Steel Lives On and Other Poems

Poetry about Words

Irony

It would be ironic if I wrote a verse

About my own old poetry that's been thrown in the hearse.

<^>

Poems

Writing poems is something I do when I'm inspired.

I write them in the light or dark, when I'm alert or tired.

It's just a skill that I've picked up, no telling when or where.

Perhaps it's been inside of me, and just lain dormant there.

All I know is I like it, regardless of the scuffs,

Because one boy's opinion would hardly be enough

To deter me from my taste of touching people's hearts.

I long to change this spinning world, and this is where I start.

The truth is, I love what I do, and will continue on.

I hope my words will still be here even after I'm gone.

I have the power, write the words, and so I'll make a rhyme,

One that will touch your heart, too, until the end of time.

<^>

Printed

Shelves of printed characters,

Some scribbles on a page;

Some speak of death, and some of naught,

And some of love and rage.

All tell of life in different ways,

Its challenges and fears.

The good ones speak of lessons learned

And great ones prompt fresh tears.

Markings on an empty sheet,

Ideas hastily drawn.

Someday, maybe, bound and read,

Years after you are gone.

<^>

They Are Not Only Books

They sit there simply on the shelves, just waiting to be read.

Dutiful against the walls, a thousand words unsaid.

Different colors, different fonts, novels large and small:

Some are done, and some half-through, and some not read at all.

But some are worn with use and age; they've been read more than once.

The spines have softened to the touch, and well-loved are the fronts.

But most precious is what's inside: the memories untold.

You lived within these pages. Your heart is in the fold.

The characters are flawless, the writing is unique.

You gasped at every twist and turn. It made your knees feel weak.

You laughed and cried and felt great pain with every letter there.

You felt yourself just come alive, your heart and soul laid bare.

Some people just don't understand: the story isn't fake.

For you know that you came alive. This made you come awake.

That story isn't printed, no; that tale belongs to you.

Your tears fell on those paper words. They tore your heart in two.

So don't be fooled by what you see; don't be decieved by looks.

Those pages hold your story too. They are not only books.