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Helplessromantic87's profile
AGE:
22
LOC: Whitehall, MI
GEN: Male
LAST LOGIN: November 30
LOC: Whitehall, MI
GEN: Male
LAST LOGIN: November 30
My name is Christopher Cross, I am 19 years old. I enjoy both writing and reading poetry. Some of my favorite poets are Robert Frost, Wordsworth, Keats, Coldridge, and Lamb. I do have some disliked poets, both Lord Byron and Edgar Allen Poe are poets I detest. Their writing was supurb but lacked in many ways. I believe that words that flow or that have rythme are not what makes a poem, if so, Dr. Suess was a poet, I mean, cat, hat. It is the description and intention that matters. Poetry is beauty, therefore, if the “poem” does not have beauty in it, it is not a poem.
”...that is poetry comes not as natural as the leaves to the tree, it had better not come at all.”
-John Keats
“The diction of poetry ought to be much more n…
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The Highlander Heart Is set apart, He does not fear What others may fear. He knows not much Of grandeur so rare, He prefers the mountains And fresh clean air. Barbaric he may seem, With his rugged demeanor. But power is seen, In the remainder. The highlander has been tamed, But the spirit lives strong. Society is to be blamed, To them, his ways are wrong. The Highlander Heart cries again To be free once again. To the run the mountain tops, only to come down for his small crops. Beware of the ...
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Some call him an artist, Some see him as a writer. His actions are not art, But much higher. Some see a picture, Some see nothing at all. There is some mixture, But some cannot see past the wall. He draws no picture, He writes no story. He is a poet, In that lies the glory.
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38 Reviews
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I wake up in a room, at first everything is dark. As my eyes embrace my surroundings I begin to make out the shapes of the few things in the room. This room was not the same room that I went to bed in. The room is quiet small, only about 10’ by 10’, roughly have the size of my room; but this room is different, it is very tall, stretching at least 2 stories. As I rub my eyes and begin trying to make sense of what has happened, I notice that there is no door; there is a bed, my bed actually. T...
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Helpless they all cry Might as well let him die for he fights with all his might Romantic fool he must be, for he surely cannot see, Romantics are not for me Helpless he certainly is, Giving up is not his biz, even for a little wiz There goes the romantic Always becoming frantic The sadly mad romantic There he goes again Romancing all the way, Helpless romantic is what they say.
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I look at today But what could I do? Every attempt has fallen through. Choices made have Not gone this way. But victory or defeat Has not come today. Down and depressed I may be. But no one knows what tomorrow may bring. Wins and loses Have both come, But the war is not done. Strive we must to stay the course. For there are more that follows us.
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i am not a big fan of horror stories and this one didn't seem that scary, but as writing goes, you might want to work on how you describe things, like for example, The door opened a quarter of an inch allowing a ribbon of light to enter the darkness I doubt she would explain it as a quater of an inch, maybe instead you say, and the door creeked oped just enough to look through, something like that. but even though i dislike horror stories, this was written pretty well
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