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When is a Rose not a rose?
Tis simple,
a rose is no rose,
when it is a prose.

Not free to be by any other name.
Bound and caged, beyond all fame.
it's frivolous frit of fantasy grounded
relegated to the earth on which it was founded.

And we dare not shake our sphere,
lest we find a world of fear.
such infinite imagination,
fraught with such literary divination.

As to shaken our beliefs in what is truly prose,
that our speech is something we merely pose.
While our hand does something quick,
leaving you wondering if it was truly a trick.

So leave me be you wrathful rose,
for my speech be nothing but of prose.
As I wish to not acknowledge the suspicion that you hath rose,
the clear and undeniable inspection... of my faithful prose.

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I wrote this after muttering about roses and by any other name. Yes I know it's ridiculous, but it's funny, and I couldn't wipe the smile from my face as I was writing it. Had such a blast writing it, hope that you had as much fun reading it.
It is purely satirical in nature, so laugh.

The literal definintion of prose:
1. language that is not poetry.
writing or speech in its normal continuous form, without the rhythmic or visual line structure of poetry

That is the funny, a poem defending the prose style of writing.

I wish I could have been there, not for what happened but for what he said, in truth I have remembered every word he has said. From when he asked us to play a game till the realization of what he had done. After all that wondering here I was staring at him a ghost encrypted, trapped, doomed to relive and repeat for the rest of time. Seeing it enveloped me I could hear his yell and collapse, his blade skidding across the floor, the helicopters whizzing overhead. And soon I was there, seven again finally realizing that it was no game. He had been thrown to the floor by a shot, his sword flung from his grasp skidding on the marble. resting at my feet, I ran to give it to him but was stopped “No!” he exclaimed “I don’t need it” he gasped “Run!” I stood there petrified remembering his very words “I never leave my sword unless defeated.” those words from the past echoing in my head shattering the thought that this was a simple game. As I ran from the screen my consciences returned to now, and I watched what I had missed. He lied there waiting on the stairs grasping what little life he had left, as a portly man approached and in his thick accent he asked
“Is this how you wanted to die?” he continued while laughing “defending those children!?.” .
“I lived the way I wanted to live.” Was the ghost of my pasts reply .his words only encouraged the vulgar monster that stood over him as more laughter burst the monger.
“But this isn’t the way you wanted to die is it!?” He mocked.

Gasping now my savior simply replied
“Not entirely”. The war monger could not retain his laughter
“So, how did you want to die!” he Exclaimed. .Faster than I could see and the monger could react the crippled man leapt to his feet, and trust his knife into the gut of his enemy. To low to hear, but easily seen my friend whisper “like this”.
I flinched and so did my rescuer as a revolver sounded trying to end him, but he continued to stand. Again the revolver sounded protesting it’s masters death, and all the more resilient the nameless hero defiantly stood .Now the tables were turned and at his feet lied the monster in a mans skin. Having fulfilled his final task he hobbled off towards the statue behind him, collapsed in front of it and with his own blood he traced the words that had been nearly erased by the sands of time. “Only a life lived for others is worth living.”* He now leaned on it facing out to the courtyard, he then looked straight at me and saluted refusing to die until relived. I saluted in return and his hand fell to his side now unneeded, I trembled as his last breathe escaped through a sigh at the sunrise. The screen snowed and the recording played never again, it had waited for me and now it had completed its final task. I looked up to see the set of the scene that had just played, and I saw the words now re etched for all to see. But only one body was there, his, they had collected the body of a monstrosity, but no one bothered with a fallen hero.
-----
I had thought this up while listening Escala's "Children". When I listen to it I just see somthing similar to what I wrote, I bunch of children playing a game, only to realize it's not and run in what would be an awesome montage. Obviously the running part isn't there but, that's where it originated from.

It begins with a silent gesture, that hand extended for yours, an invitation to the unknown the unexpected, to what one had never dared to even dream of. A feeling long lost in that endless sea of blue, an experience only known to that storm that's not a storm. A place where the dancers arched about the dance floor never quite reaching the earth, trapped forever in that storm that's not a storm, but a dance in the sky. For the sky was their dance floor, that everlasting sky hidden in the dark of night, un seen and unheard to all except those with the eyes to truly see. Twisting, twirling, tumbling, turning, across that endless sky, their fritz and frills arching about behind them as they snapped across the sky. The forever sky that held host to the dance of the storm that's not a storm, an arching festival of a silent serenade, as they zipped across the sky. Their laughter unheard by all, theirs only to behold and cherish as they flittered about the sky, bringing sight to those in the dark, in flashes of beauty. So join them in that spectacle, extend your hand if only for a moment of your busy, busy lives, and join the dancers in the storm that's not a storm, for their fun is fleeting. Their rest taken as the sun rises, and that sea of blue whisks away the dance floor of gray, and the storm that's not a storm is lost once again. To that Everlasting sky.

