A modern view on the most complete form of true love

They sat together with their friends,

Curious and unsure,

Her eyes were turned to look at him,

And his to look at her.

He was tall and bulky,

While she was short and slim,

He was very dark and tan,

She had light brown skin.

Her curves were as curvy as curves could be,

And her eyes were pale and bright,

They wished that they could marry,

But not everything was right.

They bitterly forsook their dreams,

For coincidence was fateful,

They mourned that they could not be wed,

For they were just potatoes.

Copyright January 9, 2017 by Christina Gatchel. This post may not be copied or reproduced without express permission from the author.

Night Flowers

Petals in the night air,

 Swirling through the sky,

 Illuminated by the stars

 As though the light could make them fly

Darting quickly through the darkness

 Like a shadow in the trees,

 Bringing tales of places far,

 Stories through the scented breeze

Soft as feathers on the wind,

Like the wings of moths they flew,

 Carried off to places far,

 Places that they never knew

Nearly hidden in the blackness,

 Fleeting ghosts of paradise,

Slowly shriveling in the cold,

Whispers of their former lives

Falling down from skies above,

Withered when they once were bright,

Drained of life from darkness cold,

Dead before the day brings light.

Copyright September 5, 2016 by Christina Gatchel. This post may not be copied or reproduced without express permission from the author.

The hidden people

Whatever you do, don't forget to be yourself,

Because it would be very strange if you were someone else.

There are times when everyone must hide away what's real,

But if it's kept down for too long, you soon forget to feel,

As it builds thick walls of steel you try to hide behind,

Then it surrounds you and consumes you, and there's nothing left to find,

But the empty shell that was how people saw you,

Then there no escape because those people didn't know you.

Copyright September 7, 2015 by Christina Gatchel. This post may not be copied or reproduced without express permission from the author.

Memories lost

Moments, precious, sacred bits of time,

Dusty, tattered, now they're left behind,

Things we once held dear,

Nightmares we used to fear,

Lost, forgotten deep inside the corners of our mind.

Friends once close, now so very far away,

Dreams soon gone in remembrance of day,

No one cares and no one cries,

When a thought or idea dies,

 Bright colors of memories fading slowly away to gray.

Items once held close, now there's no thought you have to spare,

The little things you'd cry about, but now you barely care,

Growing up and standing bold,

Throwing down what you would hold,

What had once comforted you, now will no longer be there.

Copyright August 19, 2015, by Christina Gatchel. This post may not be copied or reproduced without express permission from the author.

My Father

Since today is my father's birthday, I decided that I should write him a poem. This is his poem, and I am sharing it with you.

The one that tickles you while you’re asleep,

The one you tell your promises you both intend to keep.

The one who has an extensive collection of ties he never wears,

The one who holds you tight at random moments ‘cause he cares.

The one who has a belly laugh that echoes all around,

The one who snores at night, shaking the windows with the sound.

The one who works real hard each day so we can have some money,

The only one who ever dares to call our Mother ‘honey’.

The one with arms so open wide, the perfect length for hugs,

The one who has several sizes of coffee mugs.

The one who plays with you, and still’s a good sport when he loses,

The one who wiggles his socked foot from open-toed shoeses.

The one who’s up all day and night doing the oddest things,

The one who doesn’t care how off tune he is, he still sings.

The one who is an example of the father up above,

Who showers all his daughters with a special kind of love.

Copyright July 3, 2015, by Christina Gatchel (otherwise known as Chris-the-awesome). This post may not be copied or reproduced without express permission from the author.

The end of the world

When all is lost and gone away,

And no more life to see,

No branches swaying in the wind,

No where for one to be.

No golden sun or sunset red,

No promises for time to keep,

For Earth has rest her tired head,

And fallen in eternal sleep.

An empty world to waste away,

No relief for her barren ground,

No end to night with dawn of day,

a lonely earth without a sound.

When all is lost and gone away,

And mother earth has rest her head,

The world is cold and dark and still,

And everything is old and dead.

Copyright March 13, 2015 by Christina Gatchel. This post may not be copied or reproduced without express permission from the author.

The invisible world

The world encased inside your brain

Can always come to be,

But only for your own eyes,

Only for you to see.

The world where everything is gold,

The limit is the sky,

No one is wrinkled, fat, or old,

And no one ever dies.

Or everything is dark bare,

And time is very slow,

The residents are simply there,

With nowhere else to go.

The world that's there is just for you,

But sometimes hard to find.

Each time you look, it seems brand-new,

But just inside your mind.

Copyright February 17,  2015 by Christina Gatchel. This post may not be copied or reproduced without express permission from the author.

