More poems from me

Fire,

Ice,

Burn,

Freeze,

Char,

Crack,

Love,

Hate,

Pain,

Pain,

Knife through the heart,

Knife through the heart,

Fire that is different,

Opposite that of Ice,

Love which is bliss,

Opposite anger and pain which is Hate,

Fire is the true opposite of Ice,

Hate is the false opposite of Love,

Two pairs of opposites,

Two pairs of difference,

They are hand in hand,

Fire,

Ice,

Love,

Hate,

The heart freezes,

The viens burn,

This is durring Love,

This is durring Hate,

These two are so different,

This Love,

And this Hate,

Yet watcing you Love,

Hurts as much as your Hate,

Not the Love of me,

While the Hate of others,

But rather,

The Love of others,

And the Hate of me.

Through the centuries,

Through the decades,

Through the years,

Through the days,

While the hours pass,

The minutes never last,

Everything goes by fast,

You are born,

You live,

You die,

It is all in a heart beat,

So you better speak your feelings,

Now before that beat,

The one that signals the end,

Tell those how you feel,

Tomorrow may never come.

The love that was spread,

Has not fled,

It has brown by the hour,

I offer you this flower,

For you are the love of my life.

3 poems

The summer sun wept,

As the ocean wind swept,

Swept over the land,

Across like an invisible hand,

Where the leaves dance,

Everything is well at first glance,

These scars across my wrist,

Were never part of my list,

These crimson tears,

Are not formed of fears,

This broken soul,

Turning into a black hole,

Love was part of the equation,

It always seems to have it's evasion,

Made up of just subraction and addition,

was enough to destroy this souls ambition,

This body is nothing but a shell,

My priave own Hell,

To break this shell,

When all will fail,

Rip out of the walls,

While all else falls,

I live this eternal death,

Spent holding my breath,

As the pain will hover,

Sitting, waiting for my lover.

If there ever was a place called Hell,

If there ever was a time of eternal torment,

It would be here,

It would be now,

No Hell could create this pain,

The searing burning flesh,

It would never hurt like this,

Frozen breaking skin,

Would not destroy me like this,

Run your hooked fingers into my body,

Tear me limb from limb,

Let me forget,

Let me live again,

All of this does not hurt,

Compared to this burning knowledge,

The knowledge of how you feel,

That you despise me,

That you hate me,

Just let me forget.

The hair made of fire,

The eyes made of ice,

The one who cries crimson tears,

I as well cry these crimson tears,

I can as well as share my icy gaze,

You make me burn up inside,

You make me cool towards you,

You cause my black heart to beat,

I can gaze right through your act,

I scare you just by being here,

You don't like the lack of control,
You don't like that i don't use the control,

The control I seem to have,
I try to make you happy,

But I hear of these tears,

Your crimson tears,

Although they always seem to return.

I have no clue on what this is *shrugs*

Listen to those beats in the night,

The ones that go tap tap tap,

Listen to those raps at night,

The ones that go bang bang bang,

They keep one up through the night,

If the noises were to cease,Maybe then i would sleep,

With out the taps and raps in the night,

When the beats are steady through time,

One can only wonder what is tap tap taping,

The slow murmur of the metal worm coiled in the corner,

Maybe the husky breathing beast in the basement,

The one that breathes cool air through out,

Possibly the thing that churns suds and water,

The one with glass and plastic in it's mouth,

Or maybe the tap tap taping is something more,

Maybe it is the heart that is beating,

And the bang bang bangs are different,

What if it's the club that beats,

The one that breaks the heart,

That slows it to the point of dieing,

Then ceases to let sleep,

Ceases to let it heal,

Then in it's wake,

Again with the tap tap taps,

Again with the bang bang bangs.

How many things can you find this poem describes? It is a production of my boredom.