This is the poem i posted again to prove to some jealous type its mine....?

I wrote this poem off the top of my head one day. Its on my myspace if you dont believe me. www.myspace.com/hung187

It took me like 30 min to complete.







Sudden abyss, deep starry night. The pages of my life scattered beneath the waves of passion that flows through me.



My ocean, my selfconcious mind, for me to uphold and grasp in which nobody can reach, for nobody to care.



The waves of torture, the trechorous grasp of clinging feelings that beat upon me as a regretting reminder. Shall it pass?



No, for now, I must live with the reminder of false past, of false congreations, of false passion, and faliure.



As I look upon the night with bright blue eyes, a sudden feeling of comfort and relaxation falls upon me.



For as this feeling flows through my ocean, and fury waves of torture, they suddenly calm as quickly as they came.



For the thought that puts my mind to rest is the transgreation of the future.



Throughout the trechorous grasp of chaos and misery it upholds, it shall come to pass.



For a new dawning of feeling's and thoughts come to mind, these waves go to ease.



The transgreations of my past start to fade away, like the starry night itself as morning is uprising.



It is the dawn of a new day.



No more of a life with dreadful reminders and regrets of ones past decisions and mistakes shall fall upon me.



For now I am a new man, a new fate on how my life shall go on.



For all this to pass is simple, it is all thanks to one i cherish the most.



For if not for my self state of mind, I would end up drowning, in my own selfconcious mind of pain and suffering in my gigantic blue ocean of thoughts, dreams, hope, and dispare.



It is all thanks to my self being, who shall uphold my life in the very fingertips where i started my journey that day.



No more worrys, no more discipled acts of ones trangressive past.



I may lie down in a sweet meadow of flourished nature and stay there till the time comes for me to make way.



Bottled up feelings, aggressive attitude, it is meaninless to me.



For the one who gave me this second chance, for the one who gave me the time to heal, and, to show me how to live again, will forever be in my debt of gratitude.



For if not, my ocean would be a meaninless vortex swirling out of control with no grasp of help of any kind.



As of now, my ocean has dried up, and throughout where it used to be is a meadow, of long hardships of flourish nature, touched, by the hand of family.



No more have i suffered through the hardships of crule mankind, and the hardships of love.



For now I truely know what it feels, to love and be loved.



For if it was not for mishaped misery, I would still be in an ocean.



An ocean, of hatread and manupliated lust of torture.



For now, I reside in a meadow, that has finally been put to place.



The triumph of glory over past aggressions has passed and weary.



For no longer shall I go on alone throughout my life.



For the comfort feeling of knowing they will be there is yet enough to raide ones level of appreciation and love.



So throughout reign of chaos, and the defiant siege of expoloriation, nay would anyone have to go at it alone.



None of which of you shall or must go through the trechorous oceans of your own self state of mind.



Follow your hearts, listen, watch, and estray forward towards your goal.



For you do not have to go at it alone, and it will come to pass.



Through the pain and suffering of the waves of defeat, and deep, carnage of ones self estate of mind, you shall overcome and control this feat.



Go on, live, strive, overcome, defeat, and love again......

This is the poem i posted again to prove to some jealous type its mine....?
again, too wordy
Reply:Posting things on anonomous online forums does not prove ownership. If you want to keep your work safe, keep it off the internet until it's already copyrited and printed.
Reply:Neat poem.



But if you want advice.... try to be less wordy. Modern poetry is typically sparse and very picky when it come to diction.



Keep it up though, the best way to become a great poet is to write, write, and write some more.

new year lily