Yesterday I surprised myself by actually being able to write something. And it was a poem! It’s not very much, and I will probably have to still read it a few times to really figure out where it came from, but it made me really happy to have written it.
As soon as I have finished up this long exhausting day,
I lay down my tired body and I dream about your face.
All the smallest hints of shadows (lights) that softly –
slightly dance about that pale white skin, now mostly
already gone. And even though I know that by now
I most likely will not see your delightful, youthful brow
again, but maybe in a distant land across the meadows,
I think back to days where we can both live there, mere shadows.
Isn’t it pretty?
I don’t know why I’m so keen on writing about creepy things nowadays, but I’ve decided to just go with it for now. Like I wrote in my previous post, I will have to write a love song, more or less, for a school project, so why not enjoy something different on the private side.
What sparked me to write this little poem was the fact that I was reading some older poems I have saved here on the tablet, and I started to miss writing stuff like that. Then I felt bad for feeling bad and was about to start doing something else when suddenly my mind produced two lines of a poem, and I had to rush myself to open the writing application again, to write it down, or I would have most likely lost it.
And then I just let it come out, uncensored (mostly), and this is what came out. Well, not exactly. Because it was not with the traditional pen and paper, it was much more awkward to start writing. So in the end, I ended up going back to the beginning and changed the first half of the first line, to sound more ‘poetic’, perhaps.
The poem that sparked the inspiration has been posted here on the blog already. It’s called Not Enough, and you can find it here as posted originally.
But, just because I like it myself, I will add it here to finish the post. Enjoy. Or not, maybe I’m the only one it opens enough to be enjoyable. 🙂
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 high?
(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.