TOPIC: A poem for you

This is a poem I wrote describing what I see life as sometimes, and what I feel about modern society.

Fresh Faces

Everyday when I wake,
Everything strikes me as fake,
The monotony of this place,
It’s binds, constraints, slow boring pace.

This fallacy of living, stale days, long hours,
Dead faces, doing their daily duties, with little power,
What’s next? Who cares? It’s all the same,
All of the tiny little minds that crave for fame.

That’s all we need, recognition,
We act like it’s a lifelong mission,
For people to acknowledge our presence,
Craving for our omnipotent acceptance.

What happens when hit that goal,
All those little people, who continue to extol,
The fame you've stumbled on, it won’t last forever
Your ship has departed on its last endeavor.

I see these people every day,
Trying to wave the pain away
But deep inside, I repent the craze,
Fresh faces only sour the stale days.

Here's a poem I wrote from a dog's perspective:

Roses are grey
Violets are a different shade of grey
Oh look a squirrel!

What color is the squirrel

He was 49 shades of grey.

BaronVonSchnitzelmeister wrote:

I wrote a better one

All the world's a stage,
And all the men and women merely players;
They have their exits and their entrances,
And one man in his time plays many parts,
His acts being seven ages. At first, the infant,
Mewling and puking in the nurse's arms.
Then the whining schoolboy, with his satchel
And shining morning face, creeping like snail
Unwillingly to school. And then the lover,
Sighing like furnace, with a woeful ballad
Made to his mistress' eyebrow. Then a soldier,
Full of strange oaths and bearded like the pard,
Jealous in honor, sudden and quick in quarrel,
Seeking the bubble reputation
Even in the cannon's mouth. And then the justice,
In fair round belly with good capon lined,
With eyes severe and beard of formal cut,
Full of wise saws and modern instances;
And so he plays his part. The sixth age shifts
Into the lean and slippered pantaloon,
With spectacles on nose and pouch on side;
His youthful hose, well saved, a world too wide
For his shrunk shank, and his big manly voice,
Turning again toward childish treble, pipes
And whistles in his sound. Last scene of all,
That ends this strange eventful history,
Is second childishness and mere oblivion,
Sans teeth, sans eyes, sans taste, sans everything.
William Shakespeare

Christopher wrote: sans comic.

Christopher wrote: Christopher wrote:
Seems legit.

Oh I remember when I was 13 and figured out how the world works
PS: nothing beats a good signature like quoting yourself.

BaronVonSchnitzelmeister wrote:
It's just a line from the poem! Don't be a hater!

Christopher wrote:
You took credit for it though by saying "I wrote..." plagiarism at its finest.

YYUR

YYUB

ICUR

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