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josiah-w-menziesPoems
I am dying From within. I don’t wish to, But I think of this skin That holds me Back and I feel ill. I stare, Glazed over, at all the happiness I have tried to Capture in moments of grace, And self contentment. But this does not do me justice. This hand does not do me justice. It all falls short of feeling. Now I write blankly, efficiently, capturing What I feel because it is easy. Do I long for you, or do I wish happiness Would knock me dead? Knock me down, The earth upon my head. I wait, I long, silently. Suffering all, wishing nothing. Nothing will come of nothing. Or shall I become a sod So as not to feel and rot, But just rot, unaware. I am dying, like a flower, Whose time is limited. But unlike a flower, I see what’s coming. Unlike the single, once crisp tulip That hangs aside from the others still-fresh, Falling from the boring vase I see my fall And contemplate it often. And read poetry which seems both To help and to hinder. Like you, an enigma. The feeling seeps through my nib Through my heart, through my ribs Gushing out onto a page, limited, Tired but taking shape. Hope leaves me, to be implanted In a line A seed, Sewn. Waiting, longing, wishing quietly To grow. But not knowing that its time is limited.
0
Mar 5, 2013
Mar 5, 2013 at 2:13 PM UTC
The single, once crisp tulip.
I am dying From within. I don’t wish to, But I think of this skin That holds me Back and I feel ill. I stare, Glazed over, at all the happiness I have tried to Capture in moments of grace, And self contentment. But this does not do me justice. This hand does not do me justice. It all falls short of feeling. Now I write blankly, efficiently, capturing What I feel because it is easy. Do I long for you, or do I wish happiness Would knock me dead? Knock me down, The earth upon my head. I wait, I long, silently. Suffering all, wishing nothing. Nothing will come of nothing. Or shall I become a sod So as not to feel and rot, But just rot, unaware. I am dying, like a flower, Whose time is limited. But unlike a flower, I see what’s coming. Unlike the single, once crisp tulip That hangs aside from the others still-fresh, Falling from the boring vase I see my fall And contemplate it often. And read poetry which seems both To help and to hinder. Like you, an enigma. The feeling seeps through my nib Through my heart, through my ribs Gushing out onto a page, limited, Tired but taking shape. Hope leaves me, to be implanted In a line A seed, Sewn. Waiting, longing, wishing quietly To grow. But not knowing that its time is limited.
Written by
josiah-w-menzies
English
Mar 5, 2013
Mar 5, 2013 at 2:13 PM UTC
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