Just like the past we wither away All caught up in a world of grey We don’t know why we’re here but we keep going on ... Something around us is happening The sand is counting itself Hourglasses are frozen under the illusion of time Poetry isn’t taught but we think it has to rhyme All it boils down to is the conception of lines On paper, creating shapes from thoughts Abstract ideas, perceptions being altered; In front of the altar Everything we say can be turned into something else If it's not happening to you it's happening to somebody else Words on paper to stay true to ourself Can burst into flames if you over think Concise, precise, simple, plain If you don’t go by these guidelines, expect to be put to shame We aren’t all different but we aren’t all the same To expect nothing is the hardest game
Found this in an old stack of poems I wrote. Found it kinda funny and kinda cool as well. Not bad for the beginnings. Bam