Skip to main content

I wrote this particular poem for uni, and it won best poem at an open mic night, but what do I know

When light is cold and warmth is cruel
Steel is home and blue is feeling
And there is no relief for those crying
Not for hedonists nor for those kneeling
No way to stop this hopeless feeling
Clockwork workers, silently bleeding
Day in, day out and never ending
Always wanting but never needing
Clockwork people in plastic cities
Don't tell the truth of how they're feeling
They lie and cry and keep on going
And know they have no chance of healing 

Comments

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

Fragility

Do not press against these walls These structures made of ash And dust from all the little things that shattered, made of glass I have lived in many houses That have all been built the same I try to build them stronger Yet they all end up aflame This goes around in circles A torture without end Until I end up six feet down In death I need no friends
Post a Comment
Read more

Good Things Come In Threes (or that one time I wrote a poem about murder)

The first time you died was when you met her You came home and I saw the light in your eyes My smile is fixed as you describe her work And I could feel the fires of your love for me die I did not weep until you'd gone, my tears saved for the next day The second time you died was with her in the car The crash, then the funeral, you stood; a shell You died a death inside, and I knew if you could You would swap us around and send me to hell I did not weep till late at night, but my love for you would stay The third time you died there was nothing for me We had such hopes, I recall as my hands tightened A necklace of the dust of my love gave you a blue blush Your last death was mine and I found myself enlightened I did not weep for you, my love, I just let you fade away
Post a Comment
Read more

Mortality

A teardrop to a summer storm Or more a truck stop to a driver I do not know which one I was My hope is that I'll be neither A petal on a dying rose Or its bush's prickly thorns Either evergreen and unwanted Or finite despite who mourns It's hard to see what's pencil And what is written in ink I know that I'm indelible Or at least that's what I think To depart and leave behind Naught but a ghost of joy and pain I'll work until I'm deadly sure Something of me will remain
Post a Comment
Read more