Feeling poetic
- Carly Morton
- Oct 13, 2017
- 2 min read
When I was in Year 6 I had this massive crush on a boy named Dylan. He certainly didn't like me, but I continued to try pretty hard to get him to notice that I'm an awesome person. I don't know why I thought poetry was the way to do that, but nevertheless, I persisted in finding poems from Dolly or Girlfriend magazine, writing them out and getting a friend in his class to put them in his desk. A couple of days later a girl in his class (Who is now my best friend- damn you Harps you bitch!) gave me back the poems with little cows drawn all over them. Whether or not it was intended, I couldn't help but take it as a personal insult, apparently I was a cow. Wow! Since then, I have always gone back to poems as a way to express what I'm feeling, when regular sentences don't do the trick. Here are three poems I have written over the past year. I am not going to explain them because they are personal and deal with significant aspects of my life right now. Tell me what you think in the comments section below.
Discovering December
Those soothing sounds
of a morning
long overdue.
Repairing, restoring, re-living
those fond memories
that envelop me
but do not crush
my faulty spirit which
pleads
like the Southerly wind
on a dreary winters afternoon.
I lay
conscious of every word and thought.
Examining them with such precision.
A fine microscope
that is my unsatisfied mind.
Yet the daylight calls to me.
Stirs me from my slumber.
Sets my path
and births in me a curiosity
that seeks
more
than the mundane
to discover the dark depths
of my existence.
Prisoner
Old letters
remnants of long-forgotten pasts.
left behind to collect dust
and die in the memory
of a girl who has forgotten
how to write.
I pen a new letter
soaked with the salty tears
bound by the futility of
hope.
Waiting for a whisper
that is stuck in the throat
of another- a prisoner also.
Waiting
Waiting
Waiting
Ready to cut off the uncontrollable
creature lest she betray me.
Feed me to the wolves
a tasty morsel of
bones and bitterness.
Yet I remain
a prisoner.
Stronghold
Those "Manacles of injustice"
debilitating and destructive.
A number
An ant
A robot
A soldier in the army
ready to be sacrificed
by the faceless me in the "Ivory Tower"
for the sake of that "Filthy Dollar".
I pour out
blood
sweat
and tears.
And yet remain unnamed
and unknown.
Wondering if it is all worth it.
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