Ideas of you

There are some who wish you well

And some who wish you dead.

Some who wish you stood and fought,

Some who wish you fled.

Some who place you higher up,

Some who place you low,

Some who wonder who you are,

Some already know.

People all around your life,

Who have their ideas of you,

A rebel, fighter, whiner, crier,

A person with nothing to do.

There are some who wish you life,

And some who wish you hate,

It all depends on the idea of you

That you inspired them to create.

Copyright January 20, 2015. This post may not be copied or reproduced with out express permission from the author.

The trees

The trees that stand so tall and proud,

With long, firm roots against the ground,

Might yearn for long lost sapling years,

And sap runs down their trunk like tears.

They wish to touch the fertile earth,

That mothered them ever since birth,

And live to see their seeds fall,

To become more trees, just as tall.

Copyright January 12, 2015 by Christina Gatchel. This post may not be copied or reproduced without express permission from the author.

Scattered thoughts: Cold

Cold is when the sky is covered in a thick blanket of gray.
Cold is when the air is clear and crisp.
Cold is when you don't dare go out without shoes because your feet will freeze from the wetness and you could probably get hypothermia or something and you stay inside posting about cold instead of actually experiencing it because you'd rather not experience it.
Cold can be fun, like when it snows.
Cold can also be annoying when you want to go out and do something but it's so cold your face gets numb.
Sometimes it feels that the cold is mean when you want to do something and it's suddenly twenty - eight degrees.
Cold is cold.
Some people are used to temperatures around negative something.
I'm not.
I like the cold, but it has its disadvantages.
Maybe inside is better.
Until it turns summer and I'll probably wish it was winter.

Copyright January 2, 2015. This post may not be copied or reproduced without express permission from the author. (Though I can't imagine why you would try.)

The nothingness

Copyright  December 21, 2014, by Christina Gatchel. This post may not be copied or reproduced without express permission from the author.

Time's passing

Time flies swiftly through the world,

 Never stopping, never waiting,

Not a whisper can be heard,

Though the present's always moving.

Past grows long while future's leaving,

The yet to come is growing small,

Past grows longer, never changing,

But present moves for all.

Copyright December 21, 2014 by Christina Gatchel. This post may not be copied or reproduced without express permission from the author.

Fearing the dark

Fear of the dark is normal,

Because the night is nightmare's place,

For nothing honest hides its name,

And nothing of beauty hides its face.

Nothing true walks shadowed ways,

Shadows hide themselves in night,

For all the nightmares fear the day,

Because it hurts to face the light.

A person often walks by day,

And turns and flees from shining moon,

For many humans do believe

That darkness brings eternal doom.

It's okay to be afraid,

For darkness tries to swallow all,

The unknown scares us night and day,

And when it hits us hard, we fall.

Copyright December 1, 2014 by Christina Gatchel. This post may not be copied or reproduced without express permission from the author.

Dancing Alone

The music has started,

The dance floor is ready,

The people have partners,

But not me.

Some people are dancing,

The others are talking,

I want to dance,

But no one asks me.

Not brave enough to ask,

Not smart enough to see,

That there are other people

Waiting for partners, just like me.

I simply step out on the floor,

And look around at faces,

The smiling, happy people seem

To come from foreign places,

And so, my eyes trained on my feet,

I start to dance along,

But with no partner, only me,

In time to every song.

I must have looked so sad,

Alone, yet dancing all the same,

Weighed down  by weary feet,

Head bowed as though it rained.

Yet I was happy while I danced,

For I could dream a partner was there,

Someone who's always by your side,

In every place, no matter where.

Your partner may not be alive,

Unless you make them so,

It's a sense that only very few

Will ever get to know.

Copyright November 13, 2014 by Christina Gatchel. This post may not be copied or reproduced without express permission from the author.

The poem with a title that is completely pointless other than to fail at informing you the subject of the poem and to bore you before you even get to reading the poem which has no purpose other than to entertain and possibly inform or enlighten you or make you curl into a ball and cry. Simplified, a poem on poems.

What is the purpose of poems?

What makes the words poetry?

Is there something hidden between the lines

That only the crazy deep thinking nerds can see?

Some poems don't rhyme,

So rhyming's not the key,

Is it that poems must always contain

A secret, personal meaning?

What makes a poem a poem,

Is there a secret that makes it so?

If I knew it, I would tell you,

But honestly, I don't know.

Copyright November 10, 2014 by Christina Gatchel. This post may not be copied or reproduced without express permission from the author.

