The vicious breeze steals poor green leaves
In its most selfish of moments.
But when it sees the tree still stands
In fear, it begs for atonement.
It tries to throw the leaves with care
And lets them sail gently upwards
And lets them fall and die with flair
Coloured a rich, golden mustard
But as the cold winter arrives
It forgets all that it’s promised
The poor green leaves fall to the wind
like Anemones of Adonis
But yet, when spring returns again
The tree’s the wind’s dancing partner
For it feels sorry for the wind
Who has neither a friend nor a gardener.
(Photo Credit: http://www.fanpop.com)
I suspect you will tell me how I could be happy
How to keep my eyes closed whilst impassioned lips guide me
How to live in the moment and let nothing deny me
And how no one else cared but you’re not scared to try me
And you’ll talk about things so profound yet so simple
And you’ll find a nice song that’ll become our love’s symbol
And it’ll seem oh so perfect and your eyes might just twinkle
You might claim mine do too…they might not…but I’m single.
(Photo Credit: http://www.keepcalm-o-matic.co.uk)
From time to time I have moments, that do not come a lot,
Birds that weave through the sky, become souls I feared lost
And the clouds that I stare at, show a world that I envy:
A world constantly moving, whilst my ego won’t let me
I’d like to lie here, for a while, if I can.
There’s nowhere else I can go, no one who’ll understand;
They don’t know, like the clouds, how I long to escape,
and don’t know how I wish that the birds might just stay.
They don’t stay for long though, no, eventually they go.
New clouds form every second, the birds fly to…who knows?
And it is almost hopeless, to dream that I’ll go too.
No, I learnt when I was young, that those dreams don’t come true.
But there’s a comfort in knowing, I could lie here again
Just a minute’s escape, from my family and friends.
My subconscious would paint me a sign on the clouds,
And whilst it’d seem most uncertain, it’d feel too real to doubt.
I might take one more shot
just so I can think clearly.
Fall on me by mistake
That’s a hug? Maybe…nearly
You’re coming so close
and this feels way too easy.
Oh I know you need help
Go for it! Say you need me
Let your soberest thoughts
become brave drunken actions
Just for once, just tonight
…I’ll take future retractions
Oh come on, we’re so close
Well you’re closer than me
I don’t really get drunk
but I want to, believe me
Just go 80%
I’ll go 20 when certain
Let the alcohol cloak you
and protect you like curtains
I swear no one is watching
Let’s just stop wasting time
Oh shit you threw up
Make it your place not mine
Close your eyes and type away
Don’t let the pressure make you buckle.
Just let go of everything
Of every doubt and don’t be subtle.
Be offensive, be seductive
Be the man who plants the seed
Look up the words you’ve never used
And never thought you’d ever need.
Oh let them say you’re too direct:
A Ginsbergian agitator.
Do not write just things they like
Instead become their educator.
Let your poems be diary entries:
And leave the world a better place
Than it was before you entered.
There’s a frustration that comes
with being an emotional writer.
A narcissistic obsession
with being a socialist fighter.
A pessimistic explorer
of reclusive desires.
A self-destructive aggression,
as the world travels by us.
The frustration it hurts,
as I’m hunched over my keyboard,
trying to recall feeling something:
An emotional springboard.
But all I have are those thoughts,
I’ve written again and again.
Is this life for me now?
A cycle…with no end?
It’s like I’ve lost all my edge,
and all the challenge is gone.
I know my brain so well now.
Perhaps my therapy’s done.
But yet I feel no relief.
it feels too early to stop.
I’ve written down all my problems,
but now the question’s “now what?”
Poetry makes this life,
appear to make sense;
With its rhyme, its rhythm,
and subtle eloquence.
It speaks to the soul,
through the hope of a lover,
through rebellious dreams,
through the pain of another.
It tells us we’re the same.
It unleashes our demons.
It’s vague in approach,
and accepts all our reasons;
Some more honest than others,
some just write to impress
some accept poetry,
as their right to regress,
into things best unsaid,
and feelings left ignored.
See sometimes through a poem,
you see glints of one’s core.
I find I write as a man,
but I speak as a boy.
I write about truth,
but my voice is more coy.
I write for the girls,
I’m too scared to approach.
Or the other lost souls,
who just need a life coach.
I write to some men,
who I don’t even know.
My voice stays with me…
who knows where my words go?
I write so you know,
I am more than you see.
You may say how you feel,
but my voice’s not that free.
My words are the truth,
and my voice is the lie.
It seems poems can make sense,
of the most f****d up guys.