Well, I've come up with my diagnosis,
And I believe that you are infected.
Yes, indeed, it's a parasite, in fact,
But don't you worry. It can be dealt with.
Unfortunately, it cannot be cured.
Do you perhaps remember feeling
That you could do anything as a child?
Do you remember internalizing
The confidence and power that youth brought?
Do recall those sensations?
I can predict the rest. Someone stopped you,
Told you to think realistically.
Put you down, causing you to doubt yourself.
Doubt. That is what you are infected with.
And as of then, it has been part of you.
I was inspired to write this after listening to my friend's nervous remarks about his performance in a musical.
The air is chill, but it will soon be warm,
The perfect condition for the blossoms.
The pale pink petals, dancing in the wind,
Share their delicate beauty with the world.
However, such beauty does not last long.
Within the month, the flowers will be gone.
Why does the tree behold such quaint flowers,
If only to withdraw them soon after?
Such is the nature of exquisite things,
Burning brilliantly before fizzling.
Leaving an empty hole where it once burned,
Patched up over time but never returned.
Within life, everything follows these rules.
The loss of creativity in schools,
Or the death of loved ones from heart problems
Display the Law of the Cherry Blossoms.
I wanted to show that law by slowly starting to show a rhyme scheme. I was inspired to write this because my cherry tree is blooming right now and it's sad that those flowers will go away soon.
Scared of the world.
The same routine.
The same place.
It needs time
Before the big change.
A broken chrysalis.
I created this poem as a kind of metaphor for myself. I used to be very anxious about getting outside of my comfort zone, but I am now spreading my wings and becoming more.
What's the point of living?
A bleak question, I know,
But it still holds merit.
For why must we hold dear
Something, that in the end
Is forever meaningless.
Generations go by, quicker than winks,
What are the odds of being remembered?
Subsequent years after death, it gets less
And less, until you are all but forgot.
What happens to history after that?
Life keeps marching forwards,
Leaving behind countless.
Oh, to be forgotten,
We will all become that soon.
I wrote this poem pretty quickly. I wanted it to follow a syllable pattern, and I believe it does. After doing some internet searching, I found out that I might be a nihilist. Who knew?
The cat steps on the creaky floor
Looking for its prey.
Its prey has disappeared.
The cat looks not to eat,
But instead to protect.
Its owner produces demons,
Ones that destroy the mind.
But the cat scares them away.
It defends its owner.
They need help,
And the cat is willing to provide
With cuddles, pets, and purrs,
Until both are satisfied.
The cat crouches yet again,
Ready to give chase.
Someday, it'll be gone,
But what is important now
Is that it chases the demons away.
Dedicated to my late cat, Ed, and my current cat, Finn. You two have always been there for me.
— The End —