My Truth

Near a year ago I saw
Your face across a crowded room.
You looked at me,
And seemed to think
So much more than you could say.
And you had me.
And so we were
For weeks on end
Each waiting for
An opening
In which to find
The perfect time
To leave another hint.
I finally broke,
And talked to you.
You said ‘okay.’

I always knew you would.

And here we are;
It’s been a year.
We kept on talking
And we pretend there’s more
But who can tell
When all we’ve got
Is what we’d like to be?
And am I the only one to see
That wishing only works for so long?
We call it love.
It’s just a silly teenage fantasy.
We like to pretend it’s fate,
But we both know our time is near.
I would love to love you
But my soul aches for freedom.
Honesty is all I’ve got.
Love is certainly a fickle friend.

And the truth is out.

Waste Of Time

This is such a waste of time.
I know there’s a point to it all,
somewhere,
Buried,
But it’s eluding me now.
It’s days like that get me going.
Get me hating everything.
Just leave me alone.
I don’t want to be happy.
Just leave me alone.
There’s no way I’ll ever get it right, is there?
I try,
And after a while I start getting somewhere,
But it all just falls over at the worst moment.
And here I am again.
Spilling my soul to strangers,
Selling myself to my poetry.
And it all starts again.

I wrote this on Tuesday, referring to a mood I was on on the previous Friday. Thus, I can remember hardly any of the actual description. So, figure it out. Poems are better that way anyway.

Why

Talking is something I’ll never master.
Too many things to consider,
And it never comes out right anyway.
It’s doubtful that you’ll even be understood,
And no-one will every be able to fix you.
So my pen is my therapy.
I can do no more than to spill my heart out onto the page,
Then hang it proudly for the world to see,
In one last feeble attempt at gratification.
Sometimes I get praise;
More often, all I get for my trouble
Is bewilderment at a world I created,
A world truly mine,
That no-one but I can see into.
That’s not what matters, anyway.
The point is that someone,
Something, somewhere,
Knows me now.
Be it God, strangers,
Or the simple paper unlucky enough
To be the receptor of my emotional dumps.
At least there is companionship in that.
Why do I bother?
I am just hoping,
However unrealistically,
That someday
I will be healed.

Yes, it has been a while. I just ran out of old stuff, and I haven't written anything fit for public display in a while (when I say fit, I don't mean good enough. I mean distanced enough. Written with discretion. That sort of thing).

Just in case you were wondering what goes through my head, read it.