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

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.

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