Count the Cost

I'm sorry but it's not just about your personality,
It's a little more about your messed up view of my morality,
I'd like to talk about your lack of touch with your humanity
because its seems that in the process you've lost all reality
Strongest of the fittest and the smartest always win you say,
I was thinking more of this specific line of thought today,
it seems to work until you take consideration into play
about the other people and the living things, the crazy way
it all seems to work so well and brings about a nicer life,
that's what it comes down to, but its seems that you prefer the strife
of overpower, kill and steal, on your plate with fork and knife.
What has rights? Whats the point? Let's talk about your wife.
Woah, I don't mean to be so personal I'm crushing toes,
Then again, getting straight to point's the goal, I suppose
because people seem to change their views when things are getting close
to home, so maybe you should put more thought in that, and not your clothes.
But I digress, back to the point before I was trying to make
I think we've begun to slide, making such a big mistake
Thinking what we want we do, and anything we want we take
That good and evils just a bunch of thoughts we made, that now are fake.


I'll tell you this and let you go, nothing in the world is free.
Every time you get your wish, you give up sacrificially
the only thing that will ever be a truly global currency.
Its life my friend. Just whose you gave, I guess we'll have to wait and see.

No Title

A poet can cast off the cares of this world,
fly from his fears like a dove.
But there's one thing his writing can not wrench him from;
and that is the longing of love.

(Random. Romanticism. Alliteration. Quatrain.
I could try and say I found this somewhere,
or blame its creation on someone else.
Or just justify it by some dry emotionless explanation.
But my blushing face seems to always give it away.
Sorry if it's too mushy for your liking,
or that you just don't "get it."
I'm sorry that you aren't a poet, that is.
And yes, the title is "No Title.")

To A Mouse

This is not my poem. This was written by Robert Burns in the late
1700s after he turned up a mouse's nest with his plough.
He was a young man, 26 at the time, and the old english kind of reminds me of my most recent poem.
Besides that, I think the themes of this poem are very deep and really love this poem.
The second, seventh, and eighth stanzas are my favourite.
Here is:
To A Mouse

Wee, sleeket, cowran, tim'rous beastie,
O, what panic's in thy breastie!
Thou need na start awa sae hasty,
Wi' bickering brattle!
I wad be laith to rin an' chase thee,
Wi' murd'ring pattle!

I'm truly sorry Man's dominion
Has broken Nature's social union,
An' justifies that ill opinion,
Which makes thee startle,
At me, thy poor, earth-born companion,
An' fellow-mortal!

I doubt na, whyles, but thou may thieve;
What then? poor beastie, thou maun live!
A daimen-icker in a thrave 'S a sma' request:
I'll get a blessin wi' the lave,
An' never miss't!

Thy wee-bit housie, too, in ruin!
It's silly wa's the win's are strewin!
An' naething, now, to big a new ane,
O' foggage green!
An' bleak December's winds ensuin,
Baith snell an' keen!

Thou saw the fields laid bare an' wast,
An' weary Winter comin fast,
An' cozie here, beneath the blast,
Thou thought to dwell,
Till crash! the cruel coulter past
Out thro' thy cell.

That wee-bit heap o' leaves an'stibble,
Has cost thee monie a weary nibble!
Now thou's turn'd out, for a' thy trouble,
But house or hald.
To thole the Winter's sleety dribble,
An' cranreuch cauld!

But Mousie, thou are no thy-lane,
In proving foresight may be vain:
The best laid schemes o' Mice an' Men,
Gang aft agley,
An' lea'e us nought but grief an' pain,
For promis'd joy!

Still, thou art blest, compar'd wi' me!
The present only toucheth thee:
But Och! I backward cast my e'e,
On prospects drear!
An' forward, tho' I canna see,
I guess an' fear!

Picket Fenes

(I don't know Chaucer English, but my brain is tired and this is what it decided it wanted to write in. Its Dustin Middle English. Maybe somewhat akin to the lingua de Lewis Carroll via The Jabberwocky.)

Thare was a manne from Spicklespence
whom had a wite nise pikket fenes
he bott did he it wif nine pence
the spockle man from Spicklespence.

Doth as he plannt, twas his defens
the pritty wite nise pikket fenes
it was gud sheeld and very hence
he hyd beihind his pikket fenes.

The nayboors came and gazeth twence
upon his wite nise pikket fenes
thay sedd to him, "twis nice for shence!"
but gaezt not passd his pikket fenes.

His frends came by and did entrence
his yard by his nise pikket fenes
Not seeing howse, the commentence
"We liketh thou noo pikket fenes."

Stayd in his howse did his parents
his cousens, sisters, and their gents
they spoke about the mans good sents
to get a such nice pikket fenes.

But to evry day caem evry nite
when the sun was down and dark took lite
when his fenes stood there no longer wite
and his harrt stood in plainest site

Sedd to himself, "Now damm that fenes!
It wassnot werth the smallest pence
my friends, my cousins, and all their gents,
the holl lot do i questionence.

For since the fence, I painted home
first red, then wite, then shiny krome
I took the roof and put a dome
but past the fenes thay din't known.

The yard as well, I planted trees
Sown doun in twos, ript up in threes
I bilt a hive to raiseth bees
but none of them have notist thees

Miseylf it seems theyv but forgott
ignord the eye, ne'ermind the dot
I cood today leav fenes and plot
but notiss I'm not shur theyd not.

I'll tell you now and only you
I'fe changd mine hart frum red to bluu
I'fe changd my harre and cote and shoo
But outside the fenes, not one man knoo."

So I supoce it fillt his planns
to hyde hisself from other manns
but now hes not shur werre he stans.
So writeth he becuss he cans.