If mercy was a legend

If mercy was a legend,

If no one cared for the poor,

Mistakes were not forgiven,

Leaving us always at war,

If grace was the unthinkable,

If love was barely seen,

If good did not exist,

What sort of persons would we be?

The lonely would stay alone,

The sad could only cry,

The homeless would never have a home,

The rejects would simply die.

The girls who search for their Prince Charming

Would search but would not find,

For happiness was drained away,

And good things left behind.

If no one cared for the unlucky,

If no one chose to say,

"I'll stand up for the weak and poor,

I'll be with them all the way."

The ones that fell would never find,

A hand to help them rise,

For all the rich would never care,

And the rejects would simply die.

Copyright November 9, 2014 by Christina Gatchel. This post may not be copied or reproduced without express permission from the author.

The past affects the future

The past creates the present,

And the time that's yet to be,

What happens will affect us all,

And the way in which we see.

A troubled man, abused, despised,

With a past that's full of hate,

Will respond in ways that are his own,

And his future he shall create.

An orphan girl that's poor and weak,

And yet is kind to all,

When troubles rise her past will decide

If she will rise or fall.

Memories make us ourselves,

They define our character,

They've made the person that you are,

Who you'll be, and who you were.

The good things you must dwell upon,

The bad things you reject,

For though the kind may be frail and weak,

They will grow stronger yet.

But when they think of evil, fear,

Hunger, hate,  the cold and wet,

Those memories are not ones they'll cherish,

But ones they will regret.

Copyright October 31, 2014. This post may not be copied or reproduced without express permission from the author. (Post a comment about what you would like me to write about next time!)

Clantine's poem: A revision of Sondalor's poem

At one point in my books, Sondalor will tell his poem, and Clantine will refute that with a poem of her own.

Sondalor: Sticks and stones may break my bones,

Words leave scars that never heal,

Pictures tear your life apart,

And memories are made of steel.

Paper claws and fangs of ink,

Tear your heart and leave a hole,

Making nightmares from your dreams,

Emptying a hope-filled soul.

Where is there to find a place

From angry eyes and hateful words?

For though the blood may wash away,

The words can never be unheard.

Clantine: Sticks and stones may break your bones,

But words can heal the ugly scars,

Pictures remind us of hope,

And memories can take you far.

Paper herbs and shields of ink,

Boost you up when you are low,

Turning nightmares into dreams,

Bringing hope to empty souls.

Why hide yourself into the dark,

And take the blows that other give?

Though hateful words cannot be stopped,

Kind words remind us to live.

Copyright October 28, 2014 by Christina Gatchel. This post may not be copied or reproduced without express permission from the author.

The nightmare I created

The nightmare I created,

Was once a pure white sky,

But as time passed it grew darker,

Darker than the blackest night.

The nightmare is a beast that crawls

Around the corners in the night,

Always close, very close,

But never coming to the light.

No light reflects off his scales,

No talons shining bright,

The only sparkle is in his eyes,

That glow with cold delight.

The nightmare's eyes are always watching,

Never blinking, never moving,

Claws scratching on the windows,

Teeth clicking, smile widening.

Blood is dripping from his lips,

From his talons, on the floor,

Smeared across every surface,

Every carpet, every door.

Everyone has their own monster,

Everyone has their own nightmare,

Something crawling, coming closer,

And they know when it's there.

Fed off fear, despised and hated,

The monster grows or shrinks in time,

You have one that you created,

A perfect nightmare for each night.

I feel sorry for my nightmare,

Though it's heart is cold as stone,

It's only purpose is to scare me,

But I think that it's quite alone.

Copyright October 24, 2014 by Christina Gatchel. This post may not be copied or reproduced without express permission from the author.

Alone

Standing at the corner, waiting

For the bus to take him home,

Knowing well that he's a stranger,

With nowhere else to go.

Standing there at prom night,

The teenager girl waits for a dance,

But the music starts, and she's alone,

She knew that it was just a chance.

In the classroom, there's a girl,

Who's  known the answers from the start,

But she's been shunned, she's 'not cool',

And they don't care how it hurts her heart.

Afraid, confused, shunned, and hurt,

These people don't know what they can do,

I know that, because I was one of them,

And it's possible, maybe you are too.

Friends are important in your life,

But a thousand fake friends do nothing at all,

So find a real friend to spend your time with,

Someone who catches you when you fall.

Everyone's alone at one time or another,

And what we need best is a best friend's hand,

Someone to cheer with us when we are soaring,

And when we fall, to help us stand.

Copyright October 20, 2014 by Christina Gatchel. This post may not be copied or reproduced without express permission from the author.