December 1998
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Poetry Page

Justin>
What love doth crease my tender heart
     With heavy somber shades or gray,
And yet leaves yours whole and untouched?
    True to the very day
I first took in mine your perfect hand
    And you but walked away.

By Laura Pye


Morbid Black Deathness
I sit in my candlelit room,
To flood myself in words,
Dark, piercing:
My eyes lower,
Attach themselves to creamy page
And read the chronicles of another.
My soul twitches,
My tempers flare,
My patience grows short-
I am sick of all this,
Sick of the monotony,
Sick of the shallow,
Why, I ask-
Why must almost every
poem
Written by today's youth
Be so depressing?

By John O'Briant


A Sadistic Sun
No longer do I feel malice in the suns sombre gaze.
My newfound sorrow,
in blackened solitude.

The glorious saccharine scent of endless urban woodland.
Satiates my endless hunger,
my endless lust...
The chasm within no longer draws at my flesh.

Freedom...this is a farce!
For as the sun descends into the ocean,
desires white-hot scars devour me,
once more.

I am born again...
Into smouldering pits of sulphur.
I long for your ice cold caress.
Freedom is a gift given by you alone.

Glistening dew and a chorus of birds,
they awaken me to a world of wonder.
This sadistic sun toys with me.
"To hell I shall return when you are gone!"
She cares not.

By Matt Chamberlain


Venting
life goes on 
it's just a game for some 
for others it's work
yet some use it for themselves
while others use it for us
  
to be lost 
to be found 
  
what is a perfect life?
were does it connect? 
how is it found?
  
to be as one 
to be oneself
how to be i do not know
    
how does
 it get found? 

By Craig Camosse


Do you have poetry?

Send it on in! It can be romantic, heart-warming, humorous, or epic--we dont care! But if it makes the cut, you'll see it in the next issue of The Shrubbery. E-mail it to submit@theshrubbery.prohosting.com

Note: The Shrubbery now only prints 5 pieces of poetry per month, so don't feel bad if your stuff doesn't make it. Keep sending!!!

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