I used to write, like, really write. Poetry and lunacy, scrawling rebellion across each page of my notebook and leaving heartbreak in the margins. It was messy and raw and mostly illegible. Unrefined. But read it aloud and a good poem makes its own backing track, not always musical, but the melody of emotion or the passion of an impressionable mind. The drum beat of a harsh truth.
Words failed to capture my disillusionment.
Apr 28, 2018
Apr 28, 2018 at 10:26 AM UTC
Midnight walks and dewy grass,
Late nights that turn into late mornings,
And late admissions of lazy love.
Sharp eyes between dark minds,
Sunset and sunrise separate our days with night,
And time that doesn't move.
Just stop ticking onto new things,
What we have tonight is enough for tomorrow,
And all the time we can borrow.
Mar 28, 2016
Mar 28, 2016 at 6:42 PM UTC
Shallow trenches flooded with ink,
paths worn in paper,
pull me from the brink.
Background chatter and grey noise fills our head,
ten minutes a day respite,
or I'll end up dead.
Static rain ice cold on my skin,
but it's dry at twilight,
in the ghost town within.
Feb 16, 2016
Feb 16, 2016 at 11:47 AM UTC
On Time's ornate shelves
we will soon find ourselves.
Be it in a week or a decade,
each of us will eventually fade.
But our lexis and our prose,
kept in books stacked in rows,
black inked words on yellowed pages,
of our worth will be the gauges.
Jan 15, 2016
Jan 15, 2016 at 6:01 PM UTC
Insanity is not
doing the same thing over
and over
expecting a different result.
Because I do
a mathematics exam paper
every week
always getting a different result.
Insanity is not
loving someone that doesn't
love you
back the way you deserve.
Because I have
loved my grandfather
each day
since death stopped his heart.
Jan 15, 2016
Jan 15, 2016 at 5:24 PM UTC
I used to write poetry because
I liked the lull of words when
They fit together seamlessly.
I used to draw pictures because
The scenery was just beautiful
And I never wanted to forget.
I used to listen to music because
The hidden meanings in lyrics
Gave me cause to think.
Now I need to write poetry because
I must get all these words out of my
head before they drive me insane.
Now I need to draw pictures because
People tell me that I have to try to
Keep distracted for my own good.
Now I need to listen to music because
If silence falls, I know that I will start
To think too much about nothing.
Dec 30, 2015
Dec 30, 2015 at 8:15 PM UTC
In five years I will
be half-way to the horizon.
Exactly where I am now,
yet in a different place.
I'll always choose the third door
and probability will be on my side.
In ten years I will
be half-way to the horizon.
With so much progress,
and nothing to show it.
I'll always argue for my opinion
and there will be a chance I'm right.
In twenty-five years I will
be half-way to the horizon.
Maybe I'll have company,
but I could be alone.
I'll always make direct eye contact
with hope I don't look scared of you.
In fifty years I will
be half-way to the horizon.
And I will be able to stop.
Oct 9, 2015
Oct 9, 2015 at 6:06 PM UTC
Isn't is amazing how there are
a finite number of words,
that try to describe my entire
existence.
They flow from my hands
like honey across computer keys.
My life in forty-seven lines.
It, to me, is inconceivable that
a text box can contain a person,
like a frame might contain a photo.
So those words
might have flown from my fingers,
but they are not me.
I am in my work.
Puzzles solved and projects planned,
each one has a small part of my
self within it's ink-stained pages.
My poetry and photography
represents me far better
than forty-seven lines.
If a university turns me away
based on a personal statement,
I would not be ashamed.
After all, those forty-seven lines
are not my words.
They belong to convention.
'Interpersonal skills' and
'self-confidence'.
I know those words are not me,
although I'll write them
because I know they are what
you want to
see.
Sep 17, 2015
Sep 17, 2015 at 1:13 PM UTC
Buzzing, itching, crowded mess.
Pounding, pounding, in my head.
Nothing matters, not anymore.
It never did, never at all.
Slowly sinking, drowning, cold.
I think I'm starting to lose my hold.
My grip on reality is wearing thin.
It's time I let the demons in.
Sep 16, 2015
Sep 16, 2015 at 5:26 PM UTC
Jolted awake,
Is that banging
in my ears
inside my head,
or out?
It's at the door,
banging so hard
and fast.
I stride through
the darkness
to my sister's room.
A hand on her
shoulder and
her name.
It does not
wake
her.
Panic builds and
the banging,
it's inside and out.
She won't
wake
up, please.
Empty
Nitrous Oxide
and spirit bottles
litter my
sight.
Please, wake
up.
Please, before
our door
caves
in.
Sep 13, 2015
Sep 13, 2015 at 6:07 AM UTC