With the dawn, we rise.
But it is with the night,
that we come alive.
Our true self realised,
with dreams fast escaping,
seeping into reality,
becoming just a memory,
faster than we are ready.
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poet
Body
A stranger, yet so familiar.
Unwanted, yet encouraged.
A change, not thought forward.
A curve, placed uninterrupted.
A reflection, so slightly altered.
Empty
Slightly burnt, with crusts a little too thick.
The last of the butter, evenly spread.
A little sweeter, perhaps? Too bland otherwise.
Is there anything left in the cupboard?
Jam, marmite, lemoncurd?
Maybe the marmite.
Some will hate but others will love.
They’ll say the taste is too strong.
Lingers.
They’ll have their opinions. They’ll say.
But still they will take, despite their talk.
And when there’s nothing left, they’ll move onto the next,
leaving nothing but a few crumbs and an empty shelf.
Enough
I wonder what you see,
when I should ask:
“What do I see?”
I wonder what you think,
when I should ask:
“What do I think?”
I wonder whether I am enough,
when I should say:
“I have always been enough.”
Retreat
Blinded by the stories,
fractured by the past.
Trying.
One false move,
and off you run.
Retreating.
A little bit of you,
you give what’s left.
Gasping.
Too much,
too little.
Silence.
Nightime (unfinished)
Light is fading,
brain’s just churning.
Thoughts are rattling,
sleep’s escaping.
Give me something:
a moment of peace,
a shimmer of relief,
a second to breathe.
Rambling bedtime thoughts… Maybe this could turn into something?
Quote: Abraham Maslow
“A musician must make music, an artist must paint, a poet must write, if (s/)he is to be ultimately at peace with (her/)himself. What a (wo/)man can be, (s/)he must be.”
