A Little Child


Have to be a little child from my father,

Have to obey Cthulhu evermore.

And all bad things turned into dust,

By my evil and good Father.

Author's Notes/Comments: 

Some thoughts about Father Cthulhu.

View yshotha's Full Portfolio

Child of Cost

I cried out to you as a loving father would his own daughter, I begged you to turn back, to come back.
In darkness she did wonder, escaping the grip of my hands to slip away into the pull of the currents that brought her under.
Swept a far beyond my eyes, there she lye covered in flies.
The first pitch of dirt shoveled did no trouble to the face it capped,
Her naked body lay still beneath the weight of the earth,
never to be seen again in the way she was perched .
Though we search, their wicked deed was well hid,
 so also were the shameful schemes she often did.
Oh my precious child, I would never have considered to put a price on you,
Because your soul you did bother to sell,
you were bought at the very expense of your life.
Oh now how I wish you would tell,
What it is that you gained at the end of his knife?

Author's Notes/Comments: 

Please if you will, any comments you have on my poem are welcomed. I hope this is a good peom, but if you will let me know what you think about it. thank you for reading :)

View woeisme's Full Portfolio

The History Of Christmas

Why do I celebrate Christmas as I am an Atheist people ask
Well, I say, Christmas is a form of a masque.
What we know today
Is mixture of many earlier traditions, okay?
Yule logs?
Well they come from the Scandinavian fertility god.
As for the Mistletoe?
Well that's from the Druids, didn't you know?
The Wiccans decked their halls with wreaths of holly
And its fine for us to do it, to keep us jolly.
The holiday that Christmas used to be
Was Saturnalia, they even had the tree!
Listening out for hooves on the tops of our house
Comes from Odins horse, he must have been quite as a mouse.
Jesus was not born on the twenty-fifth
But it was Mithras, he was even the 'messiah', as if!
St. Nicholas was not the only visitor who bore a gift
As was Odin and Thor; they must have been ever so swift.
So when you think its just for Christians, this is not true
Now you know its a collaboration of many myths, and you can be part too.

View davisa's Full Portfolio

True Father

Words and commands for death fill the air
With blood being splattered everywhere
He calls himself the Father, but no love does he bring
When I look around all there is, is pain, horror and suffering

Many follow under his ugly name
But little know of his full game
They think they spread the messages of love
But little do they know the evil from above

Their leader is all powerful, but does no good
Their leader is everywhere, but might as well wear a hood
Their leader is all loving, but kills
What poor fated men should suffer from these ills

I have one true father, but it is not he
For mine I am born from, he is part of my family
He is not all powerful, but my hero none the less
He is one of many things, I don't not want this evil god to bless.

View davisa's Full Portfolio

Take care be good

I can't wait to see your newborn baby face
To have you as my child is something I can't replace
Can't wait to hold your fragile little body in my arms
I'll always be there cause your cry is my fire alarm
You don't ever have to worry cause daddy's got your back
Please don't cry, just take a nap and baby just relax
You don't need to rush, just take things at your own pace
I can't wait to do things with you like tie your shoe lace
I promise to be a good father and raise you right
You will be my first son I know that you'll be so bright
To you my little buddy I want to be Mr. Incredible
Can't wait for your birthday it will be a festival
Longing to see your face with daddy's smile
I know I'm ahead of myself and that it'll be a while
Cause mommy doesn't have you, That is still in store
I'm excited for the future and I can't wait til you're born

Author's Notes/Comments: 

I'm not saying I want a kid its just that I'm imagining what it'll be like having a kid.

View jrestik's Full Portfolio

My father's Horse

My father rode his horse with a special feeling. He loved walking with his horse, enjoying the views of his field crops, feeling the breeze in his face, watching his ranch as he went by, relaxing at that large calmed place, beside his chestnut friend. My father would go riding whenever he could, whenever he was mad or stressed, whenever he felt happy and blessed, my father would scape to his ranch, and ride with his four legged friend. I liked it very much when he used to take me with him; I had a lot of fun with him and with his brownish horse. Riding beside him, he used to tell me stories about his youth, about his childhood, about his golden charreria days, and how good he was. We both rode together in that horse, while we both shared a happy peaceful time. While we talked and laughed, while I enjoyed what my father loved the most, in the same horse we rode. That horse was wonderful and loyal, the “Azteca” his name was, strong but short, fast but no for distance-long, he became my father’s best friend at work, and at every time he needed him. Every time my father was riding that horse, you could see him young, full of life, and free… looking like the real Charro he used to be. The “Azteca”, was part of the family. My father and his horse shared many moments together, they raced together, they competed in charrerias together, and they also learned from each other. My father thought him tricks and the horse thought him perseverance. My father taught him discipline and the horse to quickly stand up after you fall to the ground. My father even got married riding that horse; my mother was a little ashamed of course. Instead of a car taking the bride to church, it was the Azteca who brought her to the chapel’s front porch. Indeed, it was a very special horse. My family was very sad, when three years ago, it happened the worst; the poor old Azteca had a stroke. My father was very sad, but very thankful he also was. It was then, when I realized what that so very special horse meant. That horse belonged to my father’s brother, who died in a car accident 25 years ago. My dad used to tell me how close he was to him, to his brother. He was his best friend, just like the Azteca used to be.

