The pompoen Poem
I shall call it the pompoen Poem
Because it is short and fat, like Larry
Who also looks like a pumpkin

When I was a junior in high school, I tried to gather together 365 poems together so I could make a calender. Actually, my target was at least four hundred, so I could weed out the bad ones. I lost the introduction that I wrote for my teacher, but these poems are based on random thoughts I'd have at one point of another throughout the day. Most are funny, some are not. Generally, it's kind of how I like to see life. Happy, amusing, but very precious. So I present to u the Unfinished...

The Golden Tear part seven
please tell me if u want me to continue in the comments! enjoy!
I waited and waited and I thought the hole thing was a prank
but then Kyle finally can in the room and zei "I'm sorry Eva there
was a million paschen's u must of thought I stud u up" I said
"yeah I kinda did but it's okay your here now" and then my mom
and Molly and David walked back into the room. Molly zei "Mama
Eva we got u an ice cream!" and David zei "yeah if grandma didn't
eat it all" and Mom zei "ha ha very funny the only thing missing is
the cherries David and Molly" David zei "Mama Eva...

Days, weeks, months and years
I’m still missing you, but I’ve stopped shedding tears
I’m passed the stage, where crying could ease my pain
I know u can’t come back, but your memory remains

So, take your hands out of my chest
‘Cause they’re doing their very best
To ruin me

And it’s a heartbreaking feeling
And I can’t stop reeling
This time I won’t make it out alive
And it’s like you’re still with me
But you’re never really
This time they can bury me alive

Getting up, getting to work
Going through the motions, like I’m fucking numb
Pretend I’m fine, but if u could read my mind...

Here, where the world is quiet,
Here, where all trouble seems
Dead winds' and spent waves' riot
In doubtful dreams of dreams;
I watch the green field growing
For reaping folk and sowing,
For harvest time and mowing,
A sleepy world of streams.
I am tired of tears and laughter,
And men that laugh and weep
Of what may come hereafter
No growth of moor of coppice,
No heather-flower of vine,
But bloomless buds of poppies,
Green grapes of Proserpine,
Pale beds of blowing rushes
Where no leaf blooms of blushes,
Save this whereout she crushes
For dead men deadly wine.

Pale, without name of number,
In fruitless...