Biography of Soren Valentine
I have written poetry for as long as I can remember. At first, poetry was just a hobby I suppose.It lacked real meaning to me until about five or six years ago. As one transitions from the innocent years of childhood to the anxiety-filled teenage years (and beyond) , I've found that one really needs an outlet, a way to express one's emotions. For me, poetry (as I often say) is therapeutic. It makes up a part of my being; it is one of my passions. Granted, I am no fabulous writer (indeed, far from it) but regardless of whether or not my poetry is 'good' I continue to write because others seem to enjoy it (they could, of course, be lying to me, in which case I would be greatly disappointed because I prefer a honest opinion) . My goal is to encourage my readers (naturally) but honestly, I have a more selfish goal: To save myself.
Enough of my ranting and digressions. Enjoy! I hope it isn't too bad. ;)
Soren Valentine Poems
An Old Tree
An old tree stands by the edge of a cliff, awaiting, awaiting the waters to lift. The waves he cherishes like God's gift, but through weeds and mountains he must first sift.
A tree once golden now dies, her bones now marrowless. Her blood holds only goodbyes, Behold! life in its narrowness.
Its been so long since we last met, the forest floor has become our home, How can we live when our blood's been let, and is just another chapter in Love's tome?
Is This Regret?
I try to put it out, but it rises like the sea. I'm full of doubt; Is this all I'll ever be?
The Hearer Who Wasn'T Heard
There was once a time when you need an ear, countless times that you'vve needed release; Was I not the one who decided to hear? And eventually you found peace.
On The Syren-Shore
These clouds ominous, hath in my eyes become lustrous, as the lightning flashes and the earth it dashes
You are my comfort, yet you are killing me. Your eyes are moons to which part of my heart belongs. Your voice fills me with happiness, yet it plunges me into an abyssal ghyll. It raises me like a mountain, yet it melts me like metal in the fires beneath the earth.
O Darkness of mine, Why do they maltreat you? O Sorrow so kind, What is it you do?
The Ripping Skies
We often gaze at the heavens above, hoping, hoping that they're falling in love, When the Ripper his illusions doth weave, for in reality our heavens do cleave.
October's Red Leaf
This little leaf I hold in my hand, for fear it should escape into the air and take my joy, my memories and leaving me greying in despair.
Too Bad, It's Just An Illusion
Stars. Dost thou truthfully think they exist? Oh please. They are an illusion, just like the rest of this pathetic world. In the end, all fades into grey nothingness.
You're always so somber, complaining about life and bringing me down. I'm sick of the blame you put on Him when all He has down is fix It. But that was two years ago... Now I find you still stumbling around in Unlight, but guess what?
Ennui And Fright
I would rather be somewhere else, wandering the world at night, than be here by myself, living in constant ennui and fright.
The day is coming when the sun will become exhausted and in her agony she will stop shining. Darkness will sail across the sky and fill the earth.
On The Syren-Shore
These clouds ominous,
hath in my eyes become lustrous,
as the lightning flashes
and the earth it dashes
The thunder shalt boom
and be the harbinger of doom
as the Syren-Shore sings