Poetry
I'm by no means a professional, but these are the works I'm most proud of.
A blank page sits before me
A blank page sits before me
Tabula rasa. A clean slate.
I want to create
But it's far too late for me to
start something new.
* * *
My mind chatters with endless muses
long turned mad from being
unable to express what they must.
* * *
My eyes shut yet my ears open.
They whisper to me. Always.
I listen but I let them down with
messy prose.
* * *
'What is it you want from me?'
I ask the page.
It asks of me the same thing.
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'Dearly missed'
'Dearly missed' the plaque says.
Who was he? What did he do?
I walk past it every day.
Is this all his life amounted to?
Two benches overlooking a road.
Grey landscape, stale air,
Crushed under the uncaring machines
That demand blood for a 'fair'
Paycheck.
I think of the plaque.
'Dearly missed' it says
Quite clearly, he isn't missed here
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I give you a strawberry
Phase I: Childhood
I give you a strawberry.
It is sweet, round, and juice dribbles down your chin when you bite into it.
We laugh and stuff ourselves with them,
Then roll down the springtime hills covered in fresh blossoms.
* * *
Phase II: Adolesence
I give you a strawberry.
You consider it then cautiously taste,
Your head jerks back at the curiously sharp flavour.
A frown spreads across your face and you discard the rest.
* * *
Phase III: Adulthood
I give you a strawberry.
You wholeheartedly take a bite,
Smiling as its sugar warms your mouth.
We share the rest together under the falling leaves.
* * *
Phase IV: Old Age
I give you a strawberry.
You savour the familiar flavour,
Sweet yet sharp, the same as always yet forever changing.
For isn't this the nature of all things?
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An autumn walk
Pale grass 'neath my feet.
Fresh air through these diseased lungs.
Why can I not sleep?
**Stamps ETC**
