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

Family get-together (and getaway as quickly as possible)

It's the family Christmas party And everyone's gathered around A chance to praise the family smarties The rest go drink another round My great aunt's still talking, droning on Showing no signs of wearying or dropping The babies start screaming, one by one Shushed by mums, but not completely stopping Eyeing up games, not monopoly, we're not mad Even my Nana's sneaked out back for a fag The food's been scoffed, mostly by my dad We've been here an hour, it feels like a drag At last I remember, as I'm on my umpteenth beer This is why we go through this just the once a year
Post a Comment
Read more

Insecurity

Would you consider it greedy To ache for all that brightness Missing that exquisite feeling The one of belonging and rightness It's strange to yearn for crowded rooms For so many lilts and tones But jarring is this silence now Greyness, evenings spent alone Spent are my limbs and lungs A rest from the fight is blessed Alas the lack of friends I made Leaves my heart put to the test And perhaps it's just a drama Withdrawal from my high of glee Now my soul is left unsatisfied It makes no sense to you, but me And no man is an island I've heard it said once or twice Before, not knowing any difference Now here a drowning vice But may I still cling on to hope That the door is still half open Some of you may remember me Have enjoyed the words we've spoken And mayhaps, tis the darkness Whispers words against new friends That perhaps what has been started It has yet to meet its ends
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