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- Herausgeber: BookRix
- Kategorie: Poesie und Drama
- Sprache: Englisch
This collection of poetry is another golden chapter in this indie author’s book of life, never before has a poet written something so horrific and so truthful. Just by reading the titles of his poems you know what to expect, deeply driven verses with sentimental opinion, the words come at you like snowflakes in a blizzard, hard hitting but completely true and mesmerizing, once you start to read this collection it will be difficult to stop until you have digested every last word. This is food for thought and this sums up the world we live in today.
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Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2016
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The Death Of Poetry Will Be The Death Of Me
This collection is dedicated as always to my muse and our two demonic cats, it also dedicated to Dino, especially the poem The Passing, also dedicated to all the victims of crime, people taken away from this world too soon, from brutal acts of war and murder.BookRix GmbH & Co. KG81371 MunichThe Death of Poetry.
A sun rises on a new day
I place a word on a new page
You might think that is predictable
And you would bet a week’s wage
What if the sun did not rise?
To your horror and to your surprise
What if I gave up writing?
Who would make you laugh then?
For there can be no poetry
If there is no glorious shining sun
Imagine what it would be like
Writing under a black hole would be no fun
Things would be close to insanity
As the whole world panics and attacks
That would be the death of poetry
And that would be the death of me
You have heard of many horror stories
And you have seen the various remakes
You have seen the same old mish mash
Using the same old silver and wooden stakes
There may be a different angle or back story
Maybe filmed in glorious 3D
But these modern twists on an old folklore
Do not do the justice for me
Maybe it is time to get to basics
And let us all stop looking for glory
Let us find something from deep within
And let us write one last fantastic ghost story
And the coffin awaits for us all
No matter whom we are
Stop playing around with yourself
Get your ideas down on paper
Let the pen do all the hard work
Pull the cobwebs from your imagination
Dust off that self-confidence
Write down something original and tantalising
A new form of menace!
So when that sun arrives on a new born day
And the words are all written down
Distributed and published work
For when Armageddon comes to town
You can say with your dying breath
That someone somewhere read your story
It did not make you a millionaire
Because you were never looking for glory
The best payment for the storyteller
Is to see fear in the audience’s eyes
All types of listeners listening vehemently
With the lust of the upcoming surprise
All of these centuries that have passed
As we stand on a bridge trapped in time
Watching as years slips under our feet
Trying to keep our lives in line
Constantly learning
Burning to be told
A fantasy of dimensions
We find intoxicating
Inebriating
Simulating our minds
To plough through monotonous
Insidious lives
Tediously wanting to be told
Through a story or poetry
That life can be marvellous
The sun will always shine
Writing will always be mine
To wrestle with and toil through
Grinding out another verse
Labouring at my art each and every day
Trying to make my words read
By more inquisitive people
Who are searching for someone
Some artist that will stimulate
Wake up the primal parts of our minds
Dragging them through another day
Warmth from the sun and poetry
Breathing life into ancient woes
Narrating the past and fixing the future
Poetry cannot fail in this modern age
It is too big of a monster to be conquered
It lives underground and is hard to find
But until the pulse remains in her
Then the pulse when remain in me
There could never be the death of poetry,
Meaning there could be no death of me!
Cemetery.
A wanderer on a long road
Maybe heading out of hell
He packed his lifelong belongs
In the smallest of rucksacks
Travelling light
Drifting through the night
As the road stretches imaginably
Into the horizon
Our wanderer should feel defeated
The shoes are falling to pieces
Blisters burning under his feet
Since what our drifter has come from
Means he can never retreat
Keep on moving
Seasons are changing
Fleeing from that place
Can’t hide in a cemetery
If Death is waiting there
Ominously and impatiently
It is hard to see the stars
When there is only darkness
Everywhere
Inside and outside
The monsters and the madness
No time to cry
Tears are a waste of much needed liquids
Onwards and upwards
Cannot turn back now
Looking forward
The wind between his teeth
Pain in various places
Forgotten where
Drifting like the seeds in spring
Seems like nowhere
Cannot rest
Cannot hide
This road is my only companion
Cannot stop
Cannot wait
Imagination is the only way forward
It disguises what is real
Constantly fine tuning the vision
The wanderer sees before him
Autocorrecting
Resurrecting old dreams
As he walks through the darkness and cold
He imagines autumn colours and warmth
Golden fields of corn
Dancing in the autumn winds
His concentration lets him down
As darkness waves at him
The last thing he wants to see
Is another damn cemetery
A century of entrapment
Rotting away the years
