ArtsAutosBooksBusinessEducationEntertainmentFamilyFashionFoodGamesGenderHealthHolidaysHomeHubPagesPersonal FinancePetsPoliticsReligionSportsTechnologyTravel
  • »
  • Books, Literature, and Writing

5% of My Soul

Updated on September 20, 2013

The Girl

Each fall is a transition between two seasons of extreme heat and cold. It holds beauty and serenity. It is about the existence of death and transition. It is this girl’s favorite time of the year. Where she sits the weather is warm enough to leave her floating in the fuzzy abyss barely clothed and exposed. She sits completely alone holding only herself leaving intimacy radiating from the shape of her figure. She is neither happy nor sad. She is content with nothing but the outdoors.

She sits alone and dreams because she has no place to go. The fuzzy abyss below her and the unknown forest hovering on the shore leave her with very little option. She simply waits. Just like myself she sits alone and vulnerable waiting for somebody to come. With just the sound of nature softly playing music in the low warm breeze, her thoughts are able to run. Every fear, every concern, every insecurity, and all her memories are present. They suffocate her ambiance.

This place reminds her of a cabin hidden deep in the woods. She has no solid memory of what this cabin looks like, but with only her minds imagination she has created the cabin’s exact detail. Instantly, she is filled with flutters in her chest. Did her heart just skip a beat or try to stop?

Pen in Hand

With pen in hand

I waste away my day.

With dreamy thoughts,

lapses in maturity,

as my mind runs astray.

Building castles in the sand.

Waiting for the shiny knight

to carry me away.

Living in a rainy fantasy

not knowing what to say.

Wanting the words to be perfect.

Saying exactly what should be said.

Magic words magnetic.

To explain the thoughts in my head.

Trying to get in touch with how I feel

and put it into poetry.

Just to share it all with you,

to put it in ink perfectly.

Why writing is so much of me,

I'm not sure what to say.

With pen in hand,

I waste away my day.


What? How? Why?

Do you ever sit alone in silence,

And wonder why is why?

Why do thoughts come to mind?

Why? Why? Why?

Do you ever dream at night,

And ponder what is what?

What is the reason?

What? What? What?

Do you ever think out loud,

While cars drive by?

Thinking the songs the radio plays

What? How? Why?

In The Mood

I'm in the mood to write a poem,

But cannot find the words.

Maybe it's the rhyme I need.

Boy, that sounds absurd.

I should just go home

follow the flying birds,

to the south,

and not write another word.

Begin a life where I roam.

But there's no way out.

I'm in the mood to write a poem.


In the Middle

It was the middle.

The middle of my day.

I was strolling down the street

minding my own way

when the smallest little lady

with her eyes astray

stood in the middle.

The middle of my way!

“Time is wasting” I heard her say.

Not quite sure why,

she hustled on her way.

But more or less,

“Time is wasting” I heard her say.

So, I stopped for a moment.

In the middle,

In the middle of my day.

I looked around into the bustle

and watched her hurry away.

I meandered on my way,

in the middle,

of just another day.


April Showers

When April showers come

nobody know for sure

when the rain will stop.

When you put popcorn

in the microwave

nobody knows for sure

how long it will pop.

There are no definite boundaries,

no permanent rules.

When fall comes

nobody knows for sure

when the last leaf will drop.

When the winter snow comes

nobody know for sure

when it will thaw.

When the spring flowers bloom

nobody knows for sure

how long the birds will sing.

And when it comes to love,

it seems,

we really don’t know anything.

The Never-ending Game

Gold glimmers under the light

and only the flawless remain.

In a box soaked of red,

lay lesions and lacerations.

A never-ending game.

Watching the clock drip with oil

minute by minute the same.

Eating candy to stay awake,

doing the daily game.

The weariness of night

covers the noise like fog.

Staring at the same sight

makes eight hours too long.

The mind begins to wander.

Sanity becomes insane.

Reality becomes fantasy,

in the never-ending game.



Boxes piled high Boxes piled long.

How will I find mine before the rising sun?

Every one is labeled.

Most of them wrong.

Without the Lego's

imagination can't go on.

Boxes piled high.

Boxes piled long.


    0 of 8192 characters used
    Post Comment

    No comments yet.