Spooky

A haunted house that’s fraught with haunted groans
A soft, suspicious sound when you’re alone
A minor chord, discordant, mingled tones
The moment all your hopes drop like a stone

The infinite abyss which sits unknown
The withered, once-loved doll that you still own
The flames which ate the saint of France called Joan
The shadow you ensure is never shown

The words your newly former friend intones
A text, “we need to talk,” still on your phone
A smell of bitter almonds from your scones
A sanguine sin for which you can’t atone

The snipping scissors of Fate’s final crone
The deathly breath of final, quiet moans
The one who comes to reap what you have sown
A spooky skeleton with spooky bones

The goblins prophesized by Alex Jones
All pale in spookiness to student loans

Pride

The lion lying in the plain had lied
The lyin’ lion’s family had tried
To find the prey that he had said he’d spied
Afar from fields where lions ought reside

The lion claimed he could not be their guide
His brother, baring fearsome fangs, defied
Suspecting secrets he had hid inside
By worry was his brother’s love belied

He knew that if she knew, that she would chide
(The lioness he meant to make his bride)
But he could not confess, could not confide
If she had known, she would not have complied

The human hunters he had seen arrived
The ones from which he helped his fam’ly hide
The secret into which his fam’ly pried
A shot rang out; the lyin’ lion died

The tears of all his kin have not yet dried.
He lost his life; he never lost his Pride.

(NOTE: This poem was commissioned by Twitter user @VapingSonic, who suggested that I write about a lion's pride. It was written as a prize in @SirEviscerate's Night of Too Many Tweeters 2, a charity fundraiser for the Autism Self-Advocacy Network. Originally, the prize was intended to be a sonnet, but I went a little overboard.)

Night of Too Many Tweeters Free Sample

Do you like poetry? Then you’re in luck!

I’ll pen a poem if you pay the price

With rhymes so good, you’ll be like “What the… frick”

Alliteration always sounds so nice

But wherefore do I ask from you this fee?

The money does not make its way to me

I’m doing it for charity, you see

To help out my good Twitter pal, Sir E

I’ll write on any topic that you choose

On math, or maids, or any sin of Man

My flow is killer, not unlike Ted Cruz

Or anyone enraged by Comic Sans

My poetry is comparable to pros’

(Check out the wordplay that I just did, bros)

A Sorcerer's Sonnet

A word of wisdom's any that we say
A lord of wizards' orders, we obey
Accord with powers, astral, fell, or fey.
Affording us the might to light the way.

A horde of warriors, we aptly slay
A sword of water washes fools away
We will the winter winds to whip and flay
To freeze our foes who know they'll die today

Transmuting gold from lead, and life from clay
Transporting from afar without delay
To us, "impossible" is children's play
We overshadow gods to whom men pray

With warlords, kings, and sultans we parlay
Ally with us or life's the price you'll pay

Happy National Poetry Day!

Sometimes sublime's the word that I would use
To try to capture feelings of this sort
And yet, it matters not which word I choose
The whole of human language comes up short

Perhaps where prose performs a job that's poor
The art of rhyme and meter might suffice
And so, to all the muses, I implore
that I be granted words which will entice.

So that this beauty can be known to all
I give to old, to young, to short, to tall
In seasons winter, summer, spring, and fall
A brilliant beauty, barely besting Brawl

Despite the many months for which I've griped
For Super Smash Bros. I am super hyped.

The Shadow

A deathly shadow stalks me in my sleep
A spectre siphoning my spirit's life
Its visage, only known to those who weep
to wonder why they've caused themselves such strife.

It is the source of nearly all the ills
that plague me in this too short life of mine
I can't describe the fear that it instills
The quakes of dread that it sends down my spine

Around me I see darkness, ebon black
At times I feel like I'm already dead.
My own concerns conspire to hold me back
And so, to push ahead, I'll burn my dread

And even though it may seem harsh and cruel
I am afraid I must go back to school.

What I Did Instead of Math

I am afraid I have gone quite insane
Since summer's started, something's gone amiss
My motivation's missing: down the drain
I am unsure of how it came to this.

On school's last day I'd plans to ply my trade
To do those useful things I used to do
I think that hopeful me would be dismayed
Perhaps the present me is saddened too.

Was poetry my passion in the past?
I feel like once I was a number man
A rhyme reveals the sorcery I've cast:
This pun is what's become of summer plans

That's it. I'm done. The mic has just been dropped.
At three quatrains this poem should have stopped.