I don't get poetry And it's pontifical ways. Lines full with syntax and stanzas prattling on for days. What even is poetic expression to the untrained and witless mind? You don't need a degree in lit and lang to fathom why the poet choose to rhyme?
What can I say That hasn't already been said By others more intelligent And eloquent than I? Humanity has been creating For thousands of years. Surely there are no words left That have yet to be combined?
I am without a plan.
Life doesn't adhere to one
so why should I?
Much rather be swept up by the tide
where I'll drift or drown.
Or perhaps the winds could carry me
on a gentle breeze,
or in the eye of a storm.
And wherever I may land
is where I'm destined to belong.
Too busy looking forward
I forgot to look around.
Take in all the beauty
that's come to surround.
Too busy looking backward
I forgot to look ahead.
Ignored life's potential,
kept myself with my regrets.
The meaning of life.
Is there any meaning?
Or is that the meaning,
that there is no meaning?
So, we create a meaning
and keep finding meanings,
all to justify our being.
But if we forego a meaning,
we might find it freeing
and would finally be seeing
what life really means.
What do I want to do with my life?
A question I've been asking for years.
One I'm still no closer to answering.
At times I came close,
but doubts found their way in.
So, I remain on the hunt.
A vain attempt to look as if I'm doing
something worthwhile to outsiders
as time slowly passes me by.
I'll figure it out
the day I'm on my deathbed.
An ah-ha moment taken
with my very last breath.
When the blossom falls,
and given time this is inevitable,
you'll pretty the ground
with your former crown.
And you finally will see
all the life that's been perching
atop of your tallest branches.
A lesson that is everlasting.
I find it hard being myself,
after years feeling that I
should be like everyone else.
When so many voices tell you
what they think you should be,
it's hard to stand up and say
"No, that's not me".
Some people are taps and their tub never empties. Others are drains, they've no plug and their tub's never full. Two taps go together like bathwater with bubbles. Two drains are the same, like a scrub goes with soap. But nothing good comes from tap and drain together. 'cos the drain will never change while the tap'll want the floor to be wetter.
Let the Sun shine her light In the darkest of your spaces. 'til the shadows have no places Left in which they can hide.
The Lilac 