Clarity.
I’m looking at what my heart had to see.
Silhouettes of my past are passing me,
so passively.
I’ve got my shadows asking me,
what it is I wanted from my fantasies....
And it’s weird. I don’t have an answer.
Cause this life is going way too fast for me.
Not a moment I could say that I’ve lived happily,
caught up in all of this agony, always after me,
stirring up some kinda **** that affects me and my family.
It’s like I’m tryna write up a story
with a pen that has no ink,
like someone who’s lost their voice
and they’re out here tryna sing...
My heart hasn’t got it anymore,
it’s hit it’s iceberg and is about to sink,
when once upon a time,
It used to be in sync.
And now, today, in this moment,
I no longer know why I’m even in this.
The poetry used to flow from my mind
like streams in dreams,
with ease and with peace, it would fill up pages with colourful scenes.
Drawing up pictures with words so creatively seemed,
it seems, I’ve lost that ability to perceive the perceived,
in the ways that I could see.
Write up what was seen.
I used to bring out the world I visualised in my head,
give it life with the words I composed in a spread,
across the lines of an a4 pad that was white and dead,
until I had fed, it with whatever was going on in my head.
So you could see it too.
The realities I’m seeing through.
They called me poet but
I just arranged my words differently.
Constructed my sentences with messages,
that spoke with decibels without decimals through a hundred crevices.
And yeah maybe,
sometimes it was instantly,
but the rhymes from my mind,
I would compose into every line.
They were of my very essences.
Jan 19, 2021
Jan 19, 2021 at 11:57 PM UTC
Clarity.
I’m looking at what my heart had to see.
Silhouettes of my past are passing me,
so passively.
I’ve got my shadows asking me,
what it is I wanted from my fantasies....
And it’s weird. I don’t have an answer.
Cause this life is going way too fast for me.
Not a moment I could say that I’ve lived happily,
caught up in all of this agony, always after me,
stirring up some kinda **** that affects me and my family.
It’s like I’m tryna write up a story
with a pen that has no ink,
like someone who’s lost their voice
and they’re out here tryna sing...
My heart hasn’t got it anymore,
it’s hit it’s iceberg and is about to sink,
when once upon a time,
It used to be in sync.
And now, today, in this moment,
I no longer know why I’m even in this.
The poetry used to flow from my mind
like streams in dreams,
with ease and with peace, it would fill up pages with colourful scenes.
Drawing up pictures with words so creatively seemed,
it seems, I’ve lost that ability to perceive the perceived,
in the ways that I could see.
Write up what was seen.
I used to bring out the world I visualised in my head,
give it life with the words I composed in a spread,
across the lines of an a4 pad that was white and dead,
until I had fed, it with whatever was going on in my head.
So you could see it too.
The realities I’m seeing through.
They called me poet but
I just arranged my words differently.
Constructed my sentences with messages,
that spoke with decibels without decimals through a hundred crevices.
And yeah maybe,
sometimes it was instantly,
but the rhymes from my mind,
I would compose into every line.
They were of my very essences.