I only have 5 minutes
To spare this poetry
Here it goes:
5.
I do not wish to be seen
Said the old man in me
So leave me alone
Cause I don't want to be
4.
For I've been running away
This is what I hate
And I envy everyone else
Who are not in the same fate.
3.
What have I become?
Where will I go?
The questions are left unanswered
And I've searched high and low.
2.
To be strong once more
In my world full of doubt
To be strong while I lose
In my latest bout.
1.
I wish I had more time
Just like before
I only have 5 minutes
And I wish I had more.
Aug 1, 2019
Aug 1, 2019 at 1:20 PM UTC
what really is the true meaning of life and why do we insist on living it?
questions infiltrate my mind
Intellect takes its prioritising position in my brain
yearning for answers, for the journey to that end
that end that so many of us have seen
where the protagonist in the movie reaches his or her epitome
to their motivation/philosophy in life to keep going
some have reached that peak, others struggle to keep afloat
for me i constantly imagine that movie-like moment to appear
somewhere, in my life.
yet i think that singular moment can transcribe into different variations
rippling with changes in its pool
with each decision as my stone skips across the ocean
tearing more and more waves
overlapping ripples with more complications and confusion
the journey is a long one and it may not be easy
but i intend to enjoy every step
learning, mourning, smiling, crying
vying for the end that dreads so near but out of reach
Aug 1, 2019
Aug 1, 2019 at 1:15 PM UTC
Columns drafted in pearl and eggshell,
Green vineyard draped over each one
Cautiously, meticulously decorated
By the dancing trees grown so tall above
Pure, clear water spurted out
Rivulets across Athena's strands of hair
Into her ivory *** she bears
The goddess smiles as the stream flows
Out the *** it gushes through,
Towards a gentle pond
Becomes a lake
Then an ocean
Vast beyond imagination,
Where the goddess drinks
From her honey-gold chalice
Cupped neatly in her hands
Trickling down her chin
She gazes upon the reflection of a hundred souls
Dancing and prancing inside the water
Bumbling happiness and eternal bliss
A cascade of flowers bloom as the sun rises,
She waves her hand over the water
Glancing down, she whispers so dearly:
"Be patient, my child. All will come to you."
I pray this is the dream of the hundred souls
I pray this is my Utopia in White.
Jan 4, 2019
Jan 4, 2019 at 12:24 PM UTC
Drugs can be seen as happiness,
Happiness can be seen as drugs.
If happiness was a drug, I'd take it.
I can see the liquid filled in the needle
Shot through my veins, the world lights up
Bright and shiny, gleaming with hope
Finding the right phrases to decorate my smile
The people smile back, they wave, they laugh
They find spouses and friends, hugs and warmth
There's no more demons, no more darkness.
But this doesn't last long, you can see,
The pupil shrinks and the shine is gone
Laughs become groans; hugs become pushes
Away people go, backed to their corners
Finding for a dealer, another shot in the arm
To rid of the grasping dark entity holding them back
So many of them, tethered to a needle
Dying to be happy, to be safe and sound.
But Happiness is a drug, and it will always ward off
As you do it more and more, it's effect gets shorter and shorter,
It's always temporary, and you're always addicted.
Jan 2, 2019
Jan 2, 2019 at 4:29 AM UTC
The poet lives two lives.
One on the outside,
And one in their mind.
When you look in their eyes
You could see an abyss.
If you looked long enough
You could sink into it.
But most people don’t see it.
Take the time to read the words, though,
And you would know for sure.
The poet lives in two different worlds.
Jul 30, 2018
Jul 30, 2018 at 12:20 PM UTC
When a published poet dies,
A shooting star falls.
The universe cries
And rainbows hugs waterfalls.
When an old poet dies,
A new poet is born.
Nature lights up a million fireflies,
And a ship gives a tot on its horn.
When a young poet dies,
A Crack appears in a crystal ball.
A Fountain pen dries,
And a sad poem appears on a wall.
When an old poetess dies,
For a while the wind will cease.
Petals will fall from Lillies,
And disappear without a trace.
When a great poetess dies,
Fallen poets observe silence.
The men adorn black bow ties,
And the ladies dress in elegance.
When any poet dies,
The world loses a bright mind.
Shakespeare appears across the skies,
Waving to those of us left behind.
When a poor poet dies,
Nothing at all happens.
The world goes about its duties
He goes on to rest with other legends.
#IvanBrooksPoetry
29/7/2018
Jul 30, 2018
Jul 30, 2018 at 12:15 PM UTC
Days over nights
cries and no fights
i recalled the first time it happened
tears slid down my puffed face,
unfolding my dented moments
in my mental head.
Confused, this feeling so familiar
why do i cry with no purpose
each tear propelling itself into my hands
already knowing when it'll wet my sweating palms
consistently surprising myself with agony
inflicted out of space and time, dwelling
surly in the darkness until it jumps on me
What's wrong with me?
why do i feel this way
why do i cause people pain by this
further causing more pain on myself
why can't i voice anything out
when the one voice in my head speaks so abruptly
directing all its statements towards me
Can't focus, what's wrong?
can't think, what's wrong?
can't feel happiness
can't feel genuine happiness
can't imagine it can last longer than just a few days
before this pain creeps and lodges onto my back again
tearing me down all over
What's wrong?
Jul 30, 2018
Jul 30, 2018 at 12:12 PM UTC
I can't:
________________________________________
go to see that moment after moment
and work after work
i am so unhappy with myself.
i keep seeing myself in the mirror as someone else --
someone else i want to be:
happier
prettier
more confident
more capable
more of everything i'm not
_________________________________________
take this brain, nor this head,
to stir this mix of pain in my mind again;
why not let my thoughts of ease
to reincarnate my life into a life
_________________________________________
have things easier
why can't it be easier
(just pretend it's okay)
why can't i love myself for who i am
(just believe it's okay)
why can't i ever be them
(don't realise it's not okay)
when will i ever be happy
when will i ever be satisfied with my own self being
when will i ever love myself more than others
when will i ever be myself
-- if myself even exists.
Apr 20, 2018
Apr 20, 2018 at 12:38 PM UTC
iii (dying love)
he loves me,
he loves me not.
loves me again,
but it gets lost.
what sweet love lingers
in the petals that i carry,
falling and wilting
slowly but surely
i wish i could convince him
to love me more —
alas, it is now up to chance
up to the petals that he now plucks
one after another
my heart stings more and more
he loves me, it mends;
he loves me not, it breaks.
all till the last petal remains
so delicately poised on its remaining bridge to love,
hanging on a chance
on a thought
on a moment of hope —
oh so sad,
how nothing cannot save this dying love.
Dec 30, 2017
Dec 30, 2017 at 6:10 PM UTC
ii
would you rather
get shot
or feel heartbreak all over again?
I for one, would be shot
but no, not for the reasons you think i imply
not at all
if i were to experience heartbreak
and it’s streaming flames lashing out at me
i would already be experience the equivalence of a shot
i’d have many shots at many clubs
trying to numb what’s on the inside
i’d be clawing at anything sharp
to relieve myself of the psychological pain
i’d have myself leaning —
standing on the edge of nothing
finding my feet slowly shifting forward
i’d have my body found on 4th street avenue
surrounded by the many willow trees and passing men
a hole in my heart leading my limbs sprawling out
so if a hole in my heart has the same result,
as the hole in my head
why not take the shorter route to the destination?
so this question's for you:
would you rather
get shot
or feel heartbreak all over again?
Nov 30, 2017
Nov 30, 2017 at 11:16 AM UTC