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Array
(
[sid] => 133294
[catid] => 1
[aid] => mick
[title] => Tragoedia Poetae
[time] => 2007-04-05 05:01:10
[hometext] =>
[bodytext] => His meter wasn't perfect, his rhyme wasn't smooth His soul was a tempest, but his words could soothe With just some parchment some ink and a pen He could tear up the eyes of the most hardened men. Sometimes he thought to abandon his craft As his work was rejected, draft after draft, But a fire inside him made his thoughts flow From his head, through his arm, to the parchment below. He wrote about love, and about love lost He wrote about war, and its terrible cost He wrote about men, he wrote of their greed, His words were a warning that no one would heed. And so passed the days, and the months and the years, And so were his poems passed up by his peers, Until on his deathbead, he wrote 6 lines of verse, One last stream of thought as his soul left the earth. The mortician found it balled up in his hand, Just as the dying poet had planned. He sent the poem off to a journal he read, So the living could read the words of the dead. Now he's in the poetry books for the ages His poems are in every magazine's pages, All because of what formed in his dying mind, Recall that his fame was started by these 6 lines, "My whole life I've written, but no one would read Rhymes about love and war and men's greed. What follows is the Tragoedia Poetae, Not so much to you, but moreso to I; By the time my work is read by my fellow men, My coffin shall prevent me from e'er writing again." [comments] => 0 [counter] => 168 [topic] => 8 [informant] => scott [notes] => [ihome] => 0 [alanguage] => english [acomm] => 0 [haspoll] => 0 [pollID] => 0 [score] => 0 [ratings] => 0 [editpoem] => 1 [associated] => [topicname] => AmericanTragedy )
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