Does it still count if I do the number of poems but not one a day? I don't think so, but oh well. Back at school... don't know how I feel about that yet. Worried about my mother. Cliffnotes for ya there. A few of these are probably more like prose, but hey. I'm already cheating on the time, I can cheat on the form too!
Poem 10
In so many ways
They are alike.
Their habits formed,
Burned the blunt of old friend's scorn.
One was a nihilist,
The other a believer.
The nihilist asked his believer friend,
"Why?"
And, sadly, the believer could not answer.
Finally, he spoke.
"I don't know," he said.
"But I do know that if I could answer 'why' I would probably be a nihilist myself."
The nihilist was shocked by these words,
And realized he did not know either.
So he began to believe.
And the two Believers
Were thenceforth strangers.
_____________________
Poem 11
The film keeps running.
An old artifact,
Seen rarely by the human eye.
The master, Projectionist, only
Fiddles with it when necessary.
But when he does, he does so with a smile.
The Projectionist knows his time has come,
Time to say good-bye...
Once his job was always and forever,
But now the world no longer needs him.
The master started the film for one last go,
And let the reels work their magic.
This time, He only watched.
Jittery, grainy, and out of focus.
But, hey, c'est la vie.
The Projectionist died in his sleep,
Leaving the film's run incomplete.
The final reel set ablaze
By his negligence.
But he was no longer needed.
The world was over anyway.
So burst the film, so burst our lives.
____________________________
Poem 12
And then came the sun.
With all of its power,
It arrived at the anointed hour;
He had promised to bring some fun.
Sadly, he could bring none.
This left everyone sour,
Left alone to be dour.
What caused the sun to run?
Perhaps it was us,
And our bittersweet romance with the moon.
More respect for the light of the sun is a must,
Our love for it must grow soon.
Moon, I emplore you to run away so that my lust
For you will go away, becoming moot.
(there's supposed to be syllable count rules for sonnets. I forgot when writing this.)
_________________________
Poem 13
She was alone that day...
I could have stopped her
From taking the plunge.
Her inner darkness revealed,
I ran away in fear.
Knowing not that it would
Forever live on in my conscience.
Damn you, Devil Woman.
Damn you and your charms.
Your pretensions and tricks
Left me in more than lust.
Oh no, it was love!
So sets the sun,
So fell her from the cliffs.
Ending our love,
Ending her life.
____________
Poem 14
The end of testing.
Pencils fly - up in the sky!
Higher than a bird, higher than a plane,
Even higher than Superman.
Youthful joy at summer,
Ready for the funner times.
An innocence that escapes adults.
Oh! To be free of the lust of sexuality,
To be free of worry,
To be free of Time.
For yes, a child knows not Time in summer.
Just that it is there for him to bask in the sun.
True freedom lies not in ability to work
For a break,
But the ability to forget.
In some ways, a child's freedom
Exceeds ours by far.
A heavenly level of euphoria,
Only reached again in death.
Constant throughout summer, whether June or August.
As summer ends,
the child's freedom returns
to an earthly plane.
The pencils float back to their desks like feathers;
leaving the children to write their abcs, with the precision of a machine.
The machine that, come next summer, they will once again escape....
For some, the last time.
__________________
Poem 15
He is a knight of the night.
The downtown predator,
Who fears nothing and no one.
Reckless abandon;
No more worries.
His time of reckoning
will come sooner than yours.
And you will know when it does.
___________________________
Poem 16
A mother and son at a disconnect.
"You've ruined my life," they both cry dismayed.
Never able to listen to the other.
The son quieter than the mother,
Until he sees what's in her glass.
A father, lost in the conflict,
Who gave up many years ago.
He's seen enough - this isn't his first.
"I'm tired," he says, and walks outside
For his cigarette of the night.
Not out of addiction, but out of habit.
The big picture is lost on him,
As the little details ensnare his attention
And trap his mind.
It is those that cause him to fight.
The mother.
Beastly only just a year ago,
Bigger than her house.
Defeated now. Resentment built.
Deathly pale, and skinny to boot.
She's tired, too, but never gives up.
For the fights with others are more important
Than the fight to stay alive.
She has others that will take care of her
Until she kills herself by her vices.
There is no angel of mercy powerful enough to save her.
A son, conflicted.
His worries fall on deaf ears.
His conflicts escalate.
The only thing he has left to do:
write this story
So that others may understand.
