Qianna+Nelson


 * "Poetry is the doorway to the soul"

Ode to a Broken Heart** There are no zombies or monsters in this world only the brokenhearted They roam along this earth with no hearts beating beneath there breasts A room of red A room with no windows A room that is quiet all but for Bump...Bump...Bump The shattering of glass The breaking of crystals The squishing of blood The raspy sound of dust being blown around A desolate place Looking around there's nothing to see And all there is to hear is a scream A silent scream LET THIS PAIN END! The dead thing shouts Rivers Rivers of crimson Rivers of blood flooding from the once so beautiful thing that shown so bright Blood tears Emotions run wild twisting and turning knots Love Pain Hate and Joy all combined as one Here for a reunion of sorts All here to stop this dying agonizing pain “LET THIS PAIN END” And as the shout rings throughout the night All things are drowned All hopes All dreams All faith With one shake the crystal broke With one shake the crystal shattered With one punch the crystal was gone And nd all the pain stopped And the blood stopped flowing And at last it was quiet

Praise Poem Praise to the little angel who was heaven sent Praise to the little angel that never spread her wings to fly Praise to the sweet baby that always had a shine to her eyes Praise to the baby that was too young to die Praise to the baby who left us so sad Praise to the baby who I never got to see
 * Praise to the Baby**

The sweet, sweet angel who will now forever sleep Into the ground we sent her on that hot August day The tears we shed The joy we had The smiles that faded The sadness that grew Because it was all to good to be true A love that she never knew

She took our hearts in her sweet little hands And as she spread he little wings She slowly flew away She calmly looked down And smiled that sweet smile And said I’ll see you in a little while

So we all wait for that day when we will see her again In that precious paradise We’ll flow through the gates to that secret world

Praise to the little angel who was heaven sent Praise to the little angel that never spread her wings to fly Praise to the sweet baby that always had a shine to her eyes Praise to the baby that was too young to die Praise to the baby who left us so sad Praise to the baby who I never got to see

My Sonnet Lights flashing. Wind smashing A heart to take Tears splashing, cars crashing A heart to break Hope dying Clinging to my faith Steady crying But thins world is as scary a wring wraith Letting go of what was Wanting what could be Figuring out what the truth really does Wishing you could see me Shedding this rage As I slowly turn the page
 * Letting Go**

My riff from another poem The line i took is from William Earnest's poem Invictus
 * "I am the master of my fate, I am the captain of my soul"**

I am the master of my fate I am the captain of my soul**
 * Thanks

Thanks to he people I hate Thanks to the people who hate me Thanks to the people who left Thanks to the people who stayed Thanks to the people who supposedly cared Thanks to the people who said they loved me Thanks to the people who loved me but were scared to show it Thanks to the all the people who were always there

Thanks for all the pain you gave me Thanks for making me stronger Thanks for making me believe Thanks for making me lose my faith So it could be born again

Thanks for knocking me down so I could pick myself up Thanks for leaving me hanging so I could learn how to climb Thanks for it all!! Because I’m better for it I’m better for all the abuse For all the lies And all the hurt

But most of all thanks for helping me to realize that I am the captain of my soul**
 * I am the master of my fate

by Walt Whitman**
 * To You

Whoever you are, I fear you are walking the walks of dreams, I fear these supposed realities are to melt from under your feet and hands, Even now your features, joys, speech, house, trade, manners, troubles, follies, costume, crimes, dissipate away from you, Your true soul and body appear before me, They stand forth out of affairs, out of commerce, shops, work, farms, clothes, the house, buying, selling, eating, drinking, suffering, dying.

Whoever you are, now I place my hand upon you, that you be my poem, I whisper with my lips close to your ear, I have loved many women and men, but I love none better than you.

O I have been dilatory and dumb, I should have made my way straight to you long ago, I should have blabb'd nothing but you, I should have chanted nothing but you.

I will leave all and come and make the hymns of you, None has understood you, but I understand you, None has done justice to you, you have not done justice to yourself, None but has found you imperfect, I only find no imperfection in you, None but would subordinate you, I only am he who will never consent to subordinate you, I only am he who places over you no master, owner, better, God, beyond what waits intrinsically in yourself.

