Ik heb het even van tevoren gevraagt, en voorzover ik weet mogen engelse gedichten ook.
Hier is eentje waar ik zelf bijzonder trots op ben.
Ik heb een betere, die ik toevallig vandaag nog gemaakt heb, maar dat is geen stof voor dit forum
Dus dan maar deze, hoewel er helaas een paar gramaticale fouten in zitten.
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Phoenix
Black wings of fire block the light of the sun,
and with the last of my powers i run.
Yet as the clouds rain down on me,
and melt away the inner fire, setting me free,
ash is what remains of all my tries,
and as the wind blows the ash flies.
But then as a Phoenix i rise anew,
with powers higher now i grew.
Harden myself against all odds.
But with every step,
it's harder to go back.
Cos all the Phoenix thoughts
are bent on times past by.
And he knows that he's the one that took to fly.
This wonderfull creature is filled with pain,
cos inside it knows it's all in vain.
His outside burns with souring flame,
yet it is in no comparison to the shame;
inside is a wasteland.
Who will lend a helping hand?
Why is it flame alone is to die,
when it cannot do but cry?
It's beak opens in a soundless screak;
The power it shows hides that inside it's weak.
Most can only see the flames outside,
but they are only hiding the ones inside.
Blinded by masks they cannot circumvent,
They're thoughts about the Phoenix are bent.
Upon it's neverending flight,
his mask is his eternal fight.
Sometimes it melts in eachother and then the flames light up,
just to prove itself it's hate won't stop.
Hate is the gas that feeds the flames,
and makes the Phoenix play it's games.
And mostly after it opened up,
from clouds waterfalls of rain drop;
like tears it tares and shares but never spares.
On the back of the Phoenix tender liquid is scarse;
but afraid of changing it's suddenly shaking,
it knows it's time has come.
This knowledge never stops to sting,
and it feels so dumb.
And so inside it dies,
it sees the lies,
and the uselessness of it's tries.
Inside it cries.
Never shows it though.
It grabs for substance with claws like a crow,
but it has to go.
In disbelief of what's going on:
it can't believe it is so.
No longer can it run.
It flaps with wings falling apart,
it took him by surprise and went straight to the heart.
The fires glow up one last time.
It knows it lived in crime.
Then the gas of hate fails to ignite,
but far away it's eyes can't see the waiting light.
The Phoenix turns to ash
in just a flash.
It's inhumane,
but the beast was turned insane and slain.
It could have known this was about to happen,
but it couldn't see it struck itself with it's weapon
And as the wind blows it's ashes are spread.
Cludging it's head,
a terrifying sound,
it knows it's bound,
every inch it breaks apart;
it's inner fire fails to reach the heart.
But then like a thunder-crash,
it rises from it's own ash.
Angry of what took place,
it turns it's face,
for a minute there the emptyness showed
feelings that should have never been bestowed.
Chained anew it rises up,
once it starts it cannot stop.
New fires fuel more and more,
the pain feels sore.
Even though it has a body of fire fueled with hate,
it's powerless to alter it's fate.
The power it has is nothing but illusional cries,
and every moment they're used it falls furter into the lies.
No going back,
it's the power he lacks.
With infernal suffering of feelings unknown,
by the wind his ashes are blown.
Furter and furter insanity goes,
within the flames it grows.
The bringing of pain is a task on itself,
but all that is hurt is the Phoenix himself.
Knowing how, in spiraling ways,
thinking of how he used to be this feeling stays.
Thinking of who he was, who he should be,
who he pretends he is, and the reality inside;
the truth is his fight.
The Phoenix is me.
)
