To Flee or Not to Flee

(From the perspective of Heathcliff, from Emily Bronte’s Wuthering Heights, right before he decides to run away, because he doesn’t think the girl he loves, Catherine, does not love him back)

To Flee, or Not to Flee

To flee, or not to flee, that is the question:

If it is braver of the heart to suffer

The scorn and hatred of unreciprocated love,

Or to take a stand and hope for change,

And by hoping, find love. To flee, to mourn

No more; and by fleeing, would Heartache

And all His friends simply

vanish with time? It’s something to be

hoped for. To flee, to mourn,

To mourn and perhaps to lose heart. That is the danger,

For if through mourning hope melts away,

Then hope and love are lost, and such a thing cannot be.

Yet who should bear the indignation and anger,

The purposely blinded eye, the proud woman’s contempt,

The shattered heart, the unfair endings,

And the cold glare of disproval from all others,

All of which could quickly fade away

By fleeing? Who would bear such toil,

Shed tears and cry out to the wind,

Except for fear of losing all hope entirely?

That path is not yet traveled, and it puzzles the mind,

And breeds fear in this cold soul,

Preventing my feet from treading that pathway.

So fear of losing hope makes me a coward,

Neither moving forward, nor staying here with her,

And so my soul rots away in mortal anguish,

Face pale and yet I have those remnants of hope,

That do bring even a little comfort;

Perhaps one day she may once more cast

Her loving eyes towards my selfish figure.

To Be or not to Be Translation

(We're studying Hamlet right now and had to do a "translation" of the "To be or not to be" soliloquy. I decided to post it because it sounded somewhat poetic, in its own way.)
To live, or not to live-that's what I'm wondering:
Whether it's braver (in my mind) to bear
all the bad times,
or if I should be against my troubles
and, by being against them, end them. To die, to sleep,
no more (it's over)-and by death we end
the pains of life (all things human)
that humans all get (because of their humanity)-this occurance
is wished for. To die, sto sleep-
to sleep, and maybe to dream. Yes, there's the problem,
because in death the dreams that happen
when we die
might scare us. That's the thing
that makes us put with life.
Who would bear the awfulness of time,
the wrong oppressor, the proud man's insulting treatment,
the hurt of love not returned, delayed justice,
the rude government and the rejection
that taxes people
when you can just fix it yourself
with a dagger? Who would bear these burdens,
to grunt and sweat in this tiresome life,
but there is dread of what's after death,
that undiscovered country that those who go there
don't return, paralyzes your will
and makes us bear the bad things,
instead of flying to other things we don't know about?
So, it is our conscience that makes us all cowards,
and the natural color of resolution
is weakened over with the pale color of our thoughts,
and the great endevours brought by the moment
go wrong and fade away
and lose action.

Funeral

The air is full of muffled sobs,
of stifled grief and rainy tears.
The air is tangible, a thing alive,
gripping hearts and lungs with fingers
cold and cruel and searching hungrily.
Seeping into bones is rain, amongst tears
and an eternal dew, casting prisms of light
among the ever present darkness.
False sadness and comforts drip like poison
from a greedy, beguiling snake,
and faces are painted and impossibly perfect,
unnaturally beautiful on this grey, rainy day.
And within the beautiful darkness,
the warm, comforting darkness, rests
a bed as soft as a dream, dreamt by
every mortal man, woman and child.
Lovely rashes of colorful flowers bejewel
the otherwise dull, lifeless spaces.
A murmur of creatures and feastings
and all the while, from sadness is life,
and soon every walking collection of soil
shall melt and join together in the sea of others.
Over time, with warm lazy days and
tense, stormy days and all other days
comes the scent of sweet lovely death,
and the futile efforts of mere mortals.

Danse Macabre

The sun fades away the horizon
and all is still, the in-between time.
All is quiet, as though lying in waiting…
and then there is a stiff, sudden movement.
Slender, twig-like fingers grasp the earth
and strain as the rest follows upwards, through soil.
Dark empty sockets gaze around, soaking in moonlight.
And then, under the shining full moon, a dance begins.
A single violin plays, lively notes awakening the others
and soon the entire field is full of figures,
all dancing in their own ways, and a clacking
sound is heard whenever they touch each other.
The violinist continues, grinning all the while
as everyone dances, leaping and twirling in the air.
No one disturbs the dancers, for if they did,
they would be enticed into dancing as well, forever.
There would be no return, as other dancers would tell.
And so, on and on goes the dance, and all the while
The pale, ghostly moon resides over them all.
The song has woven among every figure now,
with strands of Sorrow, and Joy, and even Love.
New friends are made, yet words are a thing forgotten.
But then, suddenly, there comes a cry of warning.
The Song slows, and figures slowly stop and
begin to shuffle back towards their lowly homes.
For there is the bright Sun, peeking its head
up and over the mountains, finger-like rays of light
reaching and greedily turning all back into soil.
For now it is daytime, and during the day
the Danse Macabre cannot be, not until night,
At full moon, on the night when skeletons
walk and dance as they did in life.