Author's Notes/Comments: 

Based on real life.

View jorgemadrigalpons's Full Portfolio

My father's books

In the instant you enter my house, a big surprise you see. No matter what no matter when, I know a special place where my father and I can me happy man.
My father, my beloved father, has always loved books. My dad’s library is what he loves the most, after his family of course.
Novels, stories, fables, magazines. Whatever you imagine, you can find it in the library. Present publications, or 1920’s books, they are in it. It is like a time machine, all you have to do is sit and read.
Since he was fourteen, just a dreamer human being, he began to buy all the books he liked. Every time he got money from his work, to the book store he walked. Sometimes no money to eat he had, but a good reading always filed that need.
My father’s books always went wherever he went. Making company like an Ent, they were old wise, just like guides, silent guides.
Verne, Salgari, Shakespeare, Saavedra. All of them like warriors were together, this is the first thing of my childhood I remember.
When I was a Kid, my father and I played cowboys & Indias like billy the kid. While other children of my age were playing Nintendo, I was talking with my father about Nemo.
A big, brown, majestic bookshelf is always in my house; maybe it is older than me. Through the time, impassive, it is always there,
My father used to tell me stories, all kind of them; historical, educational and fairies tales.
He always made me want to read, and sometimes some books he borrowed me; even If I shattered them, he always forgave me. “Do not worry” he said. “I would burn them, as long as you learn something” Then he both laughed.
Big, small, all kind of sizes there are in my father’s books. Green, Black, white, of all colors of hard back there are. Images, paintings, photos, I just love them.
They are my father’s treasure; he portrayed his life in them. I hope someday I will have it, and I am sure that whenever I read them, I’ll just look up and see my father, telling me a new story.
When I am a father in the future, the same library in my house will be. My children and I happy are going to be. I’ll just see them, reading the same books my father did, and I’ll smile.

Author's Notes/Comments: 

Fist Compositon in English :D

View jorge1635's Full Portfolio

My father´s books

I always relate books to my father. Since I can remember my father has always carried a book around anywhere he went. Sometimes the book is about math, other times about spirituality, physics, literature, etc. He really doesn´t have a specific preference about the book’s topic. He has always been the type of person who likes to know about everything, he says this enriches him as a person. The funny part about everything is that he carries his book around even though sometimes he knows he´s not going to be able to read it. Sometimes while waiting for a movie to begin, he reads his book. Other times he reads while he´s waiting for someone in his car. Sometimes he takes his book to a grocery store which makes no sense at all because he won´t read it. I tend to ask him, “Why would you bring a book here Dad?” and he always answers the same way, he says, “You never know son.” Sometimes even when he is driving and there is a red light, he grabs his book and starts reading the most amount of words he can. I remember once getting mad because he went to a competition of mine and instead of watching me play, I saw him reading his book. Some people may see this as a problem but I bet he never gets bored, it´s just his thing. The only problem is that through years he has been accumulating book after book and there was a point where there was no space for them anymore in my house. My mother couldn´t help the fact of keeping old rusty books at home so she told my dad to get rid of them. There was an argument about this and as usual my mother won. In spite of everything my clever father instead of throwing them away or donating them, he took them to his office. So there, lying in the shelf against the wall of his office, stand still my father´s old books. For some people these antiques would be valueless and just a pile of garbage, but for my father they aren´t. Each and every book represents for him a new lesson. I remember asking him once, “Why do you value books so much?” and he responded, “A good book has the knowledge of many years of study from different people, but you must know son that you won´t find the answer to your life in any normal book.” I was confused at his response but then he added, “You will find the answers inside of you where the most important book lies.”

View andres's Full Portfolio


Little Melisa so precious and pure.
So innocent and niave.
Why did I leave?
I had to go, it was the only way.
I promise you will see one day.
I'm here for you, miles will never keep us apart.
You are my meaning my reason for being.
I lay and cry even though your right here.
For I know I will be gone tomorrow.
I fight with my life to give you in time what's right.
So you don't feel this hurt. So you will have a better way.
When you grow you will know. They can't keep the truth from you.
Till then I try, I cry I eat this pain and feed from it.
This pain is my strength to fight.
You be happy little girl while I fight the world.
While I do the work you become yourself.
Become what you are supposed to be I will handle the misery.
I made this happen it's no lie. So thats why I cry.
I made the choices you see. So I deserve this misery.
These words will never decribe how I feel inside, but hide the lie and tears I cry.

Author's Notes/Comments: 

This is about what I am going through with my daughter.

View xxf00lxx's Full Portfolio