I'm fifteen years old, and I love in Ohio, U.S. I've been writing poems since February 2007 and have written over 100 poems. more »
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Stephen Carey Poems
A Glass Of Water
A glass of water sat on a book of poems, Hiding the moon, Pointing out the angels, Jutting out of the window.
Where The Dead Grass Grows
No, brother, we shouldn’t go there. Let’s turn and go another way. ‘Cause you know the dead grass grows where You are on your last day.
That was it, That was my chance, The one I prayed for. It did come,
I hate my life. I want it to stop. I want it to end. I want to move on,
Castle Of Broken Wings
I stand at a pass, the top of a hill, With a path like a trident. Three castles in my view, The first, a castle of old, a divine terror,
Love Not Like A Rose
The rose Is the symbol Of love, But that doesn't
Catch A Firefly
Here I am, in the dark, Lights flashing all around me. I can feel the coldness in the air, I can feel a prickling on my feet.
While You Weren't Looking
While you weren’t looking, I was. I was looking at you. I was smiling at your smile.
In the season of spring, The trees are most beautiful: The leaves are but buds Of a bright pink and white.
When I am standing still, I can see that pathway And the three running from me. I feel triply betrayed.
The Color Of My Soul
Blue is my best friend. Lonely is my reflection. Depression is my conscience. heartache is my shadow.
You looked me in the eye, today. Oh my goodness, why? So many days since I last saw you, And now I see you look me in the eye.
The End (Or Something Else)
It's something so cold, That look on her face. You're just in between, Do you know what I mean?
Memory's Darker Horizon
That was a Different feeling. That was a Different sunset.
Comments about Stephen Carey
(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)
A Glass Of Water
A glass of water sat on a book of poems,
Hiding the moon,
Pointing out the angels,
Jutting out of the window.
An ominous feeling fills the air.
The moon being covered darkens the room.
The glass is removed from atop the book.
No ring of liquid is left on the book,
But the book is now very cold.
In the light of the new moon,
The golden letters, spelling the name of the long dead poet, gleam.
His ghost leaves the book and enters me.
I am cursed.
The light is burnt.
The door is broken.
I cannot stop writing.
I hide the moon again.