O, my muse! There is not a moment that you are not in my head. Tell me, is it loud in there? If it is, will you halt the honking traffic? Disregard the means, just stop the screaming, will you? The calamity is exhausting me.
Ghosts of the past, present, future;
coursing through my head,
racing to the forefront,
to plague,
to speak,
to feast.
An accursed spectacle that revolves,
transcendental concoctions
hauling me there again—
panting, whipping fear,
tearless trepidation.
In gazing reveries,
less like a sin and more like home
less like home and more like a sin;
In solitude,
less forlorn and more contented
less contented and more forlorn;
In yearning,
less affinity demanded
more patience sought;
In asking,
pacifying for peace, inner peace
or satisfying self-pity?
The despondency is ubiquitous;
Where is the joy?
Where is the celebration?
Don't fret—
your effort is laudable,
you are seen.
Feel the throes and salute your ghosts;
It matters to the ending,
the ending is what matters.
YOU ARE READING
her musings - poetry
Poesíaa collection of poems i write to understand myself more and relief my ever-evolving emotions on love, loss, yearning, my passions and my connections with other humans.
