The first poem was a cool thing Mike told me about. You pick six words, and create six regular stanzas, where each line ends with one of those words. The last word of the final line becomes the last word of the first line of the next stanza, until you go through all of them. The final stanza has two of the words per line, one in the middle and one at the end.
The second poem is perhaps the most complex of any poem I've ever written. It can be read left to right, as usual, and you can also read it from top to bottom of each row. Snazzy, isn't it? It's also the poem that took me the longest to write, taking an entire class period in high school (which is about an hour and a half long).
Death, Love, Pain, Hope: To Burn
All we have for all eternity is love,
At least until we have seen death,
But even then we yearn and hope
For something to end this pain;
For something to make the memories burn
Into something we can cling to.
Somehow we end up going back and forth, to
And fro, trying to start or end our love.
We try to keep the flame or stop the burn
For the accomplishment of either deters death
And brings a way to extinguish pain.
This, it seems, is the foundation of hope.
Yet to have anything resembling hope
Makes it that much more likely to
Have this feeling we call pain.
It is caused by, and ended by, love.
The lure of emotion makes us feel invisible to death
When all it achieves is bringing us to Hell to burn.
Many argue that we do not burn
Because they see their feelings as a hope
For something beyond life and death.
They yearn for Heaven and here on earth seem to
Have and receive this thing called love
And do not see that from it springs pain.
Is it worth it, this pain?
It scratches, it stings, it stabs, it creates a burn
That makes me feel that love
Is not something for which to hope.
And yet, without it, there would be nothing to
Treasure and value at the time of death.
So, in conclusion, this death,
Both a way to end and create pain,
Serves as the only thing to
Prove that there is a reason to burn,
A reason to hope,
A reason to bear this horrible thing called love.
And so we learn to see that with death
There is love for something despite the pain
And we adore the burn that means we hope.
All that's left behind
Is nothing that really
To another place that
Goes beyond him and me
At least that's how it seems,
Will drive him farther until he is
Forgotten, forgiven, forgetting, forgiving
Or maybe not at all.
For the truth of feelings is not true.
Perhaps it never really mattered
Perhaps this end is for the best
Because he never cared;
Though if an end it be
This truth of heart cannot be denied, yet
What an end to such bliss.
If such a lie as feelings
To believe is perfidy and
Kill the soul
Of this heart inside my chest,
Then there is nothing.
It is dead.