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.
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.
posted by Patrick at 1:14 PM
4 Comments:
that's pretty deep. I like how one knows what you are talking about but gets the feeling that something much deeper is going on. Nicely done.
Thanks, Kaisha.
People say that a lot... I guess I'm nothing if not deep. :/
I really like it Patrick. Very interesting in a couple ways. When I got done reading it, I right away knew exactly what you were talking about, excepting I compared that poem to my journel/ diary whatever you want to call it, not my poetry.
The other thing I thought was that you were being either a little dramatic in your wording or there is something about Patrick in this poem that he's hiding from us. And by the little comment you put at the bottom, I assume it's the later.
I think you need a bit more brave about what type of poetry you put on here. All of us, ur friends, we only get to see a few sides of Patrick. When you write stuff like this we wonder what else there is to you, and as ur ending comment says ur sensoring stuff from us how are we ever going find out what we're missing?
Thank you whitney. ^_^
And thank you Emily. Yeah, I never know exactly how to classify it when I write this sort of stuff... I dunno. But anyway.
Also, I'd say both of those things are true... Of course, it is a *little* bit melodramatic. That's poetry for you.
Anyway, this 'poem' is actually alluding to the stuff I can't post. I hide a very small portion of my poetry, really. I have the normal "good-not good" filter, and then there's one more: potentially destructive. I'm not talking end of the world, here, just... Ah, well. Can't really say that much about it without.. retribution. Just know that I'm not hiding any of my really deep 'me' poetry... Just certain ones about other people.
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