02-06-2014, 01:23 PM
"It is not unlike the days of mice and men.
When ancient stories were written on barley,
by the heave of a fountain pen.
Two, ten men armies they held the rubble
For the glory of their kings.
When a queen she held a little prince,
and a little box seemed to sing.
The boy he grew and when he did,
his mind began to ponder.
The story starts there; be it wrong or fair,
For a pen should not far wander.
He saw a face, the face of a young fair lass
With childish hands that held a comb,
Over locks that were gold as brass.
A minute later, the scene it changed
And war began to spread.
Betrayal came fast and the king he fell;
Through lies, that he was fed.
No more did he, the prince no more,
Think of food or gold.
Revenge was near, he did not fear
For life, his will was told.
Few years passed till he came of age to lead
Mighty men, who drank down blood
when gods in battles, bleed.
Ten days raged; on red stained soil,
the battle for a throne,
but the boy he knew, the field he toiled,
was for anger he felt alone.
Starved by hate and drenched in grief,
The boy he won the hand.
But the price of war was far too great,
and he fell on the line of sand.
It is not unlike the days of mice and men.
When an ancient story was spoken for glory
Too great to be written by pen.
Two, thousand men armies; one held the rubble,
In the name of it's late king.
Whose queen she held a little prince,
while a little box, it did sing.
The boy he grew and he did ponder
The last sight of dark revenge.
The story ends here, for his was near.
He thought at his final hour.
He remembered her face, the face of a young fair lass
With childish hands that held a comb,
Over locks that were gold as brass."
Well Im kind of new to poetry so any pointers will be happily accepted. Especially when it comes to punctuations. Thanks for reading.
When ancient stories were written on barley,
by the heave of a fountain pen.
Two, ten men armies they held the rubble
For the glory of their kings.
When a queen she held a little prince,
and a little box seemed to sing.
The boy he grew and when he did,
his mind began to ponder.
The story starts there; be it wrong or fair,
For a pen should not far wander.
He saw a face, the face of a young fair lass
With childish hands that held a comb,
Over locks that were gold as brass.
A minute later, the scene it changed
And war began to spread.
Betrayal came fast and the king he fell;
Through lies, that he was fed.
No more did he, the prince no more,
Think of food or gold.
Revenge was near, he did not fear
For life, his will was told.
Few years passed till he came of age to lead
Mighty men, who drank down blood
when gods in battles, bleed.
Ten days raged; on red stained soil,
the battle for a throne,
but the boy he knew, the field he toiled,
was for anger he felt alone.
Starved by hate and drenched in grief,
The boy he won the hand.
But the price of war was far too great,
and he fell on the line of sand.
It is not unlike the days of mice and men.
When an ancient story was spoken for glory
Too great to be written by pen.
Two, thousand men armies; one held the rubble,
In the name of it's late king.
Whose queen she held a little prince,
while a little box, it did sing.
The boy he grew and he did ponder
The last sight of dark revenge.
The story ends here, for his was near.
He thought at his final hour.
He remembered her face, the face of a young fair lass
With childish hands that held a comb,
Over locks that were gold as brass."
Well Im kind of new to poetry so any pointers will be happily accepted. Especially when it comes to punctuations. Thanks for reading.
Im glad that my poem is good enough to recieve such praises. I will definitely work on something in this vein, if not its sequel.
and write your interests. Alot of the poems I've written are loosely based off my interests, Spiders, insects, medical terminology, and anything else that interests me. And you'll always be learning about poetry no matter how long you've been writing.