This is beautiful.
Also I like that many of your poems are compact enough I can read them, get something out of them, and not feel bad for interrupting my homework.
Also, I'm going to drop this related Byron poem.
"They say that hope is happiness,
But genuine love must prize the past,
And mem'ry wakes the thoughts that bless,
They rose the first, they set the last,
And all that memory loves the most,
Was once our only hope to be,
And all that Love adored and Lost,
Hath faded into memory.
Alas! It is delusion all!
The Future cheats us from afar,
Nor can we be what we recall,
Nor dare we think on what we are..."
Except I added the dot-dot-dots, because I feel like that's how he would've let the moment land.
oh but never forgot... even if you're thought gone, forlorn, but are remembered at least in silence, or in these monuments of light and hope the bare your dreams into infinity!
they're forever beckoning in the darkest hours when faith is tested, and memories rejoiced!
Another beautiful poem. I really loved this. Wanting to be remembered a certain way and not of what you become towards the end. I can understand this completely but at the same time I think that it is just nice to be remembered. Someone who cares enough about you to recall you and when it comes down to it they will remember you the way they want to the way they think you were at your best even if you don't agree. A truly great piece.
This is a great piece of poetry. It flowed really well and I enjoyed it thoroughly. Although, I think the ending doesn't quite do it justice.
This is something everyone at one time or another decides to ponder, and is just one of those things to do with being human. "If I was to die tomorrow, would anyone miss me? How will I be remembered?" Questions like this, and many more, are all part of the issue that is remembering.
I wish to be remembered as just being me
I try to live my life remaining true to me and to
spend more time on my knees giving thanks
rather than asking for forgiveness....
Wonderful thoughtful write.
There is a wistful tear which falls at the memory of the thing one used to enjoy as a child, the falling rain, the flame salamanders of a fireplace, the action of simply running through tall grass or searching hours for a few, sweet berries. A small part of each adult wishes to be remembered thus.
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I am a product of the Midwest. Raised on the plain states of North America. I was nurtured on a .. more..