I don’t write poetry. I don’t usually “get” poetry and it’s never been one of my favourite creative methods to both write or read. Can I blame it on school? On having that dreaded poetry anthology thrust upon us all in Year 9, in schools all over the country? Possibly. School certainly didn’t make poetry a fun experience; having to dissect every line, every word almost, constant analysis and notations. We were never really allowed to just read it, enjoy it and make of it what we wanted to – if anything.
So, now I’ve said I don’t write poetry, here I am about to share some of my own poetry with you. I only started dabbling in this in 2017. I went through a what I would call, a creative shit-box stage where all I wanted in life was to be one of these adoringly creative people who drew and painted and wrote poetry and looked at things in a different way. I’m not one of those people but I thought I’d give this poetry thing a whirl anyway. After my “getting back into drawing” phase failed as did my painting phase. And if nothing else comes from this, at least I’ve filled up another day of content.
I’m not very creative with titles so they’re very basic. I also have no idea about different “types” of poetry – what should rhyme, when it should rhyme, if it should rhyme, how many lines, syllables. I have no freaking idea. So you will notice that what I’ve written, doesn’t fit into any category. In fact, I’m not even sure it can be labelled “poetry”, but whatever. I’m sharing something I feel deeply uncomfortable about sharing. I’m well and truly stepping outside my comfort zone here, which is something I wanted to do – blogging wise – more of this year.
One (a poem about what I was doing at that particular time of writing and stuff)
I sat on my bed. Alone.
I was dressed but under the covers.
The tea I was cradling was lukewarm,
but the mug still hot enough to make my fingers tingle.
Like you’ve jsut stepped into a warm house from being in the cold all day.
The day was bright.
The trees casting shadows and patterns through my window,
as they danced beneath the sun.
The sound of a lawn mower filling my ears and my brain.
Our street is small.
Every sound gets everywhere.
But everyone gets nowhere.
White souls (a poem about soul-mates or something)
Is the notion of souls and soul-mates true?
Or is it all just white noise,
there to distract us from the fact that we are all alone?
It’s the simple acts of brushing ones hair,
lining ones lips,
dressing ones eyes,
which makes me understand the futile nature of one’s lives.
The end (a poem I wrote when I was in a quite dark mental state, as you’ll probably tell)
Is this the beginning of the end?
I don’t think we will ever know.
But my thoughts wander to that of an empty bed
and dusty bookcases.
Unworn clothes and unused perfume.
All the simple things that make a life.
Even one as un-extraordinay as mine.
Old friends (and my personal favourite)
Do you ever look at photos of old friends
and as you’re staring intently at their smiling eyes,
you don’t so much as see them,
as much as you see yourself.
Staring right back at you,
in the eyes of those that saw you,
so fully and intently at one point in time.
And then all at once you can’t understand life without them,
but can’t imagine a life with them.