Poetry

On Featured: The poems I featured here span through various themes: love, fear, angst, sadness, hope. They were, more or less, inspired by some personal events and have marked as poignant reminders of some sort of epiphany in my life. Whatever the case, I hope you can read these with an open heart and feel inspired to write yourself.

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The Clock Strikes One

The waves of time are quickly moving,
Washing upon shores of youthful dream,
Yet I cannot catch this ground I’m losing,
Delusions of Grandeur I won’t redeem.

My days of drink are duly numbered,
My seconds run on without despair,
Like grains of sand upon the horizon—
Alas, the more I grasp, the less I bear.

The Clock strikes One—and indeed, I’m struck.
It’s the chime that knows too well, my soul,
The economy of life it comes to pluck,
Its callous thievery I cannot slow.

The road’s longer than I remember,
The sights and sounds I do feign recall,
Seasons pass, but my soul’s long December
Has drowned old fancies and beckoned my fall.

There’s no remedy for the plague of time,
The disease that kills and ends all men.
Yet, to fight it would be the greatest crime—
Only in surrender, does my life begin.

– – – – – – – – – –

The Light Found Me in the Morning

The light found me in the morning,
After the night flew by in five,
It betrayed me for ashes of regret
And for tears that parted our goodbyes.

Can’t remember what yesterday said,
Though I hear her laughs and cries,
For all I have left are simple echoes
Of vain and hapless tries.

Because I can’t say that we didn’t love,
When we gave and cried and died to each other
But this drought has proven much too strong
And there are still miles to go before the river.

I wished that we could fix
What perhaps was love’s mischance,
And will a way to bound and mend
What was Anger’s change of plans.

But if real love is for your better,
Then far be it for me to say
That in spite and because of my senselessness
I would have wanted you to stay.

I know I can’t work this out all right,
Perhaps we’re not meant to know,
Why even in one’s own deepest pain
One just cannot let go.

– – – – – – – – – –

I Won’t Sleep Tonight

I lie in bed, but there is no rest,
There is no comfort for my head.
I wait for pause, hold out for hope,
But something tells me that
I won’t sleep tonight.

I look into the black abyss—I see nothing
And everything all at once.
I can’t turn this off, can’t shut it down,
The scene plays over and over again.

On this screen of darkness,
My mind’s eye can see
That I’ve had you a thousand times,
And still your presence eludes me.

Alas, there is no will or want if it is
My touch that keeps you away.
How is it that this thing we call passion
Could come with such fear and uncertainty?

Let me surrender unto the night,
Please let this be my good-night.
Even if I never woke up
At least you’d be out of sight.

But as mine close I still see your eyes,
(I guess I’ll have to wait)
And they stare back at me, to tell me that
I won’t sleep tonight,
I won’t sleep tonight.

No I won’t sleep tonight.

– – – – – – – – – –

Alone in the Night

Two roads diverged, but what if this road’s chosen you?
The path’s uncertain, and God forbid we walk alone.
But along the way we lose ourselves
And find we are miles apart from where we want to be.
Voices I hear but none utter peace,
And perhaps it’s falling on deaf ears, but it’s
hard to hear when the world’s screaming at you–a little silence would do you good.
If you could just get through this night, the light will break through soon.

When did barely surviving become life and
when did this path become a valley?
How do you walk when you cannot feel and
where do you go when you didn’t begin?
My eyes are wide open but throw me a line
Because the darkness surrounding
offers no signs.
If you could just get through this night, the light will break through soon.

Just know there was never any courage
without the sense of need or want or fear
Nor has a man ever hope without first
wrestling through despair.
Stand still to reason, and direct yourself to
the little candles above that even darkness cannot hide.
They will keep shining to remind you that
If you could just get through this night, the light will break through soon.

– – – – – – – – – –

My Ode to Real Life

Sometimes I just wanna disappear…
And not be me, not that I’m complaining I got it good I know, but I’m just saying that maybe I’d disappear and not matter to anyone or anything. Just a little speck or blip of this and not have to deal with all the madness of trying to save the world when I can’t even save me.

Just to lose myself and not care to find it and not even mind it so long as I can just see with real eyes how small I am and how life goes on whether I like it this way or not. To work out pride and jealousy and bitter strife and attain to the real love which says “I love,” not because or if but in spite of, and in spite of myself to strive for the place where there’s a light above.

Maybe find a new place where nobody knows my name and that’s okay because I wouldn’t care to know mine either. Just to be someone who can sit beside the blades of grass and fresh-cut fern and admire the birds and the lilies, as they do each other. Front row mezzanine to the stage of life, and I, the greatest fan, need not binoculars to see it all. To be so caught up, and to know that I am not missing anything I would have left behind.

So you come and ask me if this is what I want, and this is what I want. Because I find it very easy to make big of myself when in truth I am no richer than a pauper and no greater than an ant. Yet I march along as though the song and its procession is singing for me. But when everybody else sings this song you begin to notice that they all sound the same, and that the melody gets old very soon.

So let me disappear and let me not care, and let me return with a new song.

– – – – – – – – – –

On Poetry: I wasn’t that big into writing poetry until fairly recently–say, the past 2 or 3 years. It was never an issue of dislike, because I did, though it honestly took a more gradual proclivity than did novels or plays, but it was simply because I didn’t know how to go about it. It’s funny how you can study something so long and still have no idea when it comes to it. Books can teach your mind how to think, reason, understand, and even feel. But they cannot teach you how to speak from the heart.

Then you realize poetry, though it is composed of rhyme, meter, alliteration, tone, imagery and what have you, is so much more than that. Sure, some of the most classic pieces of poetry contain all those elements. But, sometimes, it does not have to do with that at all. (Thank you, Dead Poets Society.)

I have always admired those who were able to compose some amazing works of writing, but I myself never truly took a stab at it until I decided to break out of the box. I mean, it’s not like I purposefully abandoned all poetic devices–I try to use them as need be–but I also resolved not to be burdened by them. I didn’t have to make every sentence rhyme, or every line 10 syllables, if the poem didn’t call for it. I realized the basic, most singular thing that makes a poem “good” is its ability to evoke certain feelings from the reader (I guess this could apply to all writing, for that matter). The best poems are the ones that hone in on that particular emotion and draw every single bit of it out of you, like a drill that has tapped into an oil rig. It is writing that is truthful and passionate.

So I did. I spoke from my insides. And I have fallen in love with writing poetry–doing it ever since, whenever I’m feeling it.

Favorite Poets: I am still discovering so many great pieces and writers as life goes, but the poems that have always resonated most with me tend toward the classic authors: Shakespeare, Frost,  John Donne, T.S. Eliot, George Herbert, Pope, Wordsworth, Coleridge, Whitman. If you discover other old or new gems, don’t hold back–share!

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