Okay, this thread appears to have been lost as well. Let'* get 'em back up here. ***** your verses!!! Then I'll post mine...

chit, that one i pulled outta my bum is gone, i'll come up with another later...maybe i can find my book of crappy poetry i wrote...

I'll go fight the closet monster and get back to you.

--Christine

Thank you, thank you....

*pant pant pant* After having rummaged through a lot of REALLY HEAVY large rubbermaid containers, I found my poetry book. This one is from God knows how long ago, one I wrote:

I always used to feel like
I was running from something,
Something I didn't want to catch up.
Something that I couldn't see.

Then one day I stopped
And turned around and saw,
That the thing that ran so hard from
Was, surprisingly, me!

Then I finally figured out
That I was hiding who I am.
And showing what other people
Wanted me to be.

That same day I stopped running
And introduced myself to me.
Then I realized that at long last,
I finally felt free.

--Christine

That'* awesome!!!

My Son'* stuff again...

Autobiography

I was born in a military hospital,
And lived in a little house, just like the rest.
They sat all alike and neatly organized.
I made my first good friend when I was two,
And we have been friends ever since.
There, everyone was nice,
And I still remember the sound of helicopters overhead.
But after years like this
My dad left the Army,
So we had to leave and find a new home,
So we went north
To find relatives.

Minnesota was cold
Different from the warmth, in different ways:
The people,
Cold;
The lifestyle and environment,
Cold.
Times had changed me
And I was changing myself.
When junior high came things felt different
I was getting older and maturing,
And when high school came, I felt proud.
Then we moved again.

So here I am before you
Being who I am,
Unlike you and yet the same.
I am who I am because of motivations
Like music,
Writing,
Arts,
And friends.
Stumbling on the fact that I am
Stubborn
And opinionated.
Here I am before you, labeled only as “me”.

The memory holder

Digging around,
Trying to find something to complete the quest,
The search is high and far,
Old clothing, nothing new.
Broken toys, those wont work.
Then you find it, the big black box,
It holds what you need, something you almost forgot about,
The glossy black finish reflects your image,
The long thin strands of steel, cold to the touch,
They bring such memory,
The beautiful wood, still at its best,
This thing that means so much.

Basking at it in the cold corner of this closet,
The memories start to present themselves.
Sitting there, music blaring,
Is it any good? No one cares.
The joy of being with uncle is enough,
For unknowingly these days won’t last forever.
These days meant so much,
Especially now, now that I sit here,
Staring at this marvel that was given for your memory,
Sitting here with what was passed to me,
Sitting here with your guitar.

This one still makes me misty. It was written in the memory of his Uncle Dan, who died in 1991 when my son was 6 or so

And, on a lighter note...

F’ This

Fussy furtive foe fluttered from fool for fool flushing fearless fraternized freaks fluxing for freedom.

ah crap. gotta go find mine...although it was too depressing.

Were you depressed after you posted it??

j/k

Yes, it was a good one, so post it!!