You found the Poetry Egg -- Congrats!

to you I shall tip my hat!

To claim another point for your score,

post a rhyme bragging that of eggs you found one more

and we'll see what the other competitors think of that!

There's not much to this old building during the day.

Faint scratches and cracks, paint frozen mid-drip on the walls

Just plaster and cardboard and sawdust, dull and plain

With footprints and dreams and old tape (mostly peeled off, but still there)

Layering up on the scuffed planks that we call the floor,

All left behind and lonely in the end.

The ceiling ascending so high

That the beams that hold it melt into sharp shadow,

Pipes and wires and who-knows-what-else all showing.

Names of long-gone people etched into the soft surfaces of the corridors. 

It really is an old, dusty building.

One that gets drafty in the winter,

But is somehow always a bit too clammy when it comes down to it.

That's all during the day, though,

Of course.

Yes, because during the night 

Oh, during the night, this rickety old theatre comes to life,

Darling, you ought to see it, 

The way the cold dark hall hiss and sigh

The backstage a snake reawakened and ready to strike.

Everyone feels it in their veins, in the dim stage lights

Buried under the veil of the wings,

Kept safe and secure by the panels that boarder the stage itself --

Everyone becomes one with the old building,

Our breathes become one, long, rattling song of life;

We feel the names etched onto our brows,

We become larger than the audience themselves, swallow them

As we relish in the breeze that breaks the hot, stagnant air within,

We bend and flow with every creak and step and 

Raise our arms with the drawing of the curtains, each

Fallen word a truth we are entwined with.

Each light exposing a truth deep within us,

Cues we didn't know we knew triggering a reaction all at once. 

Indeed, we become one with the stories we tell,

The building and characters and fellow people we love,

Darling, you really out to see our theatre at night;

My, oh my, the way it does come alive. 

As someone on the spectrum

I just want to say

Words are so much easier to read

(Even with dyslexia) 

Than minute facial expression

And changes in posture.

Words always say what they mean,

And even implications

Are in plain text for all to see. 

~~~~~~~~~~~

I might add more later, but this just popped into my head. 

No longer is there a girl

Upon the ivory tower;

No longer stands White Lotus

Amidst the swamplands;

No longer is Hope allowed to shine,

Not when you've fallen this far. 

I'm not on this thread pretty much at all, but wow. This makes me want to write more poety. Y'all are amazing.

here's a poem-ish-thing I made:

you humans, you pride yourself on your accomplishments

and some are admittedly impressive, I suppose.

but you never seem to be able to see

from the perspective of the ones you see as inferior.

for instance, can you humans fathom the delight

of riding the airborne wings of a weightless sparrow?

do you humans ever stop to attempt to imagine

what it would be like to see a pack of wolves on the hunt? 

no, not just see- but be a part of- that thrilling chase?

you humans, you dismiss us as wild monsters, or tame servants, or pests to be swatted

but do you ever think that we might see you the same way?

or even- as equals?

no, you think, they can't even reason, they don't even have hearts. 

that may be true.

but what about the humans that killed one another for sport and fun? did they have hearts?

you see? do you see now?

perhaps, perhaps not.

you are human, after all.

consider this the moral of the story,

the point of the poem, the lesson I'm teaching.

don't jump to conclusions and drown in prejudice,

and don't take things for granted at first glance. 

Your words

Cut right through to the heart,

Each movement you make

(Such is the grace that you wield) 

Steals my breath away,

Amd it doesn't make sense

But those eyes

Oh those dark eyes,

They get me every time.

And air gets knocked out of me

Each time your voice dips

Into what I can only describe

As the cold, grainy embrace

Of the bottom of the ocean;

And for some strange reason

Every time I look at you,

My mind melts into ways to turn

Your figure, your every gesture and quirk

Into a piece of art on its own.

Even that could never do you justice, though.

Even that would never capture all

The wonder that I've seen. 

@Scuttles- thanks for commenting on my last poem! I really appreciated it :D

here's another poem: 

Dancing on the Wind 

you poor humans, you're chained to the ground

forced to endure the ice and heat

when warm tropics or cool retreats

await just out of your clawless reach. 

if only you had wings to give you speed,

feathers to protect from bitter cold,

alert senses to protect from danger,

a warm, beating heart to protect from hate. 

come join us in your mind's dreaming eye

dream what it is to soar on the clouds

what it is to swoop and dive

what it is to dance on the wind