Canid Posted February 11, 2003 Report Posted February 11, 2003 (edited) Trilling sounds echoed through the warm night. I with my brush, I with my page. Child dancing in the moonlight. I with my pen, Brightness and rage. Uncertain notes screaming to be heard. Instrument cold, Left on the floor. Bitterly cold is reality's bird, But deep within, Beauty is heard. Artforms. Edited June 30, 2014 by Canid
DoomGaze Posted February 11, 2003 Report Posted February 11, 2003 your right Canid, it does sound good.. nice poem, make more plz, i like your work, Thx for Sharing
Gyrfalcon Posted February 11, 2003 Report Posted February 11, 2003 The half-elf applauds his wolf-friend's skill Go Canid, I like.
Ozymandias Posted February 11, 2003 Report Posted February 11, 2003 Ooo...I likes poems that give such accurate and eloquent insight to any seemingly so insignificant events as smearing paint around on paper with a brush, scribbling down your thoughts, or trying to carry a tune. Bravo! Oz applauds enthusiastically.
Rune Posted February 21, 2003 Report Posted February 21, 2003 Reminds me of when your trying to create, but just cant seem to find the energy or make the commitment to do so. Its a sort of nagging feeling that something needs to pour from your heart, but you cant find an outlet. Great poem, Thank you for sharing.
Canid Posted February 22, 2003 Author Report Posted February 22, 2003 That was actually pretty-much the feeling I had when writing it - I'm glad it came across. I often have a very strong desire to write something, but nothing to write; this is what happened that time.
HopperWolf Posted February 22, 2003 Report Posted February 22, 2003 I have that feeling almost constantly very nice poem
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