Here’s a random poem I once wrote for one of my creative writing units. Perhaps I should share my random bouts of poetry more often? Let me know what you think!
See in a small café, a group of side-tracked
individuals occupying completely different universes.
A mutual space separated by glazed over windows of silence.
A young woman taps her pen impatiently,
If a thought bubble were to dance around
her head, a dragon would appear then dissolve
into a woman, not unlike herself, with red eyes.
Who is this woman? she asks herself.
A manifestation of my centre?
The anti-me oppressed by my morals?
What makes this Dragon Girl worthy of my
time, patience and vocabulary?
Is her adventurous story worth exploration?
These thoughts had swirled in the
minds of others, but they had accepted them
as dead thoughts- unfurling shredded images.
But not this woman, the avenger of
tales retold too many times, as she knows
there is one more shape in which to kneed the dough.
As the young woman entrenches herself deeper,
a man, equally alone, furrows his brow in frustration
down at his seemingly endless pile of notes.
He’s stuck knee-deep in confused plots
and characters while wishing a more accomplished
author would possess him – if only for a moment.
His writers-block plugs any inspiration
there was left to utilise- but on he continues.
He’s not daft, he convinces himself, not dumb.
Intellectuals bleed their thoughts into
the pages of their psyche, unable to
explain how hollow-headedness prevails.
Hollow-headedness is evidently a common
human trait hell-bent on washing one’s
mind of any common sense the world has left.
But he was not! so, his head was full
of wondrous philosophies and life advice!
He would be asked to do lectures and talks!
Speech is a nasty and crude thing when
used by those whom do not know that
loudness will never equal to sageness.
In the hands of a complete dimwit,
a microphone loses all of its purpose.
Empty words reduce it to a noisy plastic stick.
In a whirl of angst, the man’s notes are
swept into his hands and crumpled harshly.
Terrible poetry crushed into perfect fire fodder.
A fair few are not far behind him as
static tension slices through trains of thought,
snapping and slashing them apart as they chuff by.
An elderly woman scribbles furiously,
with a rage as numb as her weakened fingers..
Her poison pen almost slipping from her hand
What on earth could possibly make a difference
when everything is already set in slate,
chipped from the hardiest cliffs on the rockiest shores?
Her words would be ignored by the
same masses which ignored her husbands
during the dying days of war and his life.
She knows when something terrible is
no longer considered ‘something terrible’-
the world simply ties on its voluntary blind fold.
Perhaps they’d all take note of her dreams,
full of dancing and laughter until the final goodbye
at the military docks-but nothing else after.
Perhaps they were all a part of a big puppet show.
The Polished Puppets hazily praise their
wonderful string-pullers and doll wigglers.
They’ll dance their dances and sing their
songs while wearing their costumes.
So blindly happy-go-lucky are they!
This ‘progressing world’ is frozen,
stuck in a forever lasting time loop
while constantly refreshing its problems.
For all in the café, the idea
of failure, of giving up is an atrocity
which should never be considered or faced.
They live for the suffering of the challenge,
the anger it brings, the self-serving oh-so-
wonderful terror of falling apart at the binder.
Writing is the confirmation of complications,
which writers aim to untangle and separate-
Anything to reach awesome simplicity.
Just as artists paint and draw with their
creative blood, the writers have their
Imagination on loan, paying it back in worded imagery.
Words-what a pity they are senselessly wasted
on Hate and Vengeance when their
capabilities are so endless and varying.
There is no other part of this world which
can mean absolutely nothing and everything at once-
Twenty six letters repeatedly bunched into tiny enigmas.
This knowledge is known to all,
except for the little girl in the corner.
Sitting quietly as she waits for her mother.
Said mother stands dutifully behind the counter,
her gaze flickering back to her prized creation
between serving cups of unjustifiable bitterness.
Crystal clear eyes watch happily as her
chipped crayon slowly turns a little pony pink
like a hooved fairy-floss fuzz-ball of fur.
She too is a story-teller, more wondrous
than anyone in that café could ever know.
So much to be released and to take flight.
Uninhibited, unencumbered for now,
if only she knew of her preschool magic.
Of the people who would kill to regain it.
There is no escape from the world.
Raised to think of anything and everything,
the mind becomes filled with sobering emptiness.
Is there a way to break the mental chains
awaiting the poor little girl as she
learns more, sees more and hears more?
The answers are no, so the answers are yes.
The solution is absolutely unteachable,
but her endless possibilities are in reach.
They all write to release their minds through
their hands just like singers sing to emote feelings
that cannot be contained in simple sentences.
A blank white page is Equality at its cleanest.
Without distinction, nor a narrow image it is
ours to ponder and to build upon.
It doesn’t even have to be amazing-
just clear, well-thought thoughts are
enough to make the readers mind wander.
The little girl could be the teacher who never
stopped learning if others can return to
being the student who never ceases to listen.
Follow her through her silly rhymes
and quirky limericks that are as deep
as a shallow bucket of mulch.
Just imagine for one glorious moment,
the freedom of writing without fear.
Knowing criticism will only be constructive.
Can she be the one to respect the blankness
of the White Page, to fill up the Hollow-heads?
To use the universal microphone to say something?
She could lead us there like so many
other children- only if we are willing to
say nothing and just let their imaginations fly.
Let the Restless Wordlessness of those
in the café be the lesson and the warning.
Some words were just not made to fly.