Defeat Stories

He sits wearily on a withered throne Rummaging through the consequences he had sown He cannot cast blame; His choices were his own Left to handle the destruction; alone Citizens cry out in the city streets An alarm reminding him of his defeats He grips the armrest as he recalls the deceits This king would trade everything for peace Men of the court bang on the oak doors Trying to cheer him up with booze and whores Riddled...

If I had known herI would have askedHow does a heart break We are not born with excess bits and piecesTo be broken offGiven away hereLeft behind therePressed between the pages of a favorite bookLike a flower barely resembling what it once wasLifelessA pale and dull hue of what should have been Everything is so necessaryCodependentThe smallest absence can devastateA tremor can take things away from youThe use of a handOne...

It's always present, just under the surface, clawing and scratching, this sadness within It can come at any time, whether rain or shine, a voice never silenced, this sadness of mine It pushes people away, those I care for most, feeding on the carnage, this sadness in me Born from past heartaches, fed by current failures, it's grip is so strong, this sadness within

Hope is driven by fear and by defeat It is a feeling of optimism Hope is a bird with bad wings Giving it courage to fly and to soar to overcome what is missing Hope is a thing with wings. Hope makes you dream of what seems unrealistic It is a feeling of over zealousness New ideas A new day It bubbles in you like burning volcanic eruptions It is like a metaphorical poem Hope is a thing with wings. Each day I wake, I see th...

When I was fifteen, I became the victim of bullying. It was a rare occurrence, but it happened. I was a sophomore in high school, not popular but visible because of my academic record. I was the number one student in my class. I was not an athlete, but I played baseball as a catcher. The bully was a freshman boy named David. He went around picking on random kids, stealing money, beating them up and humiliating them. No on...

The Burning of the Golden Eagles. The Grande Armee on the move. Oh what a mere 6 months would make.  450,000 strong marched to the sound of drums and buglers. Move east men for the empire, for the glory of our Emperor. The folly of men and countries to stand in his way. On we marched. City and towns fell as rain in the summer. Before long we camp on the Nieman. One last white dove did we send. Look men, stand in formation...

15th of January, the year of our Lord 1429 I have seen much during my 10 years in the French army, but most of all I have seen death. My comrades are getting fewer and fewer as they fall to the British blades and bows. It is sad to realise that my oldest companion in this war is Death himself. I wish it was God, but like so many others I feel he has left us. I cannot remember the last time we had a major victory over them...