Post by Celinra on May 13, 2004 15:40:02 GMT -5
Ah ha! I was cleaning my bookshelf today, and I found not only the sonnet I spoke of, but also other sappy poetry about the same guy that I had completely forgotten about.
First, the sonnet (and I really don't know where I came up with some of these comparisons):
My love is friendly as a baby pup.
Not a sloth, in sports he never loses.
Unlike a bear, he cares to cheer me up.
He can make things fun if he so chooses.
The things he draws are sweet as a bird's song,
His hair, as red as sunset by the sea.
He is so smart, he's hardly ever wrong.
His love gives him the strength to carry me.
Dark brown in color are my true love's eyes.
He loves the Lord, and so he has no sin.
Creul* distance separates my love and I,
I must travel very far to see him.
But though I can not see him everyday,
He will be in my heart for all the days.
*I misspelled it when I handed it in, so I copied the mistake here.
Now, the one that I did of my own volition, not for school:
I saw him for a week
although
I wanted to see him
Forever.
We were apart for almost a year
although
it seemed he'd been away
Forever.
We were together once again
although
I hoped it would be
Forever.
We weren't even a mile apart
although
the distance 'tween us seemed to stretch
Forever.
We were apart for just the night
although
it seemed we were apart
Forever.
He'll leave again for a short while
althoguh
the short time will feel like
Forever.
He may never know I love him
although
I know I'll love him
Forever.
...this poem is obsolete, anyways, because he found out I loved him, like, the next day, and also I don't love him anymore.
Then there's another... at camp, this boy I've written about gave me an orange cloth he had (he was on the orange team, that's why he brought it). Stuff happened, and a friend who I brought was crying over something, and so the two of them just went to hang out, because he told me that she told him that he was the only one she ever trusted, or something like that. So, I felt lonely because he had been hanging out more with her than with me, and because she didn't trust me. I went off and cried on the orange cloth, which brought about this poem:
The orange cloth
has no stains
save for three tears
crying for a love unknown by the loved
and a friend untrusting
and also for the fact
that neither the loved nor the friend
see the pain
that brought the three solitary tears onto
the orange cloth.
The next year at camp was awful... he more or less avoided me because it was awkward since I "loved" him and he didn't feel that way about me, and there was much chaos and misunderstanding, which brought about this poem (which is the last of the poems about this instance in my life):
Are you a friend?
You claim to be,
yet you didn't even
say "hi" to me.
Are you a friend?
You come near me,
then you turn around
and simply leave me.
I don't mind if you sit elsewhere,
you could sit halfway across the world.
I wouldn't mind, but wouldn't a friend
at least say "goodbye" before they left?
Are you a friend?
I'm not too sure,
but you haven't been
very kindly, sir.
Am I a friend?
I try to be,
but maybe instead I
just try to please me.
So, are we friends?
I don't hink so.
It's time that I
should let you go.
...goodbye.
For those wondering, we did get things settled, and got to being friends, and I was content, then I never saw him again.
Now, to lighten the mood, here is a poem based upon a sight I saw on a trip to France: someone who seemed to be a pickpocket. Everyone on the tour bus liked this poem. Someone I didn't know came up to me later and was like, "Are you (name)? That was a really good poem!" Anyways, here it is:
A Pick-Pocket's Day
A man paces the street, he is searching for wallets,
"I'm waiting for friends, I'm not a pick-pocket."
He is noticed observing women's cash,
"The girls look nice," he says, and takes off in a dash
and bumps into a lady, whose purse in now gone,
"I didn't do it, I've done no wrong."
When people stare, he covers his face,
"There's something in my eye," then he quickens his pace.
Two people meet him at five o'clock,
he claims they're his "friends," he sees them a lot.
the three then head home to observe theirr spoils,
but a cop waits there, their plans to foil.
The onlookers had gotten the cop, and now they're gladly
celebrating that the pick-pockets' "careers" end badly.
First, the sonnet (and I really don't know where I came up with some of these comparisons):
My love is friendly as a baby pup.
Not a sloth, in sports he never loses.
Unlike a bear, he cares to cheer me up.
He can make things fun if he so chooses.
The things he draws are sweet as a bird's song,
His hair, as red as sunset by the sea.
He is so smart, he's hardly ever wrong.
His love gives him the strength to carry me.
Dark brown in color are my true love's eyes.
He loves the Lord, and so he has no sin.
Creul* distance separates my love and I,
I must travel very far to see him.
But though I can not see him everyday,
He will be in my heart for all the days.
*I misspelled it when I handed it in, so I copied the mistake here.
Now, the one that I did of my own volition, not for school:
I saw him for a week
although
I wanted to see him
Forever.
We were apart for almost a year
although
it seemed he'd been away
Forever.
We were together once again
although
I hoped it would be
Forever.
We weren't even a mile apart
although
the distance 'tween us seemed to stretch
Forever.
We were apart for just the night
although
it seemed we were apart
Forever.
He'll leave again for a short while
althoguh
the short time will feel like
Forever.
He may never know I love him
although
I know I'll love him
Forever.
...this poem is obsolete, anyways, because he found out I loved him, like, the next day, and also I don't love him anymore.
Then there's another... at camp, this boy I've written about gave me an orange cloth he had (he was on the orange team, that's why he brought it). Stuff happened, and a friend who I brought was crying over something, and so the two of them just went to hang out, because he told me that she told him that he was the only one she ever trusted, or something like that. So, I felt lonely because he had been hanging out more with her than with me, and because she didn't trust me. I went off and cried on the orange cloth, which brought about this poem:
The orange cloth
has no stains
save for three tears
crying for a love unknown by the loved
and a friend untrusting
and also for the fact
that neither the loved nor the friend
see the pain
that brought the three solitary tears onto
the orange cloth.
The next year at camp was awful... he more or less avoided me because it was awkward since I "loved" him and he didn't feel that way about me, and there was much chaos and misunderstanding, which brought about this poem (which is the last of the poems about this instance in my life):
Are you a friend?
You claim to be,
yet you didn't even
say "hi" to me.
Are you a friend?
You come near me,
then you turn around
and simply leave me.
I don't mind if you sit elsewhere,
you could sit halfway across the world.
I wouldn't mind, but wouldn't a friend
at least say "goodbye" before they left?
Are you a friend?
I'm not too sure,
but you haven't been
very kindly, sir.
Am I a friend?
I try to be,
but maybe instead I
just try to please me.
So, are we friends?
I don't hink so.
It's time that I
should let you go.
...goodbye.
For those wondering, we did get things settled, and got to being friends, and I was content, then I never saw him again.
Now, to lighten the mood, here is a poem based upon a sight I saw on a trip to France: someone who seemed to be a pickpocket. Everyone on the tour bus liked this poem. Someone I didn't know came up to me later and was like, "Are you (name)? That was a really good poem!" Anyways, here it is:
A Pick-Pocket's Day
A man paces the street, he is searching for wallets,
"I'm waiting for friends, I'm not a pick-pocket."
He is noticed observing women's cash,
"The girls look nice," he says, and takes off in a dash
and bumps into a lady, whose purse in now gone,
"I didn't do it, I've done no wrong."
When people stare, he covers his face,
"There's something in my eye," then he quickens his pace.
Two people meet him at five o'clock,
he claims they're his "friends," he sees them a lot.
the three then head home to observe theirr spoils,
but a cop waits there, their plans to foil.
The onlookers had gotten the cop, and now they're gladly
celebrating that the pick-pockets' "careers" end badly.