An Attempt At Poetry

Reality only reveals itself when it is illuminated by a ray of poetry.

Georges Braque

Why am I doing this?

I grew up with parents that appreciated art, but as a kid, I always felt that things that showed sentiment would make me look weak. I think this was reinforced by the kids I was around at school: this kind of thing wasn’t cool.

To avoid embarrassment when I was younger, I would avoid things like poetry or theater at all costs. Having now grown up into an “adult”, I see things differently now. This is my humble attempt at [righting / writing] the regrets above and getting out of my comfort zone a bit.

Staring at the screen

I work all day, hard and fast,

And by the end of the day I am fried.

The sun has already set, too late for me to enjoy,

I was busy staring at my screen.

Herald of regret

It’s the pit in your stomach,

It’s the dryness in your mouth,

It’s the doubt in your expression,

It’s the trembling in your gait,

It’s the nervous tick when people pass.

Fear, destroyer of ambition.

Fear, death of taking a chance.

Fear, gatekeeper of happiness.

Fear, herald of regret.

It’s your empty excuse.

It’s your lack of connection.

It’s you spectating your own life.

It’s the hour before you sleep, marked by the sinking of regret.

The pillow whispers to you: unworthy.

You would have done it differently, if only…

If not for the puppeteer in your head, pulling strings and striking chords.

You gain confidence and make progress,

Only to lose it in the next moment.

You continue to falter, until you realize,

You are the creator, the director, the writer, and the actor.

The only puppeteer that guides you is yours truly.

Can't be sure

I could feel the silence in my room,

A lump in my throat,

A weight on the walls,

Something to distract myself from.

I opened my phone,

I didn’t find it there.

I surfed the internet,

I didn't find it there.

On my bookshelf I eye an old novel,

I found no relief there.

Wisdom serves no use,

I’m facing a common dilemma,

And no one has the answer.

People make films about this,

People write books about this,

People end their lives over this,

Yet no one has the answer.

The walls of my room close in,

My mind is heavy and vulnerable,

I wait for a sign, a text, a call,

Anything to get an answer.

It takes different forms,

But the road is the same.

I get together with you,

I stray away from her,

The sun goes down,

And I cannot be sure.

Sunday blues

Listless, dull, boring,

Plodding, mellow, disease,

My jaw aches and my eyes hurt,

Brain plagued by boredom,

A flow of cacophony into my ear,

Yet the room is silent.

I cannot think, I cannot feel,

I will not enjoy, I will not relax,

Sunday blues.

Setting my head

Walking, walking, walking,

Until my feet are sore,

Until my legs are spent,

Until my head is set.

A grand proposition

Little feet at the edge of the bed,

Worries do not cloud my head,

But one day this changes,

“Welcome to life” the thought read.

A big proposition,

Too big to handle,

I spend days distracting myself,

From the offer on the table.

I wonder and wonder,

Will this feeling ever stop,

A feeling of wonder,

Clouded by fear.

Affirmed by life,

Affirmed by death.

I wonder though, can I handle this?

I wonder though, will this break me?

Sometimes music can be too real,

A movie can be too fresh,

A poem can be too blunt,

But real life is the sharpest.

End of the road

It’s the end of our trip,

And I’m tired and weary,

You are too I’m sure,

My body aches and complains,

But you have none,

My lifelong companion,

Never a moment apart,

Traveling with me everywhere,

Telling me what to see,

Telling me what to taste,

Telling me who to love,

And telling me when to die.

A constant spectator,

Judging from inside,

Never flakey,

Sometimes critical,

Always there,

Yet sometimes absent.

I do things that hurt me,

I do things that hurt others,

I do things I regret,

I do things that are stupid,

And you are there to tell me why,

Where were you when it happened?

I regret and regret, yet you offer me no comfort.

If you had only done this, it would have been different,

If you had only been there, it would have been different,

But all of these events die with my memory of them,

All of these shortcomings die with my relinquishment of them,

All of these regrets are not my doing, but they are yours.

At the end of our trip, I see clearly now, I need you no longer.

Where I’m going, I know what I see, I know what I taste, and I know who I love.

I am not you and you are not me,

You have taken our inseparability for granted,

But no longer,

I rid myself of you and these pesky regrets,

And see me for what I am.

Spring cleaning

There’s a smell in the air.

That brings on spring.

This smell, it strikes fear.

It is the sight of newfangled growth.

It is the feeling of anxious steps,

Walking towards the school bus.

It is the trembling of my feet,

Going on a first date.

It is the uncertainty in my gait,

Marching towards graduation.

And it is the feeling I lose,

When I leave my home.

I arrive in a new place, and the smell is the same.

The anxious steps do not abate, and the trembling continues.

The memories, the feelings, and the fears of spring do not discriminate.

I am daunted by the world in front of me, a stranger to my surroundings.

But through the fear, I can see newfangled growth.

And on the hoods of cars, I can see pollen.

And in the flowers and trees, I can see spring.

And the uncertainty I accept, marching straight ahead.

Knowing I will pick it back up next year, and do it all again.

Try Listening