Learn more about other poetry terms
La plume du poète est plus tranchante Que l’épée de Damoclès La plume du poète est plus charmante Que les fleurs exotiques des pays de l’Est.
There is a forest That you've always loved to escape into To roam free between the branches And run swift with the wind. And maybe one day you decided To lead a wolf from its depths
I walk on the dark moors and dance with the wolves. I don't want to go home, where reality rules. my fingers are crossed. a sword in my hand. my soul will fight, to stay in this land.
i am deep in a forest; disoriented. my vision blurs with tears, my legs buckle and I crawl hands and knees, through mud and thickets, my skin shredded by thorns, sweat running down my back.
To tell a story of the famed Knight Hawk Listen whilst I remember, recall Ready not yourself for a tale of sweet For he was never such a declious trait Knight Hawk began as a boy of late
So quick and deft A sword so smooth And arms so strong Holding it high Swinging it low A glimmer of color In her eyes
Green tinted hilt
Shattering the silence
I cannot begin to imagine What comes within this baggage Friendship! What a slippy, messy slope?!! A non-romantic relationship Where two hearts begin to elope
If you could be the next thing you see Would you do it? Would you take your chances as a bumble bee Or would you rather just forget it? Life is too short to stay the same Even if you're great.
A writer’s sword is a pen Green, blue, red, black, yellow ink Inside a long plastic contraption It spews words exempt for bigotry And hatred. A writer’s pen stops magic from happening during a
This is their place, the place they freely roam; This is their place, the place they call, “Home”.
Sword bearer truth wearer covered in blood like Hanibal but I'm not a cannibal I'm plannin to animal beats on all the flammable channels Cant drop me with choppers or pop me with glockers
Read my words
Bullying, A double edged sword. You take the pain, But what is it like to inflict it? You find your target, You spit out some words, That have been spat at you.
Pick me not a flowerAs though that were all I amA quickly fading pretty thingJust a trinket in your hand
I lost myself inside my head-space No mind palace up here. I went a-wandering inside myself. And I tell you, its been years... Since all of my saw the sun Hugged a friend, Smelled a flower.
I worry about the future, because of my past. And I wonder if this pain, will continue to last. All the things that happened and the things I've done, All I want to do, is continue to run.