to leave our rooms,

There once was a boy,

who had a toy,

his name was Ricky,

he was very sticky.

But he brought the boy joy. (End)

There once was a man named Sunny,

he had lots of money.

He loved his folks,

he loved their jokes.

But he was very unfunny. (End)

There once was a crow,

who hated snow.

He had no clothes,

and so he froze,

Winter’s first snow,

the warmest snow of the year,

small children throw snowballs,

watch the frost appear.

The roads are getting bad,

it’s hard to see,

winter can be sad,

My skin is like a painting,

or a puzzle with no ending,

for it’s always changing.

My skin is like a painting,

it’s spotted and speckled with color,

like my painter could not decide.

My skin is like a painting,