a poem about the Starry Night by Vincent Van Gogh

The relaxing scene of
a start filled sky,
cascading mountains and
a tiny town,
nestled in between.

The morning star, Venus,
stands her ground
as the sun threatens
to take her spot,
amongst the clouds.

The clouds swirl and spin,
as night fades into day.
Dawn soon disappears
and lets daytime
out to play.

The town below soon misses,
that starry night the love.
and now they wait
for day to end,
to see their old friend again.


Dusk comes and goes,
then night reappears.
and just before dawn settles in,
the morning star glows brightly,
once again.

Sick

Suffering from some kind of
Illness. It's like an annoying little
Cockroach, that you just want to
Kick out of your immune system.

Personification Poem Rough Draft about Wisdom

 Wisdom walks with a cane,

  into the family room.

 Where he sits down in a

 recliner and tells his

grand- kids old war stories.

Wisdom sleeps at night,

 with his hand curled around

 his loyal wife's waist.

Wisdom helps his kids

 figure out

 the questions they can't

 on their own.

 Wisdom works hard and

 dedicates his lfe to helping 

 those in need.

 He works on the streets of

  the city

  or in the countryside.

  Winding his ways

through people's lives.

 Wisdom relies on evil

and good,love and death 

in order to pay the bills

with his next pay check.

Employed by god,

he never stops working,

even in his dreams,

advice keeps flowing.

 He loves his job,

and his family even more.

But when his job takes away from home

 for too long,

his grand- kids keep asking if

their grandpa exsists.

His wife becomes unloyal,

and holds someone else in her heart.

His kids begin to forget him,

and how he loved them so much.

And his world begins to crumble,

as he makes best friends

with regret.

Because no one can give Wisdom,

the advice he needs.

Shackles

Why doesn’t it stop?

The screams,

Like a rooster crowing in the morning

Routinely, incessantly

The blood on the floor:

Like paint splattered

On Picasso’s canvas.

And the little boy

With a tear streaked face,

Who’s thinner than a stick,

Is trembling in the corner

Of the concentration camp.

Frantic, desperate yelps,

Echo off the walls.

No one cries anymore;

For they know that the end is near.

It faces them in the shadows,

Where no light can reach them.

It faces them in their sleep:

Only 3 hours a night.

The bruises from their

Shackles don’t hurt

Anymore.

The pain they have suffered is far, far worse.

They were striped of

Their faith,

Their names,

Their families,

Their futures,

All gone.

All the while,

 The average Person

Sits there,

Head held high,

Legs crossed,

Tapping their foot,

Watching the news.

It’s the notorious

Hitler himself!

Whose face appears

Everywhere in several countries:

Conquered,

Wiped clean of innocent souls.

Whose voices have been silenced

Forever.

And the little boy

With the tear streaked face,

Whose father and mother and sister

He will never see again, sits in the corner.

And while trying to

Ignore the pang of the

Hunger in his stomach,

The aching bruises

And burns on his

Thin body,

The blood-curdling yells,

For help,

For mercy,

For peace,

Or maybe revenge,

He thinks of you,

And why you,

Didn’t stop it.