And in this time of unknowing

And in this time of unknowing

 

 

 

What makes a poem or a prose?

 

Burn in my veins and path through my soul,

make the beat write in time.

 

My soul disappeared into the mist of words written in moonlights gravity.

 

Even the stars laugh and cry for the worthless imagination of my words.

 

I hold my head low when others speak to me,

words spoken and understood in a way I could never understand.

 

What is a Haiku?

What is anything or does it matter?

 

I feel the fraud seep into my soul and make me believe I could write anything.

 

But in truth I could never be a Blake or a Steinbeck,

or any real writer.

 

I feel the fake seep into my soul and watch it drain who I am,

feel the truth of it all like a fly on the wall.

 

So now I dance to the words of untruth and charlatans,

as they beat my life’s music.

 

Marble cuts deep scars into my soul,

garnet broken in midnights tired breathe.

 

How could my fake words carry me the distance?

Holding my head down I have pushed past the wind and snow of doubt.

 

But in truth we all know what is real,

and these words have wasted more than time.

 

Take my soulful words and burn them like a witch in the burning times.

Hang them at the hanging tree while my lover stands hand in hand with me,

and willfully hang with her lover in the light of a full moon for crimes we never committed.

 

Take the fire and drink it like the blood donor,

of a vampire’s feeder.

 

Take my neckless and let it hang you,

in moonlights fiery passion.

 

Take my soulful words,

that mean nothing,

and lay a finger upon it’s beat.

 

Take the words that mean nothing,

and let them rhyme.

 

Take all of who I am,

and this is who you see me as.

 

Silently I breathe,

and words pass through my soul.

 

Words written on parchment,

emotions bleed,

hearts no longer beat,

smiles fail to smile.

 

And the end of my poem is clear,

for I am nothing,

not my words,

not my emotion,

nor my feelings in the light of the moon or stars.

 

Quietly I write my words in the sky,

and hope they are never seen nor heard.

 

How could they?

For they are by others interruption,

fake.

Author's Note

Reviews

[I Am Svetlana]

Anything can be poetic, be it words or even pictures. It's important as a writer to believe in yourself and not steer towards what others may tell you. What makes you feel fake? Poetry never has to make sense, as long as it gets a point across or tells a story. Sure, we may not be as good as a lot of famous writers, but we should be good enough for ourselves. We are our toughest critics, not the world. People will either accept your work or not, that's not your fault if they don't. You haven't done anything wrong. Just be the writer that you are and keep creating like you know how to do. Don't let doubt get to you.

[ron]

Thank you and I will try.

[ANTO]

I got the contemplative mood - so strongly conveyed and I'd like to think that times of self doubt are like when a gardner prunes the rose bush. They arent doing it for any other reason than to encourage new growth, making the 'whole' into a stronger and more resilient and more flower producing plant.
We all have and I feel, need these times - we sink or swim - Im sure you re a swimmer Ron.

God I love Lorde - thanks for this whole feast for eyes, mind, soul and ears Ron

[ron]

Thank you Anto. I am swimming lol. Yes I think you are right we all need this kind of time to help us grow. I can only hope the this pruning will make me grow stronger.

[ANTO]

The fact that you are still writing during this phase (for it is a phase, I feel) tellls me that the new growth has already began my friend.

[ron]

Thank you Anto.

[~]

And yet sometimes we think and think, till there's nothing else left awake but words we thrust up
to the open skies.

[ron]

Thank you. Very profound.

[~]

Welcome :)

[Travis Gibson (poetic h..]

Incredible piece... An such a fresh concept. It made me think about the cusp between our sincerity and ability as artists. Are they one and the same, does one dilute the other? Does any of it matter? Our audience takes from it what they take from it... And we are helpless to interpretation. Excellent write... Standing O!

[ron]

Thank you Poetic. Should we accept all that is given or give what is accepted? I'm not sure what it is but it is a question non the less. If that makes senses. Guess I was in the Zen mood when I wrote this...lol.

[Travis Gibson (poetic heroics)]

You certainly were and it rings true from start to finish

[ron]

Lol thank you Poetic. You are a true friend.

[ms. barrie]

very deep write, Ron. I have to disagree: you're most
definitely a writer, a damn good one too! I love the imagery
you incorporated into this. ~ thank you for sharing :)
- b.

[ron]

Thank you Barrie. Just don't feel like one right now.

[ms. barrie]

you're very welcome, ron...you are, but I know the feeing...l feel the
exact same way right now.

[ron]

I just felt this needed to be said...maybe I should have kept my words silent. I don't want sympathy just understanding.

[ron]

I thank you for your words and understanding. What we feel is sometimes a path to who we are and sometimes what we need.
Words given and taken mark our path past life and it's breathe.

[ron]

I said a lot more but when I posted it, it disappeared.

[ms. barrie]

never crossed my mind you were asking for any. and your welcome
I'd be v. unhappy if you kept silent. I know, sometimes the glitches
on here. keep writing! :)

[ron]

Thank you Barrie xoxo

[ms. barrie]

you're welcome, ron

[ms. barrie]

xoxox'................................

[ron]

You are very kind Barrie...xoxoxo

[ms. barrie]

thank you, Ron & so are you. keep writing!! {xox}