My beloved friends!

This is my old poem, and I really don't know when I wrote it.

Pain and more pain amidst the world of dreams,

That which was once my all, then thy heart seems

Pale as a morning star in the noonbeams.

My guiding star, is thy smile of sweetness,

Brings me vision of love and happiness

Like heaven's spirits light up the darkness.

I'm in love, yearning to be loved by thee,

Deep with widest loveliness as sea

As my heart, why doth thou still not love me?

My soul soffocates in the haunted hour

Like losing my spell, and breaking love's power,

All, all, all my love and my dream are over!

The darkness spreads over once enchanted ray,

Care, love, anguish, pain gather on each day,

Tears fall upon my face, dust on my way.

If I were worthier of thee? Think again!

Amidst my life of fright, anguish, and pain

To dream and become thy love once again!

LMAO u should give credit to the ORIGINAL poet!!! you just changed some words and made it "your poem" here's the ORIGINAL:

 By L.E.L., 1841

Faint and more faint amid the world of dreams,
That which was once my all, thy image, seems
Pale as a star that in the morning gleams.

Long time that sweet face was my guiding star,
Bringing me visions of the fair and far,
Remote from this world's toil and this world's jar.

Around it was an atmosphere of light,
Deep with the tranquil loveliness of night,
Subdued and shadowy, yet serenely bright.

Like to a spirit did it dwell apart,
Hushed in the sweetest silence of my heart,
Lifting me to the heaven from whence thou art.

Too soon the day broke on that haunted hour,
Loosing its spell, and weakening its power,
All that had been imagination's dower.

The noontide quenched that once enchanted ray;
Care, labour, sorrow, gathered on the day --
Toil was upon my steps, dust on my way.

They melted down to earth my upward wings;
I half forgot the higher, better things,
The hope which yet again thy image brings.

Would I were worthier of thee? I am fain,
Amid my life of bitterness and pain,
To dream once more my early dreams again.

Text source: Wu CD

Wow!! Both you guys are so great...Your POEM are so awesome!!

you no comprend? r u illiterate or do you read between the lines? that's NOT my poem im busting him for stealing someone's poem and saying it's his

My beloved friend!

Thank you very much for verbally insulting me and conscientiously accusing me of stealing someone's poem. I think therefore I strongly believe that you have a strong poetical and acknowledgeable comprehension between stealing and inspiring someone's poem. Ironically, every poet or philosopher in order to become successful, he must learn and understand from the beginner.  In addition, I am not a poet yet, unfortunately, I am still illerated!

hey buddy i was quoting KhleangUpLand about him being illerate BUT if you say you are den i guess you are  on the other hand YES you can use other people's POEM but you should let me stress dis SHOULD have given credit to them and NOT say it's YOURS?

My beloved friend!

Now, I increasingly begin to understand your point of view, and in general and common speaking, according to your logical and firm assertion I must primarily introduce the original poetry or give the creditable flavor of the original. Honestly, I can't name all poets' name, 'cause I have consistently read too many poems three years ago. Evidently, you might acknowledgeably knew the book, "Romanticism: an anthology, edited by Duncan Wu. Ironically, without any formal education of poetry's class, some of peoms are amazingly and indescribably inspiring me to write my poems, even though you are conscientiously and aggressively, not presumably, that I am stealing someone's poem. Therefore I am not entirely understanding the word, "Stealing," but perhaps I am mentally initialized to think that I am clearly stealing someone's poem word by word. In short, I am always unashamedly calling myself, "A poor illiterate man", therefore you don't emotionally have to worry about that. When I literally say myself that I am a fool, then you accidently or intentionally call me a fool, if I were mad at you, I'm must  be psychologically insaned

My beloved friends!

Right now and three years ago, I really don't know why I am losing the joy of a free flash of poetry,  therefore I can not poetically find or motivate myself to write any poem any more. Perhaps all my poems are not breathed the genuine spirit of poetry. In addition, I think therefore I will forcefully encourage myself to write any kind of poetry in the future, and hopefully you guys will eventually like them.

