I love writing. I don't have any poems that I care about because I've had mine stolen. Hope you like my ones from when I was younger. Always up for a good talk so message me. Here is a little story I did. Enjoy.
He glided into the room expecting all eyes to fall on him. Only I glanced up at him for a brief moment already tired of his ... more »
Click here to add this poet to your My Favorite Poets.
chyna parker Poems
The Broken Hand of a Writer
Creation had corrupted the masters hand Floated upon a broken dream Written down with a controversial hope Sometimes I forget that I have the ability to demand
Morally and ethically vacant The puritan forgot to be decent Banished from this humble abode Alone on his faithless road
The vice upon my lip Sin above all else Carry away at the hip A child, a burden of shame
River of thoughts The nightmares I fought The eyes they have caught You... Only you...
You put a gun to my head Made me do things I wish I've never said You let the politicians bullet its course Letting my insanity be the force
I feel like I am a bother Needing someone to care I feel like I should go on no longer Just to make this fair
A love like this
Like a rose hath withered, Your love for me hath withered. The sun has set on the horizon Death come to taketh me.
Dream of Love
I've slept a long time Eyes still rimmed Black and blue Just for you
Suffering was acquitted For the smiles of tomorrow Blinked out of existence Running from our sorrow
A trembling conception Can not stand on its own Born from deception When she cast the first stone.
Hidden no more
The shadows have stunned me forever more, Keeping me from the forbidden tower, Where the lights touch every bit of floor, Still, the shadows I am left to cower!
My father breaks my bones My mother breaks my heart I feel so alone Completely torn apart
My heart races, As I slip into bed, Sleep evades, The wishful dead.
Insides are twisting With the thoughts of you Bad dreams blistering Begging so they aren't true
(4 April 1928 - 28 May 2014)
(March 26, 1874 – January 29, 1963)
(10 December 1830 – 15 May 1886)
(26 April 1564 - 23 April 1616)
(12 July 1904 – 23 September 1973)
(1 February 1902 – 22 May 1967)
Edgar Allan Poe
(19 January 1809 - 7 October 1849)
(31 May 1819 - 26 March 1892)
(31 October 1795 – 23 February 1821)
The Broken Hand of a Writer
Creation had corrupted the masters hand
Floated upon a broken dream
Written down with a controversial hope
Sometimes I forget that I have the ability to demand
That this foolishness ceases and is cut at the seams
To let the thread of idiocy fall to less than a rope
Sometimes I remember that I have no right
For I have masked myself into the flames of anger
Where fear cowers in the recesses of my mind
Happiness is no where in sight
Dangling at the edge of despair in constant danger
A map, if given, never would there be someone to find
Dreams, dreams, ...