Moonnight

Still as an unused tomb,

not even a whisper or a sigh.

Like the moment before a storm,

when animals are silent and hidden,

and the clouds prowl like hungry wolves.

There is a scent of cool remembrance,

an icy sliver woven between warmer air.

A single breath, and small clouds are born,

drifting up and away forever,

lifespan eternal yet so short.

Twin pools shine for a moment and

then are hidden once more from sight.

Silver threads snake across the land,

exposing hidden things and casting shadows.

A lonely note rises into the freezing expanse,

hovering about and chilling to the bone.

English Class

A nothing sort of scent,
save that of the many people.
Perfume hangs in the air, a cloud
of impending doom and trickery.
Laughter low, with a gleam of teeth,
flash of mischief, with ill intentions.
The ruffle of knowledge, torn or lost,
portals to other times ignored.
Silent mockery, whispered comments
elusive like snakes, grasping at smoke.
Memory drifts in and around,
feeling peckish and lazy as cats in the sun.
The silent hunter, Sleep, striking quickly
when people aren't looking.
Fake smiles and faces kept up and
maintained like mansion gardens.
And all the while, the one in charge
keeps her own eyes blind to it all.

Lost Mind

I am going to lost my mind
and here are the reasons why.
My heart's been seized and so I cry,
mourning the loss of a lovely lie.

My heart's been dragged through shards of glass,
bloodied hands are wiped on grass.
Take the body and hold a mass,
for the poor, delusional little lass.

Dreams destroyed by a sudden truth,
the frail emotions of foolish youth.

Undeserved Friend

A dear friendly fellow,
trusting you forever.
Until every green thing
turned to dust particles,
and then blew away.
You were his god,
his fearless leader
into every new day.
But now where have
you led him to?
Your faithful friend,
never doubting companion,
power abused, worn and
now tired to death.
Ever at your side,
no reason what so ever.
You don't deserve this
friend, so happy to
see you every time.

Once....

Once upon a time,
a woman had a baby,
but the baby looked so odd,
so they put the baby away,
into a treasure box,
and once again they tried,
this time, wanting perfection.

Once upon a time,
a woman had a baby,
but the baby was slightly ill,
so this one too was put away,
silent and simple little thing.

There was no cry
because it's alright.
Life isn't life
until we say so.
The fine line's been crossed,
there's no going back.

Shakespearean Sonnet

It is a wish come true,
a beautiful thing from a dream.
To be so close, to be in love with you,
and yet, things are not always as they seem.
This entire time together is all a lie,
a mere puppet of the thing called reality.
And so all day I smile, and every night I cry,
and all the while I wonder at the slight possibility,
that you may someday love me as well.
Shall you never hold my hand for more
than show? My heart rose and instantly fell,
remembering why we are here; my heart shall never soar.
In the end of all things, we finally will part
and all I can do is pray for a new start.

Italian Sonnet

(Italian Sonnet, English Homework)

To see your face, just one last time,
to paint the memory, the image of you
within my mind, a hopeful though to see me through.
A silent wish, a cry of the heart, if only you were mine!
While I may smile, laugh and say all is fine,
every word would be a lie, a differant point of view.
There is that wish, do you feel this way too?
How am I to know, with out so much as a sign?
So lovely are you; you are the cause of my smile,
each day I see you, and my love grows more.
And yet, can I ever tell you? If I should lose
our friendship, so beautiful and young, and all the while
so fragile, the pain of that loss would touch my core.
So I shall never tell you, dreaming up every excuse.

A Dead Thing Lost

(Another English assignment, a lyrical poem. Note: I'm in a perfectly happy mood, don't worry...)

I am a dead thing lost,
a broken, wingless dream.
I am a fleeting memory,
a single, frail moonbeam.

I am a rotting corpse,
the cold earth is my bed.
My nails are black as sin,
my eyes are filled with lead.

I am a bitter sigh,
a waterfall of tears.
My mind, a frightful graveyard,
a sweet collection of fears.

I am a ruined painting,
my paint all washed away.
Fading away tomorrows,
no such thing as Today.

I am a forgotten promise,
a twice forgotten fire.
A travel weary traveler,
lost in a murky mire.

I am a dead thing lost,
a frozen, silent cry.
So tired of all these hours,
please just let me lie.

A Poem is Poem

(This was an assignment for my English homework)
A poem is a reborn phoenix.
A poem is a soul with new wings.
A poem is a dancing fire.
A poem is a distant memory.
A poem is a voice of the past.
A poem is a gift from the dead.
A poem is the anger of failure.
A poem is a mocking voice.
A poem is ink on a page.
A poem is a speaking ghost.