This page copyright 1998 The Shrubbery
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
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 email@example.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!!!