A Thousand Poems
Where am I, where am I going?
It couldn't take a thousand poems
or more
It couldn't take all the words
ordered in just the right way
It couldn't take the songs of the birds or the smiles of flowers
It couldn't take perfection from this point forward
It is gone, I have sent it
I will write
perhaps thousands
or more
But I will write them for no one to hear
only for me to write them
My heart hangs low like the willow trees swaying in the wind
Like my voice, the wind carries it far away
Where you cannot hear it
The wind takes my soul and swirls it around as well
oh no, it crashes into a tree
My souls aches and moves slowly, my soul is angry at the wind
Who is my soul?
Who are you?
Where have I gone? Where is home?
What answers do I have?
No.
Questions flood my head, my stomach turns
Yet the sun still shines
My eyes water, my thoughts swirl
Yet Smokey still plays
Who will come for me now?
No.
Get out of my head, you animal.
About the Creator
Colin Wareham
Someone once told me writing is therapeutic. Don't bully me.
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