One of the great things about writing is poetic license. It doesn’t have to be accurate or factual like an essay. It simply has to feel real. “There Comes a Time in Every Life” is like that.
Tag Archives: Poem
Real to Me
I write what I feel is real,
What I believe is true.
Yet I see what’s real to me,
Is not so real to you.
Another Hand
Another hand,
Laying down its weight,
Adding a stack
To the too-full plate.
Another task,
Small and yet bold,
Ignoring the max
That the table can hold.
They Called It a Flame
They called it a flame.
I saw only darkness,
A cold, blackened void
No oxygen, tinder, or spark
Still, they told me to guard it,
To feed it. To nurture
That imagined thing in the dark.
That warm, fiery glow
In a night left unlit,
That flicker unseen
In a place without wind.
Heat unfelt, unobtainable
Insubstantial, unreal:
How can you protect
What you can’t even feel?
Already Fading
Consuming
Like a feeling so strong
The world fades
Compulsion
A hook caught in flesh until
Resistance is painful
Exhausting
As years of experiences are
Drawn through you
Escape
All the thrills and excitement of living
Separate from personal cares
Fleeting
Taking a moment, hours, forever:
Over too soon.
One Rainy Summer Day
A roaring jet engine in the morning,
A voice distorter by noon:
Gigantic, beating bee wings became
A buzzing barber’s tool.
Then, a floundering helicopter,
No, a demonic dentist’s drill
Was transformed into a spaceship
That hovered, dark and still.
In the evening, it was a tornado,
And at night, it was a song,
A lullaby and soft goodbye
To daydreams already gone.
The Signs of a Summer Cold
That ache in your throat,
The burning behind your eyes,
And constant whining.
twytte 