Posted on by The London Poet 
We all try through the years to make things right
Setting aside our own hearts desires for the good of others
The years pass and we siphon out what happiness we may 
Because its a cruel, cruel world 
The only truth is struggle 
Though the passage of time pales the path upon which we staggered
None of it was ever easy 
A best, a killing joke
They never spared the yoke
For those who had a dream 
We've all been, at some point
Upon these blood stained knees
Screaming, for a blessing 
PLEASE, PLEASE (please me)
Yearning for the lessons of success
Only wanting to be the best
Wanting it all 
Here 
Now 
Forever
Posted on by The London Poet

untitled

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.

Posted on by The London Poet · 1 Comment

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

Posted on by The London Poet

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.
 

Posted on by The London Poet

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

Posted on by The London Poet

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.

Posted on by The London Poet

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