Dead Poets Society Poem Novels & Stories

May your soul rest in peace. The journey will always come to an end. But why so soon? I trace my step back from the grey graves, sending a look to the sky. WE WILL REVENGE EVERY SINGLE ONE OF THEIR DEATH SCAR, EVERY SINGLE DEATH SHALL BE PAID FOR. A sudden gush of breeze hit me, giving gravity an open opportunity, but a hand grace my waist before I could mak it to the the ground.

They couldn't have been more than fifteen years of age and were both intelligent looking. "We are the new fates, brothers Jackson and Nowell and you two are Rai, the Grim Reaper and Sebastian, a Death & Life soul cultivator, it's a pleasure to make your acquaintance," Jackson stated and presented his open hand to us as he stepped closer. Rai shook it first and said we needed to clean up the mess. "We will deal with it, you both enjoy your newly engaged selves," Jackson grinned. We both thanked them profusely and stood back as they waved their hands over the corpses and the bodies and blood all vanished.

“I don't know, I swear to god, I was contacted by my friend to go rob the warehouse that they were thousands of dollars in there, but when we got in, we found nothing” “What is your friend's name?” “Frederico Barnabas” “How old are you?” “I'm eighteen” Well, he is of legal age and very much capable of taking responsibility for his actions. “In your next life, mind the type of friends you choose to hang out with,” I said, as two shots went out of my pistol hitting him on his chest, piercing through his heart, and killing him instantly. “Get this cleaned up immediately,” I said, to one of my guards as I walked out of the dungeon.

We force them in our shoes, but we seldom put us in the pitied. Continuously driving ourselves to this diminished society, looking for worth when there is nothing left because of us. Here I am writing this poem. Is it filled with irony? Considerable as a meek step for an extravagant change? Or are you guilty of these words? We all are. We may not pull out our modern notebooks to be witnesses, but we keep our eyes on the action. We stare. We watch. We look at the devil's eye instead. Grasp the valorous act, yet still fill it with real humility.

I smiled bleakly and wondered if Blake finally realized his mistake. Unfortunately, everything was already too late. Somehow, Blake found out where my grave was. With a bottle of liquor and a small knife, he knelt before my tombstone and cried. He apologized to me over and over, saying he loved me. He even tried to end everything there in front of my grave. I wondered if he thought that would atone for his sins. If he thought I would forgive him because of this, he was going out of his mind. Fortunately, the cemetery caretaker found him in time and sent him to the hospital. Otherwise, I would have been disgusted enough to vanish on the spot.

" It was Keats, Ode to a Nightingale. Hearing his vocal tone and accent reading that was truly depleting her willpower, whatever she had left of it anyway. Yet it was sweet and almost innocent in a sense. The man that professed he wasn't a romantic was currently doing the most romantic thing Pearl had ever heard of a man doing. He continued, "Darkling I listen; and, for many a time I have been half in love with easeful Death, Call'd him soft names in many a mused rhyme, To take into the air my quiet breath; Now more than ever seems it rich to die, To cease upon the midnight with no pain, While thou art pouring forth thy soul abroad In such an ecstasy! Still wouldst thou sing, and I have ears

The heart screams The rejection of peace To me From me Each new day But then till I live Will I be dust Each new way No success new Reaches me Despite Huge attempts My sweat does make My heart does make I am paralysed Or am I dead I don't even know A moment When I enjoyed life Without a breakage As threat If this is life What is death What is end What is dullness When this is light Of my life I am frail now I know I am weak I know the cause Of my every disease Is mental unease But I still won't complain I still won't complain Till fire extinguish My dreams To dirt, it will be All expectations from me With encouragement Only as a dream How long will I live How long will I blame One day At res

a quick shake of his head muted that thought. Peeling open the carriage window, the sounds of echoing bells flooded inside. They seemed to be resounding in every crevice of the streets, every fold of the pavement. Tennyson had died, and funeral ribbons and bands marked the streets. The day itself seemed to be dressed in a somber veil of fog and rain. Taking in a deep breath, the air was a smell of modern smarts: that this day marked an end to beautiful cricks and infinite daffodils. That space was replaced by steel now, by cotton smoke and decaying lungs. No more was there someone to speak of love and loss, no more was there a l**k from those poetic dreams to this bulimic reality. He was onl

wonder plants. perfumed by poetry or—philosophy. the Ecosystem, the still neon-twinkling thought of. the world: you & me & this apparition of faces, Notre Dame burning out of time w/ Kreymborg flowers all phrasally rooted to the print composition of ‘vers libertines’ in Others. where is the Other in The Waste Pound & Other Poems? subjected to, quarterly slicing open, the social subjectile: my dear abiotic of the super blood wolf moon, Make it new!

Sky says as she jesters with her hands to me. I took a couple of deep breaths before I began to read my poem out loud. Gathering my nerves before I speak. Lifeless Lost and alone left empty without a home. Watching as the wind blows, chattering through hollow bones. Words are nothing but a sound cracking and breaking with each bound. A girl once set to sore left with oozing pores, born in a world torn in two. Amber eyes stare into the starry skies, locks of blonde hair ripped from a head now bare. A face that once held so much grace, revealing split flesh tattered like mesh. Words are nothing but a sound cracking and breaking with each bound. Tears shed out of so many fears, crying in the da