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The Longest Poem

I plan to write the longest poem

the longest poem there’ll ever be

They’ll all grow tired of reading it

But what good would that be?

 

And so here I write the longest poem

Careful, ’cause you’ll get bored

You see, it won’t end soon

I’m trying to break a world record

 

Here’s to the longest poem

And here’s to its end

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Change

The end of my beginning, the start of something new

I tried to start all over ; changed the colors, changed the hue

Skies fall out as clouds fly away

And so many things I wish I could say

Down the drain by the broken and leaking lake

My future dangled so weakly at the stake

I try my best but I keep being pulled back

OH come on! Cut me some slack!

Stars fall off and hit me on my head

Slowly I succumb ; slowly I bled

Things go wrong when everything’s right

No one hears my silent plight

Starting anew but I hurt and cry

Difficulty it brings, oh why, oh why?

Darker the clouds, harder the rain

Still I fight my inside pain

Time is a ticking yes it’s running fast

I cannot change what has been done in the past

Carry me to the vast ocean and sea

To where the path is laid clear for me

Hesitant, knees shaking but I keep my head held high

No regrets, none at all, til the day I die

I keep a sunshine in my pocket just in case

As I start another phase

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If

If you can keep your head when all about you
Are losing theirs and blaming it on you;
If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you,
But make allowance for their doubting too;
If you can wait and not be tired by waiting,
Or being lied about, don’t deal in lies,
Or being hated, don’t give way to hating,
And yet don’t look too good, nor talk too wise:

If you can dream — and not make dreams your master;
If you can think — and not make thoughts your aim;
If you can meet with Triumph and Disaster
And treat those two imposters just the same;
If you can bear to hear the truth you’ve spoken
Twisted by knaves to make a trap for fools,
Or watch the things you gave your life to, broken,
And stoop and build ’em up with worn-out tools;

If you can make one heap of all your winnings
And risk it on one turn of pitch-and-toss,
And lose, and start again at your beginnings
And never breathe a word about your loss;
If you can force your heart and nerve and sinew
To serve your turn long after they are gone,
And so hold on when there is nothing in you
Except the Will which says to them: “Hold on!”

If you can talk with crowds and keep your virtue,
Or walk with kings — nor lose the common touch,
If neither foes nor loving friends can hurt you,
If all men count with you, but none too much;
If you can fill the unforgiving minute
With sixty seconds’ worth of distance run —
Yours is the Earth and everything that’s in it,
And — which is more — you’ll be a Man, my son!

– Rudyard Kipling

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Balloons

Fragile is my heart like that of a balloon

Fly away into the sky

Please make sure to take care of it

Don’t just let it go or pass by.

 

Hold it tightly, keep it safe

Around your finger tie a string

Keep it really, really close

As if wearing a precious ring

 

Sharp objects keep it far

For it’s allergic to that

Do not pop my balloon heart like a gum

For it may never ever mend ; it will stay limp and flat

 

If you take care of it, it’ll bring joy and smile

It’ll bring color to your world of black and white

It’ll tickle you silly to the bones

It’ll wipe sadness and give delight

 

When I give it to you, hold it tightly

And make sure you keep it safely

I give this to you as a gift

So don’t let it go all to swift

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When Monday Never Came

People were wondering what could have happened

For some strange reason, Monday never came.

 

Tuesday was present, jubilant as ever

Waving here and there, welcoming a wonderful day

“Good day! Good day!”, it just kept saying

 

Thursday was looking ’round

Surprised to see so many gathered

It didn’t stay long and left in a hurry

Shouting, “Friday’s almost here!”

 

Sunday peeped but changed its mind

Instead, out came Saturday looking a little dazed.

It walked slowly, talked slurred

Could not walk a straight line

It held a coffee mug on one hand

And merely smiled at the onlookers

 

Wednesday was grand,

he kept shaking people’s hand

It was as if he won the election

“Middle of the week!”, he exclaimed

“You’re almost there.”

 

Now, Sunday was shy so outgoing Friday came out with it

They held hands and stood in the middle of the crowd

“Where is Monday?”, the people asked

Sunday replied, “well, he always comes right after me, so he may be coming anytime soon.”

“He always comes before me, I’m sure he’s just around”, was Friday’s reply.

 

On and on the week came and went

But Monday was nowhere to be found

It was as if he disappeared or just didn’t make a sound

“Manic Monday will surely come”, the people kept on saying

But it would seem it won’t be anytime soon

As Monday never came

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Pages

Rough, old, battered and bruised

Crumpled, scratched and sometimes misused

Written, erased……forgotten by time

Going down in history, a mountainous climb

Beat up, worn out and torn apart

Mend it or break it, it’s written from the heart

The truth and the lies

All written in the pages of life

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I Wrote A Song

I wanted to write a song

and so I kept humming along

but ended up with the lyrics all wrong

because I added a bit of diphthong

somehow it just didn’t belong

 

So I rewrote it all

letting letters and words fall

and when I wrote the dot

it seems I hit the spot

seems I got the tune right too

now I don’t feel so blue

 

Yet to my surprise

before my very eyes

it was not a song I was about to show ’em

because it seems I actually wrote a poem

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The Old Couple

there she was waiting on the white park bench

softly she was singing of happiness and content

her eyes sparkled, reminiscing the years

she was smiling

she was contented

 

he was trotting and whistling happily

a bag of popcorn in hand

smiling widely and not minding his aching back

he felt like he was nineteen again

and the day could not have been more perfect

 

under the shade of the oak tree

a gentle breeze swept over

children flying kites, joggers here and there

an ice cream vendor not far off

she met his eyes and he gave a hearty laugh

he sat opposite her and they gazed at each other

he held her hand

like how he always did

all those many years they’ve been together

 

and there they were

sitting on the white park bench

frozen in time

as I snap a picture from a far

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The Happy Old Man (the old couple part 2)

…he came trotting down the lane, bringing a bag of popcorn

he seems to be dancing on a beat while walking

he’s got this broad smile on his face

fitting for a sunny weather

 

his thin lips was lined with wrinkles and folded skin

he could have been eighty but his happiness made him look younger

his white hair was rare, as he has lost most of his hair

he whistling as he was walking

and contagious was his happiness that people he passed,

could not help but beam up at him and smile…

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The Looking Glass

The Queen was in her chamber, and she was middling old.
Her petticoat was satin, and her stomacher was gold.
Backwards and forwards and sideways did she pass,
Making up her mind to face the cruel looking-glass.
The cruel looking-glass that will never show a lass
As comely or as kindly or as young as what she was!

The Queen was in her chamber, a-combing of her hair.
There came Queen Mary’s spirit and It stood behind her char,
Singing “Backwards and forwards and sideways may you pass,
But I will stand behind you till you face the looking-glass.
The cruel looking-glass that will never show a lass
As lovely or unlucky or as lonely as I was!”

The Queen was in her chamber, a-weeping very sore.
There came Lord Leicester’s spirit and It scratched upon the door,
Singing “Backwards and forwards and sideways may you pass,
But I will walk beside you till you face the looking-glass.
The cruel looking-glass that will never show a lass,
As hard and unforgiving or as wicked as you was!”

The Queen was in her chamber, her sins were on her head.
She looked the spirits up and down and statelily she said: –
“Backwards and forwards and sideways though I’ve been,
Yet I am Harry’s daughter and I am England’s Queen!”
And she saw her day was over and she saw her beauty pass
In the cruel looking-glass, that can always hurt a lass
More hard than any ghost there is or any man there was!

– Rudyard Kipling