A short poem for this week’s Throwback Thursday, another from Poetry 101 Rehab.
Memories of you creep beneath my flesh Working their way deep inside I could cut you out with a knife But that would only leave scars Worse than the ones you gave me When you ran away with her A re…
Source: Skinned Alive
You can feel the loneliness and grief deep within this poem.
I take myself off in an empty lament,
a solace I sing through the unanswered pain,
the words may be tired but they’re sung with intent,
there’s no-one to hear so my song is in vain.
I sing for lost youth and for love unfulfilled,
I sing for the sweetness I held but let go,
I sing for the castles my hands couldn’t build,
I sing for the peace that my mind couldn’t know.
My song is a thread through the story of me,
I splice a new length when there’s pain in my heart,
it helps me recall how it all came to be,
a bundle of yarn I trace back to the start.
When hearts once so gullible harden and break,
when lacklustre lullabies don’t hit their mark,
you sing your lament for your sanity’s sake,
a map to help find your way out of the dark.
There is a shelf in a library somewhere, where unbeknownst to all who visit, there sits a sad, lonely old book. It has not been picked up – not even been touched – in years. So many years, in fact, that it has lost count.
No longer does it remember the warm feeling of a human hand, or the caress of a careful, gentle reader. Though at one time, it used to look up at a reader with eyes wide, full of wonder, now that is only a distant memory. Its readers used to draw in sharp breaths, their relief fanning over the pages of the book when they reached the part where their favourite character escaped from the clutches of the dangerous villain.
No more. Now it just sits and waits, wondering whether anybody will ever pick it up again. It is covered in a thick layer of dust and empty promises.
There must be a new reader, somewhere. It longs to share its secrets, the plot twists and the surprise ending. The book wants to transport them to another time, when it was loved and read almost every day, cherished by those who enjoyed the mystery between its pages.
So there it stays, as patient as any book can be. There is no rush – the book will never die.
A really powerful poem, sad and familiar.
Please be quiet, sir
This is a funeral for thoughts.
Even though, her eyes do know
And scream, “I kid you not.”
Leave her alone
Let her walk home
She cannot take the hurt.
And as you stare
You see that she wears
Her fifteenth-favorite skirt.
For you, her smile faded
Her heart now rooms with Sorrow
So if you must say anything
Just bid her a good ‘morrow.
For you, she waited days
And silence was all she got
But your lips, do part their ways
And whisper, “forget me not.”
Please be quiet, sir
She can sustain you not.
Even though, your words do flow
This is a funeral for thoughts.
A deep and touching poem.
Click here to hear the poem read aloud:
is this the way to heaven
can I find it at last in her deep brown eyes
can she lead me there step by small step
or is she a devil in an angel’s disguise
is she able to release me
can she finally open this prison door
can she tear down the bars with her bare hands
or is my pain once more calmly ignored
can she create the picture perfect
can she paint colour back into my world
is she the one to heal the artist’s soul
or just another sweet transient girl
can she decipher the cluttered confusion
and make sense of this traumatised mind
is she the answer to daydreams and wishes
or does she walk away and leave me broken behind
can she uproot the most stubborn of weeds
allowing my withering soul to…
View original post 44 more words
The walls are paper-thin.
I can hear them talking about me on the other side, the sound of their voices a little muffled but their words – and intent – perfectly clear. I search for the source of the noise for a few moments before I realise that they are speaking to one another on the other side of the wall.
As I listen, I notice things.
I notice how they say my name, with an air of disdain curling around the final syllable. I notice the sneer in their words, the way that they talk about me as though I am below them, a worm that they can step on and squash if they only wish. I notice the words they use to describe me: slow, dull, stupid, dumb, and how they are all things that I have heard from them before.
When they pretend to me that they are joking.
I notice that the walls are grey and the paint is peeling off to reveal wallpaper underneath, decorated with clowns and childhood toys. I notice the way that the walls themselves seem to quiver with every bad word said about me, as though they are threatening to crumble under the onslaught of cruel comments. I notice how my emotional welfare is irrelevant as long as I can be the subject of a few nasty jokes.
Then I notice that the walls are only in my head, and they are stood talking about me on the other side of the room, making no efforts to keep their voices down. Chipping away at the grey mask coating my lonely childhood.
They are painfully close to bringing me tumbling down.
This poem is a real insight into a budding writer’s mind. But lack of success doesn’t mean poor quality writing – it’s so hard for writers to market themselves these days. Keep going and believe in yourself!