Blinded by Frost

I remember having to learn Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening and The Road Not Taken (by Robert Frost) while in high school. I liked both of them immensely and still remember little pieces of each one. I'm not a Frost expert by any means, I just loved the way he could take you somewhere by painting pictures with words.
I used to write poetry myself.
It was depressing.
All of it.
And I'd show it to people (I'm not naming names but they know who they are. *twists knife while grinning*) And they'd make fun of it and tease me about a heart made of broken glass, life full of death and despair and being a melodramatic psycho.
This leads me back to the dead giraffe poem. It was humorous. (Oh look! Humour with an extra "u". I suppose I AM meant to live in England someday.)
I find nowadays that I am far more apt to write silly things than sad ones. Maybe it's because I'm happier than I used to be or maybe it's because I simply choose not to dwell in the dark places long enough for the poetry to fully develop in my head.
Recently, however, I haven't been feeling so great. (As I mentioned yesterday.) This is because I have mono. Mono, my dear friend, bites the big one. You can't do a dang thing about it. You just have to wait it out and then hope it never comes back. Because it can. So the tired, sickly, feeling-sorry-for-myself side of me has had the chance to revisit the melancholy pockets in the enormous duffel bag of memories that is my brain.
So I thought I'd share a few of those poems with you.
Feel free to comment, either here or on my Facebook. I like CONSTRUCTIVE criticism. I do ask, though, that if you are going to tease or make fun of me that you do it inside your own head. I don't mind at all; my poetry isn't the best and it isn't for everybody. But you don't need to tell me. I'm fine not knowing. Really. I promise. It's cool.

I sing a song of broken dreams
of thoughts that pass away
of midnight moons in barren trees
of wind in lonely reeds.
I sing a song of disrepair
of shadow, dark and deep
of starless nights and cloudy days
of dying autumn leaves.

Ode to a Clarity Rock (For my brother, Danny Harvey)
As smooth as it sounds.
As Black as a careless writer's ink blot
Circles of gold and green and blue
Like a field of wheat in the eagle's eye
And a sapphire sky in summer
As smooth as it sounds.
Cold in the ground, naturally alone
Now warming like clay in the sun
Like skin upon skin
Or cashmere around my neck
Brilliant with potential
As smooth as it sounds.
An oblong miracle of stone emotion
Slippery like time
And as smooth as it sounds.