Poetry of the Past

The Chase

Running through a field.

Pulse racing.

Heartbeat drowning out all other sound.

It’s night, and loneliness creeps up on me like shadows.

What am I running from?

It’s ominous. It’s overpowering and all-consuming.

I keep going, not letting it win.

It will take over.

I can’t run like this, not forever.

I collapse upon the earth beneath my feet.

It reaches me

It invades my mind, my thoughts.

It’s whispy, eerie voice says only one thing:

“Silly girl. Don’t you know you can’t outrun your past?”

 

A late night attempt at putting my thoughts to words

A False Peace

Stars fall to pieces above my head

And yet I know nothing of it.

Worlds could collapse

Galaxies could shatter.

But the peace here lives on.

Stars that have been dead for millions of years

Seem amazingly new.

and bright.

and wonderful.

Life is like the stars.

Exploding.

Dying.

Being destroyed.

But everything seems to be put together.

Distanced from the death,

From moments I have only seen on television,

Is kind of like seeing stars.

It has happened.

But I haven’t felt it.

I may never feel it.

But it’s there.

Or maybe I have felt it.

But my current destruction,

Like the stars,

Is invisible to the humans looking upon me.

The peace I know at night, amongst the stars above my head,

Is not a real peace.

Above me, the universe rumbles on.

 

Do You Know?

Do you know what lurks behind those piercing ice eyes?

Behind the daggers you see?

Because behind them lies emotion. Feelings you’d never imagine.

Just ask her, and the stone façade will chip away.

The medusa-like stare will disappear.

And in their place, something incredibly, perfectly human will be there.

She’ll show you her world.

Her real world.

A world filled with hopes, with dreams.

Where time is spent with her head in the clouds.

She’ll show you a dreamer.

But no one has ever asked.

No one has ever taken a chance to go after the statue.

Never taken the chance to find the beautiful imperfections within.

 

A Poem

Life.

An unbreakable chain of perfect accidents.

Nothing can really be planned.

Nothing can really be done.

Except living.

And although the chain itself cannot break, the mere humans that it composes of can.

They are no stronger than the threads that hold buttons onto a shirt.

And humans, they snap all the time.

They think they can break the chain, stop life in it’s tracks.

Now, their lives may not be perfect, but Life, capital L, sure is.

It changes for no one, stops for no one.

It simply is.