So this is what passion is
All that it is, all that it ever was
When it’s laid out, stripped bare
And shown for what it really is
Bursting, short, sharp spurts
A few manic minutes to break the monotony
We need, we crave it, we hunger for the
Release, the relief
So gasp, gulp it all down
The essence is essentially all
You need child
To forget for one second
Just how you turned out
How every rock you hurl
Bounces back off the glass
Bruising that already bloodied
And blistered face
You’ve torn the veil from grace
And seen the wrinkles that have
Set in and hang around once soft
Lips and been shocked to see
But not too shocked
That those piercing blue eyes
Have turned to grey and clouded
Over. It’s all over and now
As you sit, rocking back and forth
They’ll never understand your need for
Mediocrity or an even keel
Smooth sailing without the pits
And troughs along the way because
Once you’re riding a wave
You can’t hold back the sickening knowledge
That soon you’ll be lost at sea
Adrift and crashing against
Those tired allegorical rocks
Without a siren, a harpie, a sylph or
A selkie to offer some brief respite
To rub your back, hold you tight and whisper
In that one ear that works;
It’s all alright, at least you’re alive
Epic.
Thank you haha!
Reblogged this on Word Journeys and commented:
It’s sometimes appropriate to use a cliché, by which I mean this poem really spoke to me. Beautiful. Epic.
Wow, powerful ending there– it builds up to a crescendo– a very apt unfolding of thoughts and emotion.
Thank you for reading some poems and I will be back to read more of yours.
Strange that I should read this now. I’m doing some writing and just yesterday turned to an old diary and began reading about my first love. This is a long time ago – 50 years. My diary words brought it all back, but your poetic words described it much better.
This reminds me, although it is much gentler, of Sylvia Plath’s lines in “Black Rook in Rainy Weather”:
Miracles occur,
If you care to call those spasmodic
Tricks of radiance miracles.
Good work.
I find Sylvia Plath disturbingly easy to relate to!
Quite intriguing. I’ve read this a few times now as I left the page open on my iPad. My cousin is an installation artist and will never reveal what the exact origin of her mysterious images might be as she contends that it is whatever the observer wants it to be. I feel like asking a question about it but maybe you are in my cousin’s artistic boat?