You may note the copyright notice on this poem reads ’2013′ instead of ’14. That’s because I actually wrote this in the Summer of 2013, and it’s been sitting in my drafts ever since. I wasn’t satisfied with it and, to be frank, am still not. I thought and think it was/is typical and bland, no flavour of it’s own whatsoever. But, as is rather apparent on my blog, not every poem can be a hit and poets must suffer a few (or several) misses here and there. It only crowds my drafts so I hope you enjoy. Or don’t, either way, it’s here.
You are my sun,
You are my sky,
Your glittering beauty should only be found in flowers,
I wish I had the wings to fly you away.
I see you in my dreams,
And such a beautiful dream you are,
One that brings tears to my eyes,
Please don’t cry.
I was trapped in my dream until I finally awoke to you,
Should Death be so sweet,
As to come take me away,
To ring my bell, nice and proper,
I should go with this sweet Death,
With an air of exceptional sweetness myself.
And should I go,
Ever so politely,
With this Death so sweet,
I would dress in my finest garb,
And don my Tuesday hat.
I would kiss my wife goodbye for me, darling Death,
And Death would take my hand,
Sing me soft melodies,
Whilst watching the world weep on their shoulder,
And I, bid farewell to this tragic life.
But this, of course, might only happen,
Should sweet Death,
Ring at my door.
This is my seventh attempt,
Of writing what has been written,
Seven-thousand times before,
Stealing the world’s ideas,
And corrupting her words,
Altering phrases, slightly turning meaning,
Until it seems to be my own,
This is my seventh attempt.
This is my eighth attempt,
Of writing the same words,
I’ve written eight-thousand times before,
Re-using the same theme,
Again and again, and yet once again,
Giving my works a sound that is repetitive and boring,
Pushing away hopes of growth.
This is my eighth attempt.
This is my ninth attempt,
Of becoming a murderer,
Attempted nine-thousand times before,
Oh but why can’t I just die,
And fade away with all my dreams,
Reiterative and plagiaristic,
And forget everything, but how to sleep?
This is my ninth attempt.
It has been years since I started singing,
This song so long,
The truth of my heart brought to my ears ringing,
Believing in you was where I went wrong.
On the brightest night, the truest of the nights of Summer;
I find the fault of myself,
To have been taken in by your charm and glimmer,
The utter death of me.
Through shadows cast and breezes blown,
And with your awful grin,
Filled brimming with evil intents, I should have known,
That no love for me has ever there been.
Yet, still, the song of Love from these lips are sung,
With the fondest of melodies,
So that your heart might reached and my words not hung
Coldly at the feet of the Ogre.
With a now empty heart, I write of a lover scorned;
By their own lover, truly adored.
Although the child had been ample warned,
That their lover would surely grow bored
At their trivial attempts of a romance true,
Textbook driven, fueled by thoughts
Of imaginary Love was what they tried to pursue,
Ultimately their end.
Silence forms in beads around my neck,
Tightening it’s grip until I’m just clinging on the edge of the cliff of life,
My fingers slipping,
A slow descent down,
I am falling, drifting,
Dear Lord who art in Heaven,
Hallowed be thy name,
I beg you save my soul from damnation,
As my body be expelled to my grave,
Eternal rest laid in my arms,
The shallow grave I’m given,
Only an enemy be my company,
My dearest friend,