I am still unable to have any inspiration of writing poetry, therefore I am desirably posting one of my useless old poems. 

A Cold Famished Season, 76's...

The useless bright sun extinguished,

The cold earth breathed blinging and blackening

In the haunted, moonless airs, and ghostly clouds,

And the stars did scramble in the hellish darkness of the eternal space.

Then morrow came, and went,- and came and went again,

But only, only brought a chaos of famished day!

A silent suffering intensity, suffocation sense of pain

Breathed and heaved proprietarily deeper moans.

The stars of the New People 's fate hath declined,

The pang of famine fed upon all their entrails.

They slowly died, and the uncountable massive graves,

Where so many could find over hills, through bushes,

Through forest,- everywhere! A tangling slump of death!

The unfathomable hell within the horror of cold,

Pale purple skeleton bodies to view, - Death, a horrible death!

A cold season was like the wave of death,

And the tides were in their unorganized graves.

No more love was left, all in this new hellis earth was

But only one ineffable thought was death, death, death!

In word, sight, tear, or lament which found no relief,

Death, death, death,- A horrible death!

Death, death, death,- A tangling slump of death!

No earthly tongue could describe this!

My beloved friends!

This is a last part of my poem,"View The Twilight Sunset From Phnom Bakheng"...I am hopeful that you guys like it...

The beauty and love of the twilight sky

Turns paler shapes of pink, orange, and white,

And soon- the blackest mass makes its dark

Gleaming a lighter hue through the last twilight.

The tourists, my love and I come dwom quickly.

The enchanting chatters, the joyful laughs,

And the silly panic echoe from tree to tree.

Down, down, amidst the bumping terrances,

I hear the cicadas' last shriek in agony and fear,

And the sadden leaf's flute of the baggar,

Which mingle into such a deep doleful song!

Poverty and grief are like the earth with weeds

Deface and knots of withered grass.

Lo! The weary weight of sorrow torments my soul!

I wonder what it shall be like the thousand years ago,

And I think of my beloved Khmer people who lived here,

Did they feel proudly admirable and heavenly blessful

Or feel careless and selfish like the next generations

Of Khmer after falling Angkor Empire and nowadays?

Now, the moon is up, the ponds eerily shine clear

Among the horary high wall of magnicient forest,

The tourists eventually disappear out of sight,

And everything is more likely gone with them, too.

It becomes so remote and mysterious,

Perhaps, to me alone there come a thought

Of grief, hanging upon the beating of my heart,

Why do I feel my soul shiver with anguish?

I pray, so passionately pray through my sore distress,

When my beloved Khmers could live in happiness?

Alas! My beloved native which once heavenly bliss,

But now why unconscientiously in a hellish shame?

            &nb sp;                  Cicada's Cry!

A cold sunday eve,

The submissive waves in tears

Dying on the beach!

The sunset attacks

My broken and languid heart,

Stillness,-- the cicada's cry!

Long, suffering night,

Wait and wait in the shadow

Of the bleeding moon!

Forgive me all my beloved friends in here that I am still poetically no longer having the effective and creative desire to compose more poems, and in additional speaking forgive me for wasting your significant time reading one of my useless old poems.

The Torment of Young Innocent Souls.

We mourned to tell the world, together, you and I,

Being so young and so innocent,

Now in the dim light of the gloomy shaded sky,

Almost I hardly see your bright eyes.

Communism subsided hastily the old joyful memories,

Leaving only the millions of voiceless dead across the land.

You and I used to think greatly of joyful memories

In those previous days..... must be forgotten!

We still mourned to explain to the world together, you and I,

Being so young and so innocent,

Now in the light of the gloomy shaded sky,

I can't see anymore your bright eyes.

"Cause your tormented exhausted life is gone.

