The Grand Drama

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The Grand Drama

Story

I pick up this pen.
My hand clasps it,
and as a door swings open,
sound makes me gasp in.
I start to begin,
begin to write when,
all of a sudden, 
life seems so pale
thin.

Plot

ride through the twister
rapidly moving
path stays a myster-
y as I find myself back where I started
too quick
carted off before the thought, a martyr 
charted off the path to be a big circle
circle, why so circle-
"y" I guess be so pointless, so round
Just rest in the sound of the-

Tone

Mistakes, I made
mistakes made so stupid
so round so pointless I know
I know I know
but I don't, why must I think that I know?
Why can't I show what I feel?
Why can't this dream be real?
I feel I must show, perform
reward my audience
of whom I don't know but I think that I knew
before all this confused major blues made askew
a life that was new, maybe not so true, but one that I thought
that I knew before I met you in those hallways of blue
the one with a point on one side and a corner in another
the one where those foolish strangers tried me a brother
and where I learned that love's not a bother
or something to made into fat chickens' fodder. 

Characters

Beauty amung dust
love among lust
lies said to those few that I trust
pain sent to those few that I love
Happiness to those full of hate
food to the bum who just ate
all the while wondering "why"
but forgetting and replacing
forgetting and replacing
forgetting and replacing for the twenty five thousandth time
Like always, forgetting and replacing
"Why?" for "how?" for
"What?" for "when?"
for "Y." again
till dusk of then
love for lust
lust for dust
and dust for the rusting of a clock that'll soon bust
It's not what I want, but what want lies within?
it's not time I guess, not time to rush in,
because I don't know what I want, because I don't want at all
because I don't care about the pain, because I don't feel at all
But you come in and change something, and then I don't know it all
peace, peace, my mind lies still,
suddenly your voice, and now I'm not ill
I write of you, make you a hero,
but you already were, even if you're no "Neo".

Resolution

I pick up this gun.
My mind grasps it,
and as a door swings closed,
silence makes me think no.
I stop to the end,
conclusion to fin when,
just as written, 
life seems so pale
so thin,
without the charecters
within.

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Poetry is when an emotion has found its thought and the thought has found words.

Robert Frost (1875-1963) American Poet.

MarkKarmel’s Poems (5)

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Dreaming 1
Pity 0
Choices 0
Rylee's Lullaby 0
The Grand Drama 0

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