-------
Wrote this after watching the dry lighting storm outside my house for an hour, and just wished I could express it in words. Originally it was to be titled "The Dance in the Sky" but I felt that the ending made a good title.

It sickened him, the nature of humanity. How something that once had a sense of self dignity and self righteousness. Had become twisted and deformed to something unrecognizable, seemingly inhuman. Dark thoughts now have become commonplace and the plague that is human spreads and corruption becomes more thorough. Death, corruption, and sickness become near acceptable. And only a few realize the depravity that this humanity now lives in. I don’t account myself as one of those few that are free of such a sin, just one who recognizes this sick truth. For like all of us I am one of them, a sickness waiting to be cured by death.

------
I had written this during the sad, but short, period in which I was depressed.
I had just finished watching the News about the war, oil prices, and crime and It really ticked me off.

He was no longer a single pianist he had become a conductor of an orchestra condemned to stone. Not only did it exist in his head but was lead by his hand for all to hear, and they listened. The euphony raged through the tower reverberating through rock, stone, and mortar. It ravaged the tower to its very foundation shaking it to its very core! Then all yielded those running stopped and the charging army froze and they all watched as a he commanded a musical feat that had not been dictated since the time of Amadeus! His hand shook low demanding a bellowing roar that in turn shook the pillars surrounding him as if directed by his very hand. As his hand glided across and invisible staff guiding the orchestra the columns responded as if connected to his very actions. He then began the beginning of the end, his hands moving violently striking down the staff destroying it and with each strike, each strike that was responded with a thunderous note of the crescendo. With each note resonating through the tower with such veracity that the columns crumbled sending that level cascading onto the next. The man did not halt until there was but one level left his hands hung suspended as if he a puppet and he looked to those he had saved and smiled, and in that moment he conveyed to them every feeling and thought he had ever felt. Before he could be stopped he dropped his hands constructing the last note of destruction, the last of the tower crumbled and collapsed. Crushing all beneath the orchestra, the army and lastly the man. All except the final note which permeated the ruble for all to hear.
-----
I don't know what I'm doing here, I think I was just board and listening to classical music again.

I was once asked, “How does one measure someone’s life.” By the time they’ve spent on earth? The number of smiles that they have caused? I and didn’t have a clue, but now I do. Life cannot be measured by the amount of breaths you take or the number of times your heart beats. It is measured in the time spend with someone you love, because that is the only time you are truly alive, and your hearts may beat when they’re apart but they are calling, calling to the world for the one that they love. And all this time I thought that life was there so we could leave our mark on the world, some loud statement to be recalled over time as great. I couldn’t have been more wrong, nor could I have been happier to have been wrong. Because it is not the impression you make on the world but onto another person, not some loud statement but a whisper in their ear. A person who they love, and cannot find the words to describe how they feel, because all of the world can talk, and it never shuts up, life is spent trying to find that moment in your life where you can quite your mind and speak, not with your mouth but with your heart. And I can think of no better moment that I would rather live in. A moment where through not word, but heart, I can tell you "I Love you"
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This was a piece i had written when I had fallen in love, and was looking for the words to convey how I felt.

Words bleeding into the page as its blood gushes from its wound. It’s life being written away as it is dragged across the page scratching the surface. It reveals to us a horror in which a man is brutally murdered his screams faintly permeating the page. Ink now runs from the page to pool where his body would lie. from such a horror it turns to develop a love story in which the object now willing gives its life so the lovers may live. Hidden amongst the text are words from letters surreptitiously passed between the devoted couple, those words now whisper trough the wind. Yet another twist as the object now is drained to write of fruit that evade a starved mans grasp. Feeling his sorrow we now savor that sweet flavors that seemingly jump from the page. And now at its end the object gives that last of its life to construct a victory from the ashes and end with a magnificent crescendo. In truth the pen is mightier than the sword. For more life has been expressed from a simple pen than any other object, a pen breaths imagination and bleeds creation. To you or me It may just be ink that flows from a pen but in truth it is the life of literature because without it literature is just a blank page, not a canvas in which to create life. Therefore a pen is no longer a pen not to me, to me a pen is an entire world

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This was my first work, what brought me into the world of literature in more than just reading.
It is my most cherished piece, for it's sentimental value.