Prose Poetry-Wasted Days
Deeper than the fears that wrestled from within...
The answers are no longer within my grasp
I have wasted time.
I have dreamt of becoming more,
But I fear I have wasted my life.
I never thought about much,
As I gave myself away.
I never cared about who I was,
As he gave me my name.
Deeper than my fears that wrestled from within,
Was a fear of not knowing?
If there was enough reason,
I should dare to begin.
I am always on the edge of hearing the answers to what I have asked.
But as the tide flows in-
The answers are no longer within my grasp.
I have been angry at the world,
For reasons I do not understand.
I’ve been angry at myself,
For not being who it is I know I am.
Not sure where I am going or where I have been....
My pen bleeds deep and stays put as I write.
Descriptions of me and the story of my life.
I can’t be angry anymore,
For this anger is harsh.
It has taken away my ability to focus on the world.
I brush the fear off my sleeve,
And let my pen hit the pad.
I write about my hurt,
And give to words the fears that I have had.
Should I still bother to try,
Even when I feel I have already lost?
I am tired of paying dues,
For a high priced confusion with unbelievable cost.
Do I still keep an illusion of wisdom and truth?
Or has my soul let go of the hurt that I had chosen to use?
My pen bleeds deep and stays put as I write.
As I look down to my pen,
I begin to re-read my life.
Pages and Pictures,
Journals and Scribes,
They are descriptions of me and the journey of my life.
Recreate the girl I once was-and I sometimes fear I still know.
The lyrics of my life-
As they form into prose.
Recreate a girl I once was
And I sometimes fear I still know.
I look up at the light-
And I close my eyes
I can see the darkness-
I can feel the twilight.
Finally I feel my hopes,
As my pen continues to bleed.
I can reread the story of how I became me.
Fear of not fitting in,
A dream I once dreamt.
An illusion I created
To make all the sins form logic
I can no longer feel the hate
I see the definition of the lost
I don’t need the scribe I have written
To know what the story of my prose has ultimately cost.
Pages and Pictures
No matter the prose, I describe in my words...
I write and describe the story of my life.
I write and I describe,
The story of my life.
I give it my truth,
Careful it isn’t a lie.
No matter the prose,
I describe in my words.
I have become closer to what I once hoped.
Meddle in my life,
Chances I was the darkness I described.
I cannot chance the change,
Without changing the chance I took in my scribes.
I reread the story of how I became me,
I feel my hand tremble,
As I allow my pen to bleed.
The words flow like tears,
As I wipe them from a cheek,
I am no longer lost,
I have become a completed version of what use to be.
I look at the tears as they fall into ink,
I watch the colors run down,
I watch them run into the words of me.
I watch the colors run down into the words of me...
Poetry from H.C Porter
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