Rising Junior in highschool; Artist, Writer, Poet, Musician. 'Master of all things crafty'... more »
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Katherine Lyczek Poems
He is so intensely angry At everything that moves his eyes, dull pissed
The place where crystal-clear water pulses through the lush veins of the riverbed where the moonlit fish flop gracefully out of the shimmering water,
I Promise to Remain Clean, My Dear
In my dreams, I sit upon your golden worthy lap I stare into your orbs of absolute love I promise,
Death..Or a New Life?
When everything 'ends'... It's not REALLY the end, it's merely a new beginning, Death is not quite as horrible as it seems..
Light in the Darkness
In your darkest hour... there is always a light, whether it's a tiny spark or a flamboyant beacon of fire,
Bella, If I could just hold you, one more time... I would give anything, to stroke your soft, feathery fur,
Sorrow is one thing yet this numbing pain I feel... is like a blackened feather from a fallen angels wing, The feather falling endlessly...
Abandoning a Hopeless Dream
That feeling of utter despair, ringed by a chance of false hope. That everything is true, and will be alright. Maybe i'm just a huge dreamer,
If there happened to be a leech upon your hand; which also happened to be your soul... what would you do? Or what could you do? -
Pure sorrow within the aingst of dispair.. Is the night I wished upon a star, to naught wake up to see day; sealing the deal off with pills,
Tears Of Blood
As she slapped me about the porch over a mere look saying or being
A Dream Sung Sweetly Upon a Starlit Mano...
if you dream. Dream of me an endless song; Or symphony-
As the clock ticks away Its endless ryhthm of time Elapsing into my brain And even as time
Heartache of a Fallen Romantic
How quickly Love can turn to Hate, Just how much difference a few seconds could make? ... Limitless change... If it weren't this hard,
Comments about Katherine Lyczek
(4 April 1928 - 28 May 2014)
(March 26, 1874 – January 29, 1963)
(26 April 1564 - 23 April 1616)
(10 December 1830 – 15 May 1886)
(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)
He is so intensely angry
At everything that moves
his eyes, dull
nothing can make him smile
for his pain is much too great
he coughs as his heart roasts on an open squwere
little said and done
as he openly ignores me
maybe even smiling behind my back
perhaps one day he shall not be such a thwart
yet seemingly, he has yet to change
...being gazed upon with such annoyance glinting angrily in his eyes
what more anguish shall i bring about myself?
how badly can something hurt?
why does it sting so bad
when i keep ...