Mourning my spontaneity
 |
| image source: @eccentricsky |
I don’t write poems anymore
I don’t know why
It doesn’t seem to matter
Wait, maybe I do
I have an inner bicker
Between my sane self
And the I who suffer
Full of paradox, not metaphor
Spontaneous is the other
The another stutter
This is what I feel
An old soul,
Sick and ill
The trunk of the tree
Gave up on me
I fell swaying so stiff
I am a floating dry leaf
I am a fleeting mist
in a vast ocean
A poem of no gist
A bootless potion
My laptop told me this morning, it's been a year since I penned this. I have yet to edit, revise, or do whatsoever to finish it. Although I remember countless attempts, it all failed to add clarity to a vague picture of how foggy and hopeless my quarter life is getting. I guess, the best and the only metaphor to envelope this senseless and directionless poem is the poem itself. Apart from the seemingly dooming downfall of a young life, it also covers the reality that I can only start something and never find a will to finish it or lack the ability to do so.
Just recently, I realized that no matter how saddening the thought of losing is - may they be people, ability, talent, job, dreams etc. I only take hope in knowing it is a poignant poem. And it wasn't supposed to end up poignant as life is still wheeling and it ain't the end yet.
Just recently, I realized that no matter how saddening the thought of losing is - may they be people, ability, talent, job, dreams etc. I only take hope in knowing it is a poignant poem. And it wasn't supposed to end up poignant as life is still wheeling and it ain't the end yet.
