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.