So after several days of not getting any writing done to post on here i decided to again post an older poem of mine. So, i hope you enjoy the read.
One Hundred Wing Beats
The tiny thing made not a sound,
With one wing beat it left the ground.
It tried to make it up to the sky,
But its wings seemed not ready to fly.
The butterfly didn’t seem to care at all,
It didn’t seem bothered by the first fall.
With another wing beat it took to the air,
For a moment it flew without care.
That moment passed and down it plopped,
Still it didn’t seem bothered when it dropped.
Then came try three and four and so many more,
Each one a failed attempt to soar.
Ninety-nine tries the butterfly took
Ninety-nine times it fell with a pathetic look.
On that one final desperate try,
That butterfly gave its best to fly.
Wings caught by winds so soft,
This time the butterfly stayed aloft.
One hundred times it took to the air,
Till finally it met the skies so fair.
So fly on sweet butterfly fly forever on,
Your dreams shall carry you to that beautiful dawn.
At some level, i felt like i was talking to myself with this poem. I’ve become rather good at pretending I’m fine even if i feel dead inside, and almost anywhere i go i can adapt and adjust my demeanor to fit in just fine. It’s not really even something i do consciously anymore, I do it without really thinking about it. Anyways, enjoy the read folks.
A new face for each situation,
Is that smile just another facade?
Like the chameleon that blends wherever it goes,
Another change of face to always fit in.
Among the masks do you still remember you,
Or have you forgotten which face is true?
Are you lost among the sea of the masses,
Have you lost grip on who you really are?
Never showing what’s inside,
You show them a smile, always a smile.
I was having a conversation with my sister when self improvement came up, which then led me to put words to how I look at things. It’s a rather simple view, but i felt like writing it out anyways. With that said, enjoy the read.
My View of Life
Life is a constant struggle to improve ourselves,
Without it stagnation sets in and erodes who we are.
To stop is to accept that stagnation and rot away,
To stop is to accept the death of who could be.
Movement is what keeps us alive,
It doesn’t matter which way you go as long as you don’t stop.
It doesn’t matter if we lose progress in our movements,
As long as we’re alive we can change and improve on what we lost.
Forcing ourselves to keep moving isn’t always easy,
But we can’t afford to stop trying no matter how hard it is.
I’m not sure how long i spent staring at the document before i ended up writing this, but i’m pretty sure i was close to the point of saying “Dear God, either let me think of something to write or smite me.” Then my air conditioner turned off and an idea smacked me in the face, and this time it didn’t go running away taunting me after making itself known… Far to many ideas come to me, smack me in the face, then run of cackling like a mad man before i can write them… It would probably drive me insane with how often it happens. Fortunately; you can’t go where you already are, so it’s a very short trip. And with that bit of rambling out of the way, enjoy the read,
Like static in the background,
You may never notice it’s always around.
The inconsequential noise throughout the day,
You’ll only notice it when it fades away.
When you’re left in silence you’ll finally know,
That those were people you never should have let go.
It’s been way too long since i managed to get something written up and posted on here, but i finally managed to put words on a page again. It’s rather maddening when i can’t think of anything to write. With that said, enjoy the read.
Traces of Memories
Every broken dream,
Those little traces of memories.
Memories of what was,
Dreams of what could have been.
They’re still there even if they fall apart,
Drifting through the shadows of the mind till they fade away.
I still remember them even as broken as they are,
When you can’t let go of the past they will never fade.
Do they still drift in your mind,
Or have you forgotten those little things?
This very short poem is sort of a parallel to the poem “White World” I wrote awhile ago, a quick look at the second form of writer’s block that I have to deal with. I’m not sure how many other people get this variety of writer’s block, but it can be just as annoying as not having any ideas to write in my experience.
Anyways, enjoy the read,
They blot out the sun as they dart and dance,
Movement to the chorus of countless words.
Too many ideas can be just as bad as none at all,
They all clamor for my attention but they don’t slow down.
It’s hard to write a story when the words won’t hold still.
I’ve been sitting staring at a blank word document for probably over an hour now, trying to find an idea to write and failing horridly. In the end I just wrote what, in my mind at least, equate to groaning and complaining about the problem. But never the less; it’s nice to get something written.
Enjoy the read,
There’s no spark of an idea,
No light to guide the words.
Yet still i try to get myself to write,
Doesn’t matter what it is as long as it gets done.
A story, a poem, or even a random blurb,
They all have an equal value in the white world.
So now i grind my mind against the page,
Forcing words from it without any real aim.
As long as words get put to the page,
The resulting headache is worth the pain.