I went to the country
Looked up at the skies
At all of those stars
They seemed to burn so bright
I thought only of you
Felt the pulling, this yearning deep inside
It was you
Only ever you
Nothing in the inbetween
All I ever knew
Was all that ever mattered
Searching for meaning
When meaning was home
I should have just trusted
All I had ever known
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.
Freedom (supposed) in all things
The crux of what is truly wanted
The nature of this human desire
to look away from that….from them….which cause discomfort
Lock up truth in tall towers
Though this freedom be the desire
There’s much to be said
For the futility of imprisoning those
Already locked inside their own heads
Wine them, dine them
A well dressed table
Hides a multitude of sins
Dry your tears on the corner of the tablecloth
Whilst the wine causes their gaze to swim
Keep your grimace of a smile, plastered on
Until the last taxi pulls away
You are always the hostess
You always win
You can’t stop a fire burning
You can’t stop the tide from turning
You can’t stop the yearning for change
There are so many things we are scared to say
So much that goes unsaid
For fear that truth will unleash something unknown, untold
It’s said that only the truth will set you free
But where is the freedom to be found in the fear of letting go?
To finding out who one another really are?
There isn’t any
So let go
And let God.
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.