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The Pen is Mightier than the Sword

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Well, though it has been said that stuff that I just make up as I go along shouldn't really be considered poetry... I think that anything that has a rhyme scheme, some sort of meter, and was crafted with some imagination... it's poetry... perhaps not very good poetry, but poetry still. Here goes...

 

 

Poem #1

Time and a half is the overtime fee

Plenty of cash for the employee

Something I desire is monetary reward

And thus in a bank it shall all be stored

 

Plenty of time to save and gain interest

So all of the green can have a place to invest

Perhaps into stocks or savings bonds

Or even to help the wildlife in ponds

 

Money is what's needed to help out the world

Or even to help diabolic plans come unfurled

But I'd rather help out our glorious population

Or... maybe blow it all on an expensive vacation

 

Poem #2

A beautiful rose

Blooming brightly during spring

Such glory it shows

 

Poem #3

Is life what we make it?

Or is it merely a game?

A toy of fate

All destiny's the same

 

We are all doomed to die

In one way or another

So in a sense we're all alike

No different from each other

 

Can it be avoided or ignored?

Perhaps forgotten all together?

Or does fate have us wound

Around it's finger like a tether?

 

It's almost proof that we have no control

Proof that fate truly exists

Something not overcome

By either our brains or our fists

 

So how is that we cheat our fate?

How do we evade our doom for a time?

Why do we even continue?

Is life so sublime?

 

There is no answer

There is no avoiding our inevitable end

So it is only for this lifetime

That we are permitted to attend

 

Perhaps we don't die

Perhaps we live other lives

But is that really cheating death?

Into oblivion it seems humanity dives...

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