I mean, it's embarrassing, really. You thought you were Shakespeare and everything, and now you find it, and it's... well, it's something written by a ten-year-old.

It's awful. Truly. It's horrible, and nasty, and filled with odd references to forgotten days, and all kinda of bad poetic devices, and stuff.

The sad part is that you still think it's kinda cool, in a strange, nostalgic kinda way...

Not that this happened to me, or anything....

I am just an egg
not like dennis quade
I eat stuff that is good
not stuff that is not so good
Am I just an egg i ask
or was i more than a egg from a bass
Egg egg or am I?

jumping on a rope
laughing at a joke
Kicking people at random
so I can......... pandom
do you like cheese they ask
no I reply

I like oranges
...........
...........
...........
orange

So do you have some telephones at your house
I will blow up a mouse
Ok I reply but that is no egg

What Spring said to the tired housewife:

Oh, happy day! Glory be!
The sun's a-shinin' down on me;
The stream is flowing, moving calmly
A breeze and hence, the air is balmy.

Oh, run and play, Leave me be!
Your laughter's just too much for me;
The laundry piles and dishes undone
Still call me back, YOU go have fun.

Oh, skip today and leave them be!
The sun's a-wasted just on me;
The world is slowing, relaxed and such
A day for yourself would not be too much.

You silly May, how tempting be-
You tease and taunt, reach out to me;
The dirt and mess can go to rot,
Clean house today? I THINK NOT!

---

I think I got the idea for this title from that poem 'What the heart of the _____ said to the psalmist', (I cannot remember the author but the first stanza goes:'Tell me not in mournful numbers/life is but an empty dream/for the soul is dead that slumbers/and things are not what they seem') If you know what the full title is, or the author's name, please /msg me!

---

Ah, yes. Thanks,jeremy f, the poem is A Psalm of Life by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

I was obsessed with limericks at the time that I wrote this.

There once was a boy named Fred
Who always stood on his head
The teachers would frown
And tell him "Sit down!"
But he saw them smiling instead

Elvis is alive
And he's living in my shed
He's smaller than a walrus
But bigger than my head

He's been reincarnated
He's not just simply dead
Elvis is alive
And he's living in my shed

He likes to eat live cuttlefish
and prays upon my mat
It comes as no suprise to some
That Elvis is a rat

(actually, this was written the summer I was eleven, but close enough. In couplets, yet!).

Child

A sweet remnant of yesterday,
Will her troubles ever go away?
Laughter, hope, friendship and fears
these are the things kept through the years
Life for her was not fair,
it tore at her heart and greyed her hair.
Still she grew more loving and mild,
she is a woman now, but still a child

I was like 13 when I wrote this:

i really wish that i could see
you know not what this means to me
trapped inside myopic sight
i strugle for the endless light
that always waits around the bend
but just before the sidewalk's end
and though i try to reach its lure
the closer, it becomes impure
like stars when looked directly at
(famous disappearing cat)
which leaves behind a faint white grin,
a symbol of that which lies within.

Okay, so I was 15, not 10, which is worse because by 15 I should have known better.

Very important note: Fag is English slang for, amongst other things, cigarette, and this is most definitely the meaning intended here.

The Cigarette

All day I waited, until night fell,
'Til at last I could escape my cigarette-less hell.
I opened my window and put out my head
Lit up and inhaled, but was filled with dread
that despite the pleasure I'd gain from the fag,
my mother would catch me and continually nag.
For smoking's a habit which she just cannot bear
but I love it so much I simply don't care.

The first of the day is always the best
Well, that's what they say and it stands up to the test
The feeling of calm spreads up from my toes
lingers in my chest and comes out through my nose.
On inhaling the rush one gets in the head
seems almost as good as being in bed
with the man of your dreams for the whole of the day
though having sex then cigarettes I find is far the best way.

I can only apologise for being a precocious little tart!

I was actualy five when I wrote this. I'm not sure if it's a song or a poem. Without further ado:

          No Verse Song

     God will guard the dog
     Here comes the time man
          right down Santa Claus Lane
     Black teeth are decay-k-k-k-k-k
          all over town
     Purple ears are decay-k-k-k-k-k
          all over town
     Clear eyes are furnace weapons
     Yellow flowers are chair cranes
                             THE END

NOTE: Words in italics should be repeated at least five times.