And I think my heart was shattered by Angka's hatred.

Since on a devilish spring, you had been tormented,

Starved, exhausted your body, heart, and soul.

Death continued to gather grisly in the harvest land!

I still grieved to implore the world, alone!

Being so young and so innocent,

In the gloomy, reddish shaded sky,

Where was expanding and blossoming the gate

Of the dead with revolutionary songs,

If the world is still blind or deaf,

I will join you, my beloved friends,

And the millions voiceless dead of the New People, very soon!

Then, more voiceless dead are marching,

Frightfully tormented into the gates of Hellish Death!!!

Aftermath..

I, alone, have survied from hell with a loathsome, tormenting story to tell,

The secrets of unsolved mysteries of death to yell,

And the horrors of the Killingfield from the abysss of hell.

The innocent bodies of my family drenched with blood,

Sucked inhumanly down into the reddish muddy graves,

Moaned helplessly out  the bloody sea of brutish pain,

And the hell of unwanted deaths doomed

In each begging for mercy with their still wide opened eyes.

A volcanic curse is violently exploding in my innocent and young brian,

Shall I patiently tell,

Or vengefully yell to complain to the world of my story?

The rotten wound inside my heart infested so widely,

So deadly as the abyss of the ocean,

Nerver I can explain?

For I, alone, have survived from the hell of the Killingfield,

And still heard my family's souls crying

And begging helplessly for their lives...

My unbearable agonies, griefs, and anger are unerasable!

Thank you very much for reading my useless poem!

Above, quickly the flock of birds fly to the nest,

And the sun descends majestically on the west.

The glowing scarlet-purple and brilliant amber lie

Like the celestial light in the luxuriant sky!

From heaven, a sweet shower prinkles blissfully,

Breath love, - sing delight on the rice field-melody!

And now, the air scents by the wild spicy flowers,

While hush an ethereal dwe-drops of sweet shower.

I tramp on a path among the winding golden

Ricestalks, fan by a resfreshing breeze, ascend

Upon the glittering fields. My heart, trembling with fear,

Each thrilling vein feels, and my eyes with tears impearl,

Thus while I think of thee,- I cry, "You are my life,

My heart, my soul, soon will be my bride and my wife!"

The sun's last ray now is gone, the full round moon

IS up shining fair; the glory of heaven, soon

The fireflies dance in a supreme moon carelessly.

Alas! Where my thoughts sweet express serenely?

How proud? How sweet? Although I'm a son of farmer,

My heart beats loud and fast, while I hold the flower

And fishes, --for thy emblem of my love is this!

Thy house is near, I feel, like the moon's hot beam, bliss

That heaven rewards  me of thee!  Sensation sweet

Thrills round my heart, I'll sing and swear, when we meet,

"To be loved by thee, my love gives thee all I can

And I love thee more than the world without the end!

No Mighty under heaven shall part me from thee,

If God choose, after death and next life, I'll always love thee!"

Thank You for reading my useless poem!

The full moon still does not have its mellow light,

Shining through the ghastly darkness of the night.

The Eastern star is bleeding crimsonly bright,

Mingling sense of fear and sorrow before the God's sight.

The sun still shines, but with no meaning as before.

The graveyards creepily grow beside my broken door,

And the tale of silent sufferings with the bleeding tear drops pour.

The unearthly spirit of humanity, sympathy and love have no more!

The unkindled sun in the womb of chaos is drowning.

Brusting laugh of hell, the caterpilars vengefully sing,

And the butterflies can't dance on the rainbow wing.

Degraded, threatened, or died, their wings are ripping!

Tonight, restlessly I pray aloud in anguish and in agony,

Caterpilars' heart can cure the disease's worst malignity

And consciously free from all kinds of hate and sensual folly,

To live brotherhoodly beloved is all we need naturally!

Forgive me for wasting your previous time by reading my useless poem.

is this a haiko, a lo ku or bonnet?