Alright, so I don't really ever stop talking, and so I will provide a story to go along with this poem. Once upon a time, I was really bored. Soooo, I wrote this generic-type poem in the space of about twenty minutes. Then I tweaked one word from every line, barring the last quatrain thingy. Then I posted it on here, and suddenly I wasn't quite as bored as I was before. Here goes the poem, then;
Like angels crying on broken wings
And stars crinkling in the sky,
She looks through her most measured things
For hidden muse as to why
She cannot give another day
She does not, fair, go on;
Her last death isn't one of play -
Her final rope is gone.
She rakes her way through toxic waste,
And searches for the mend
Her knots then turn to things unchaste;
Her resolution shall not bend...
Her knuckles scrape the rocky hound:
She needs but doesn't care.
That which she ekes remains unfound
Greatness, here, she shows is rare,
The flattered desolation reigns
In this face of truth and lies;
Brings fourth from here eternal pains
And so herself she does disguise.
As she glares into the night,
A single fear falls down her cheek,
Oh, how she fishes for respite
Among the wild, among the meek.
If he would say those simple words,
She'd cease to search for her last breath
She longs to hear she's beautiful
She shouldn't have to wait for death.