Painters have painted their swarming groups and the centre- figure of all, From the head of the centre-figure spreading a nimbus of gold-color'd light, But I paint myriads of heads, but paint no head without its nimbus of gold-color'd light, From my hand from the brain of every man and woman it streams, effulgently flowing forever.

O I could sing such grandeurs and glories about you! You have not known what you are, you have slumber'd upon yourself all your life, Your eyelids have been the same as closed most of the time, What you have done returns already in mockeries, (Your thrift, knowledge, prayers, if they do not return in mockeries, what is their return?)

The mockeries are not you, Underneath them and within them I see you lurk, I pursue you where none else has pursued you, Silence, the desk, the flippant expression, the night, the accustom'd routine, if these conceal you from others or from yourself, they do not conceal you from me, The shaved face, the unsteady eye, the impure complexion, if these balk others they do not balk me, The pert apparel, the deform'd attitude, drunkenness, greed, premature death, all these I part aside.

There is no endowment in man or woman that is not tallied in you, There is no virtue, no beauty in man or woman, but as good is in you, No pluck, no endurance in others, but as good is in you, No pleasure waiting for others, but an equal pleasure waits for you.

As for me, I give nothing to any one except I give the like carefully to you, I sing the songs of the glory of none, not God, sooner than I sing the songs of the glory of you.

Whoever you are! claim your own at an hazard! These shows of the East and West are tame compared to you, These immense meadows, these interminable rivers, you are immense and interminable as they, These furies, elements, storms, motions of Nature, throes of apparent dissolution, you are he or she who is master or mistress over them, Master or mistress in your own right over Nature, elements, pain, passion, dissolution.

The hopples fall from your ankles, you find an unfailing sufficiency, Old or young, male or female, rude, low, rejected by the rest, whatever you are promulges itself, Through birth, life, death, burial, the means are provided, nothing is scanted, Through angers, losses, ambition, ignorance, ennui, what you are picks its way.

by Robert Penn Warren**
 * True Love

In silence the heart raves. It utters words Meaningless, that never had A meaning. I was ten, skinny, red-headed,

Freckled. In a big black Buick, Driven by a big grown boy, with a necktie, she sat In front of the drugstore, sipping something

Through a straw. There is nothing like Beauty. It stops your heart. It Thickens your blood. It stops your breath. It

Makes you feel dirty. You need a hot bath. I leaned against a telephone pole, and watched. I thought I would die if she saw me.

How could I exist in the same world with that brightness? Two years later she smiled at me. She Named my name. I thought I would wake up dead.

Her grown brothers walked with the bent-knee Swagger of horsemen. They were slick-faced. Told jokes in the barbershop. Did no work.

Their father was what is called a drunkard. Whatever he was he stayed on the third floor Of the big white farmhouse under the maples for twenty-five years.

He never came down. They brought everything up to him. I did not know what a mortgage was. His wife was a good, Christian woman, and prayed.

When the daughter got married, the old man came down wearing An old tail coat, the pleated shirt yellowing. The sons propped him. I saw the wedding. There were

Engraved invitations, it was so fashionable. I thought I would cry. I lay in bed that night And wondered if she would cry when something was done to her.

The mortgage was foreclosed. That last word was whispered. She never came back. The family Sort of drifted off. Nobody wears shiny boots like that now.

But I know she is beautiful forever, and lives In a beautiful house, far away. She called my name once. I didn't even know she knew it.

[|William Blake] "A Poison Tree":

I was angry with my friend: I told my wrath, my wrath did end. I was angry with my foe: I told it not, my wrath did grow. And I watered it in fears Night and morning with my tears, And I sunned it with smiles And with soft deceitful wiles. And it grew both day and night, Till it bore an apple bright, And my foe beheld it shine, And he knew that it was mine,-- And into my garden stole When the night had veiled the pole; In the morning, glad, I see My foe outstretched beneath the tree.