Well, the world has taken all I have
So there’s literally nothing left
She’s bleeding me dry
I’m cast aside, left bereft
But yet I keep laughing
Tell me, in earnest
What is the joke?
I’m penniless, soon to be homeless
No magic genie to solve my situation, can I evoke
But I’m loved and I’m thought of
So for much more I can’t ask
These things we are “losing” are just material
And there’s nothing that, forever, lasts.
Labour of love
Sow your seeds in silence
Diligently digging, deep down in dirt
Without expectation
Without bated breath
May beauty grow with patience
Lest haste be met with death
You can’t
You can’t stop a fire burning
You can’t stop the tide from turning
You can’t stop the yearning for change
Polite society.
This undercurrent of vague niceties
That aren’t so vague
Those platitudes of the ilk of “we’re fine”
“Everything is ok”
Scream-whisper of hidden, heavy meaning
While their glassy eyed smiles, though wide
Split at the sides
And you know “things” are anything but ok
Yet evermore, the court of common courtesy holds sway
We continue, on and on
Bursting at the seams of polite society
With each passing day
Together.
We’ll go down, together
Burn bridges, together
Weather storms, together
Get better, together
Breathe easier, together
Sing loud, together
Praise be, together
Together, together, together
Together, together
TOGETHER.
Poem Number Eight
Flotsam and jetsam
The remainders of the shipwreck of my heart
You, the feckless captain
jumped ship long ago
Swimming away to sin on shores unknown
The sun keeps on rising and setting
Setting, rising
Rising, setting
A certainty we can rely on
Yet here I stay
A wreck
Laying, prone, on this unforgiving reef
Of spent and squandered lust
A sea of my own making
Around me, ebbs, flows
How quickly can a broken heart take anchor?
I’d really like to know
Still figuring it out.
Writing has always been the way that I am most able to express myself. Only recently did I decide to try my hand at poetry with some commitment. Poetry always felt somehow inaccessible to me, namely because so much is said with so few words. Brevity was not and is not something that comes easily (I have a tendency to waffle). I believed that the only “worthy” type of writing was prose, be that a novella or an epic.
How glad I am to have been so wrong!
Novice doesn’t even cover where I currently am as a poet. Yet with every awful, cliched poem I present I learn a lot more of what doesn’t work and a little nugget of what does. I am excited and nervous about sharing my work with the internet, wholeheartedly welcoming constructive criticism. I hope to enjoy the work of many talented poets and writers; hopefully making some friends in this wonderful art form.
Here’s to poetry, I am glad to have made your acquaintace, and hope we can become firm friends.
London Poet.
What’s love got to do with it?
Well, everything, actually
And yet
Nothing at all
Freedom
Freedom.
Not to pursue riches, or vice
But to know that, in the quiet
I can breathe easy
At night, my rest will not be punctured by visions of bars
Nor will my words be muted by opposition
Freedom, to know
That a hearts simplest desires can be sought
Fulfilled
Without fear of gaoler, or iron will
