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Author Topic: I discovered an old book of poetry from when I was 16  (Read 542 times)

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Andy Pants

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I discovered an old book of poetry from when I was 16
« on: May 01, 2009, 10:08:37 AM »

So just now whilst thoroughly tidying up my room I found an old book of poetry from when I was sixteen years old. That makes it three years since I last saw this thing. I remember I was going through two really awful relationships and post breakup periods at the time but I can't remember any of the ideas that were going through my head and reading it now is like reading a journal that was written by another person. It's a little juvenile and angsty in places and mostly all free-verse which I'm not such a fan of anymore but there were some pretty interesting ideas in there. So I thought I'd show some of it to you as a curiosity.  So, anyway here are some extracts.

The Ocean / The Drawer of Lost Things

Run to the edge of the Earth.
Dive into the ocean's depths.
Let the water stop you from drowning.
You might find yourself down there.
In the darkness you will be illuminated.
As the wisps of light circle around you, embracing you.

You are not alone, in this empty ocean.
There are ghosts here to haunt you.
In the silence you here their voices.
Their whispers are deafening.
The ocean is small, it is ignored.
But the ghosts of those that have been there before see you.
The wrecked cars and lost warships, long since abandoned, welcome you.
Cascades of light shatter the murky waters from the surface.
Release yourself and let the ocean
set you free.

Wander the empty squalor of your mind,
Clear the dust and scattered papers from your path.
With a creak you could open a drawer.
In the clutter and amongst the darkness
there's a lighter,
an empty book of paper
and a reminder of a memory better forgotten.
There are broken things inside there.
Things that cannot be fixed but are too important to throw away.
Such things once broken cannot be unbroken.
And so they are left in pieces in a secret place.
In the corner, in the darkness, someone is hiding.
Shielding themself from prying eyes.
Close the drawer and turn the key.
Safe from the world once again.

The Books On My Bookshelf

Living vessels in close spaces
Breathing as one
Aging together
Their bodies are a house for their voices
But they do not speak one message
And their muttering is lost in all the sound and fury
Of the world outside and inside my mind


A Poem About Lost Love

When love grows stale the silence looms
A touch of skin no longer holds any meaning

I left the candle burning
I forgot to put out the flame

I was warm in its light
Basking in its glow
Like an insect

There is wax all over the place

Now why is it so hard
To extinguish the spark?

Wisps of smoke
Carries with it the scent of loss

I was in love once
But then love left me

Untitled Poem #1

The only thing that will keep you comforted in those last fleeting seconds before you die is having felt love.

Yet there is no love strange or patient enough for me.

I had a different dream of love than you did.

Yours was a sunsight,

Mine was a nights sky,

Your setting star was eclipsed by my one thousand suns.

So here we are,

We both had different expectations

And now we dwell in eachothers dissapointment.

Untitled Poem #2

She's a psychotic genius,
She's a little sadist.
I know her,
Better than she does.
I don't know if I should be floating,
Or if I should be crushed.
I want you,
I want your touch.
I want you here beside me breathing
with me
stealing from me.
I would give,
Everything I have to give.
Love flourishes as beauty dies,
Beauty grows as Angels cry.
Falling Earth and shattered shelter,
Bathe me in warmth as a kiss from a stranger
embraces me
making me whole.
For one moment only I am in awe of the sky,
The stars now moving for me
And through me
Bringing HER to ME.
And we'll be free forever in our freefall
Lost, left wandering in the depths of her eyes.
I wonder if the snow loves the trees and the fields, that it kisses so gently.
And maybe their love is also based on lies.

I Don't Want to Be One of the Left Behind

You, you take, you hoard,
You make everything yours.
You think that life is just a joke, you choke,
You kill without cause.
You look at love with a cautious stare,
It's not something to hold.
You leave me standing on the streetcorner,
Out in the cold.
You drown in the sorrow
you've made for yourself.
You wait for tomorrow,
Put your heart on the shelf.
I see you there wandering,
Straight down the road.
The moonlight is following,
The streetlights are cold.
There's none to guide you,
You're there on your own.
You gave up your soul for the love that you sold
So I don't want to be one of your left behind
And have you haunt my troubled mind
And so like a shadow dark and still
You'll fade and be forgotten.

Untitled Poem #3

Chaotic musings of philosophers in piles upon the floor
Whilst books filled with lies and prejudice like burrowing creatures bore.
Pieces of paper precariously balance in empty rooms
And people who should be working there are cold and empty too.
Scribbled letters like mindless patterns scrawl across each page.
Actors become adults without acting their age.
Words are ripped apart and sterilised without subtlety but force
And people are trapped and terrorised without following their course.


Summer rain falls outside my window
Every drop is like a crying voice
Muffled by a thousand others
Maybe one is crying for love
The sky cries for love
It drowns the Earth in it's tears
It's longing is thundering
From the suffering new things grow
Flowers reach upward and try to offer comfort
But they cannot touch
The sky can only admire their beauty

Disconnected thoughts

Art behind glass windows
Reminds me of my soul,
An expression of colour
Behind transperant eyes.

Lazy days pass,
Drawing me towards my end.
Rapid movements of time,
Seem to be made of slow distractions
And a sense of wanting.

If you see me
Walking on by or maybe on the the train
I don't want to know where you've been
I don't want to know what you're doing with him.

She's not out there
The one I want
The one that wants me

Every wasted moment is a wasted thought
Every wasted opportunity is a wasted experience
A passive life is a wasted life
Beauty distorted through a bottle of wine

It's not truth, it's undeniability.
Just because you can't prove something false doesn't mean it's true
Truth is not just what you know, it's also what you don't.

Postmodern Poetry...

Is there some unattainable

State Of Grace

which I can escape to in my dreams?

Wake up in reality/awake in a dreamworld?

I am not who I am
I am

Someone Else

* Everything I am
* Everything I am not

I am not myself

I am uncomfortable in my own skin
reality doesn't give a damn about our plans.

Quote from: Henry Rollins
Cynicism in nothing but intellectual cowardice. It's basically you not taking the time to deal with what is
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