I’ll love you ’til the sun burns out
When all we are is stardust
A pinprick memory in a universe
So very vast, but which,
Once upon a time..
Seemed so small for a love so timeless.
Please let me be present. To feel the things I am meant to.
I’ve never asked for your advice. Never listened to a word you have said.
What makes you think I’ll ever care? All you do is whisper, judge, stare.
Life is a journey. This, they always seem to say.
Your advice is the baggage. Unwanted and unclaimed.
We were thinking of you
As we sat by the shore
Drinking the wine you bottled years before
The blackberry wine, tart yet sweet
That you swore to always a promise, keep
Your boat had set sail, eons ago
Where you both lay now, nobody knows
Each moment we come closer to saying goodbye
“Adieu” to a love, fast-fading
But will never truly die
And as we savoured those last droplets of wine
With contentment on our lips, we sighed
Because I was yours
And you were mine.
Easy to say I love you
Words just flow
Try it..there you go
To truly feel? Another world.
A world where some can never grow.
Some dive into the oceans, swim the seas
Find lifelong shelter within the trees
That others would use for their kindling
Watch the world burn. Slow.
And, when later you’d ask;
“Did such a world exist?”
They’d smile at you
And, with a tender kiss, whisper
She’d always hated the colour red, it represented all the things she found distasteful. Things like tomatoes, red pens, the woman in the red dress he left her for. She was thinking of her when she accidentally-on-purpose hit the red Volkswagen in front. The Volkswagen she had been tailing since it left their house. A red liquid seeped silently across the road. The red mist lifted. She didn’t mind the colour red so much anymore.
With words we can begin, again
Rewrite a past
Redraft a future
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.