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Here are some original poems by my friend Jeff C. Rummel

"The Dreamer's Eye"

Is the world but a lie,
On the lid of the eye?
A bubble of reality,
Waiting to be broken?
What of all the thoughts and words
Never to be spoken?
You cannot help it.
We're all gonna die,
In this bubble on the lid of
The dreamer's eye.

"Why"

Why, God why?
Why do we fear death?
Why does life pass before eyes
As we take our last breath?
Why do some find violence
Just so necessary?
Why must I
Remain so wary?
God please tell me,
For I don't know.
My mom needs to call someone,
So I have to go.

"Death After Life"

Death and life, life and death,
They are all one and the same.
Because when you're dead, after your life,
No one remembers your name.

"Poem"

(from 6th grade)
A poem can tell feelings,
A poem can tell life.
To you poems might be stupid,
To me they are life.

"Nightmare"

ZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZ....
No, no,
Leave me alone!
NO!
ZZZZZZZZZZZZZ...*
AHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!
Aw, man.
I need to get some sleep.

"Out On The Ice"

(6th Grade)
Out on the ice,
With seals so nice.
I've seen them twice.
Then in the winter,
The weather turns bitter.
The seals so nice
Are under the ice.
Then in the summer,
After winter's big bummer,
The seals so nice,
Go back on the ice.
Out on the ice,
With seals so nice.
Now I've seen them thrice.
Out on the ice.

"The Dream"

I woke up one morn,
To find my lifestyle torn.
I went to a school,
Made only for fools.
Two monsters, one was a lump,
The other was made of whipped cream.
Smack! Whap! Then a bump!
Whew! It was only a dream.

"Car"

(6th Grade)
A man in a car.
Has he come from afar?
Where is he going,
And where has he been?
I have no way of knowing,
So I'll write you again.

"A Poet"

(6th Grade)
Writing, thinking,
Throwing away.
Making a poem fit for a king.
Making titles for another day.
The poet's poem is almost done.
He has to read it at one.
Twelve o'clock, now 12:15,
Forty-five minutes 'till the king.
"Now he's at the guillotine,
Waiting for the king.
Now he is before the king,
To be killed by the guillotine."
I'm glad that isn't me.
The poet's poem was real you see,
It told of things that were to be.
The poet's head was chopped off at three.

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