Love?

What can you do with love let loose?
Hunt it down and rig the noose?
Or let it grow and render blind?
By stressing heart and dulling mind?

So many questions, what's the answer?
Is love superb or love a cancer?
I know not this but this I do,
Love is love and that is true.

Where The River Bends

This is a poem I wrote four years ago while I was in high school. I don't want to edit any of my old work because it is nostalgic.

















A steady breeze, raking your hair,
Sailing leaves around your ankles,
Making trees dance in the air.

You come to a gallant, proud stream,
Which keeps on moving, unhindered,
Its surface holy and agleam.

Every step you take, a new sound appears,
The leaves swish, the water churns,
Everywhere nature whispers in your ears.

All around you sway the mighty trees,
The skyscrapers of the forest,
Their tranquil moods leave you at ease.

You breathe in the fresh air of the Earth,
And realize you have never breathed before,
Society has stifled you since your birth.

So, listen to Mother Nature’s call,
To be at peace,
And, for once, be one with all.

And when your life at last ends,
You will return to this heaven,
Planted by where the river bends.

- Kyle Krym (2006)

Mister Two-Wrongs

I've been writing a lot of different types of poems and have been listening intently to rhythm and rhyme. This poem was a practice in repetition.
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My love took to flight, But now love's a swan song,
I'm not Mister Right, But I am Mister Two-Wrongs.

My love ran on trust, But you said I was blameful,
I'm not Mister Just, But I am Mister Shameful.

My love it was blind, But not so delightful,
I'm not Mister Kind, But I am Mister Spiteful.

My love ran along, But love wasn't agile,
I'm not Mister Strong, But I am Mister Fragile.

My love's now obscured, But I still can't forget,
I'm not Mister Cured, But I am Mister Regret.

My love, wish I could, But I can't change the sad,
I'm not Mister Good, But I am Mister Too Bad.

A Professor's Lament

My Global History II class is so boring it is impressive, but I can't help but feel bad for the professor. I wrote this poem in class and the drawing on the side is of my friend John who was taking a nap.
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The old man behind the podium speaks
- Does anybody listen?
He tries to talk loudly, waving his arms
- His old, tired eyes glisten
My distracted friend is playing tetris
- But still the old man goes on
The girl behind me is surfing the web
- Stopping only for a yawn
The tall boy in front of me is asleep
- I see the desk meeting chin
And I? I stopped listening long ago
- But the old man won't give in

Pen Marks (stream of consciousness)

Hey, I just finished this poem two minutes ago in my Global History II class. Shhhhh, don't tell the professor!
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This poem is unlike any other poem
Because unlike the me of other poems
The me of this poem is different
The difference is not in the poems
But in the mes behind the poems
Because the differences in the poems
Don't matter if you don't know
Any of the differences within me
And you don't know me like I know me
But how could you if I don't let you
These poems aren't emotions, but words -
Pen marks on a paper, color vs. no color
A study in contrast, devoid of life
But I keep putting the marks on the paper
Because of a desperate hope that one day
These pen marks find you and tell you
What I cannot tell you in this poem
Or in any other poem.

I love you.

Forget Me Not

Forget me not little flower, forget me not

And never will you leave my thoughts
Our love stems from the deepest roots
And bears the fruits of eternity
But while we're apart, please little flower
forget me not.

The Forget-Me-Not is my favorite flower - small and simple, yet beautiful. It is easy to forget its existence, but every time I see it I am reminded of the beauty of life.