Hey, Cheeto here. In case you didn't know, I also write poetry! I mostly imagine the poems as raps for some reason, haha. Anyway, I'll be sharing them on here. There's no specific 'theme' to this poem book, it's just random poems. Some are random, some personal, and then I also write some that tie to my fictional works. I hope you all like them!
To wrap this up: Welcome to my poetry book.
- Cheeto ♥️
Shadowing over the poetry that I try to write but failed due to the depressing thoughts of life.
Press Shift+Enter for multiple line breaks.
My second volume of poetry, containing a more raw or aggressive approach.
A poetic letter of love,
Nobody in this world is unknown of love,
Each and everyone has a secret love story,
These poems are the thoughts on untold love in the form of letter poems.....
I am hardly ever able
to sort through my memories
and come away whole
It is difficult
to sift through the stones,
the weighty moments and know
which is rare gem,
which raw coal,
which worthless shale or slate.
So, one by one,
I drag them across the page
and when one cuts into the white,
leaves a trail of blood,
no matter how narrow the stream,
then I know
I’ve found the real thing,
one of the priceless gems
my pain produced.
“There! There,” I say,
“is a memory worth kee
All things that occur in fours
have a fifth, a conspirator
unbeknownst to the conspiracy,
and ignored by the narrator.
A bastard season of a sister
who borrows the defining features
of her brothers: the cynic,
the sensualist, the wretch
the mystic. Without her,
they cannot become each other.
An onlooker, she remains unintroduced
at a distance—across a potato cart
at market, a few stools down the bar,
pausing by the picture windows
of their quarters, on her knees and forehead
in a mass of peasants at the monastery—
fiercely adoring all four
now that they're all in town, not for long.
She wanders through them as she would a forest
and sees herself, a tree that grows there.
There are nights all five
roam the streets alone,
inquisitors born from a father
who cannot answer for anything.
The brothers turn disparate
corners, unaware, cowards her:
the wheel around spokes,
the deck's forlorn joker,
Any direction steers her closer
to one brother and farther from another,
and farther from one brother and
closer to another.
Few poems trying to depict feelings of soldiers. Named after a song lyrics that were never made to a song, cause I can't play any instrument and couldn't record it.