I’ve been trying to figure out, lately, if it is impossible or just very very difficult for me to write happy poetry. This caused me to basically doubt my writing in general, and I produced these two pieces:
My skills are not as good as theirs,
who trod this soil before my feet,
my words are not as sound as those,
that slipped between their pearly teeth.
And thus, has my art no true value?
Is it not as worth as theirs?
Or will it simply fall right through
the hands that held the masterpiece?
And if I never do succeed,
what have I done with my poor life
that makes it worth the time, indeed?
Are these, my dreams, still way too hight?
(Or if I pass away and only then
do people find my art and poems sad?
What would they say of me, would set in pen?
Celebrate as good or damn as bad?)
I hardly think there is a chance
for me to ever hear my name with those
that people read out, passionate and proud,
of true genius of poems and of prose.
The one above is about writing in general, the one below about the difficulty in writing happier texts.
Tales of Darkness
I find myself incapable of this,
of describing a true happiness and bliss.
Instead my thoughts they always see
the sorrows of life surrounding me –
even if my idea is not to draw
images so ruthless and so raw,
the only things that reach the page
are tales of sadness, fear and rage.
The beginning may be good and kind,
but soon that all is left behind,
and light makes room for new, sleak Darkness,
who tipped her toes in eternal sadness,
and I fear, this lady will not let me go
until my pen won’t touch the page no more.