Poetic Discovery.
Ben Dunne.
I think that poetry,
as it is, reminds me of,
a found gem on waste.
Sifting through the rubbish of another man's treasure, I find my own, distinct as it is, but it is not this. My new found love for poetry, like a gem, found upon land never before traversed, found upon the hopes and ideals of recognition, found upon new hope for complementing words.
The realisation, like the foolish man and his epiphany,
came, like a rush of detail upon a dreary winter's morn.
Strangling me, holding me tightly, laughing at my feebleness,
the ignorance's grapple loosened now more.
The size of the universe could not compare to how wide my eyes have been opened,
the black bleak belligerence reformed into the receiving sight of an antonym.
I started to become afraid, of my use of time, but that fear has departed.
Almost like a renewable energy source, I shall keep on burning,
burning my hatred, burning my yearning, earning what I am learning.
Swishing my fingers, clicking my pen, forcing my ideas, destroying my fear,
I shall have no more fear, for fear is not to be reckoned with, and I do not negotiate with hostility.
How hypocritical, quite hypothetical, my ideas, sicken me, to a point where I am ill, as a hypochondriac.
And as the sun sets, billowing rays of golden shine upon my pen's glorious wavering, I leave with a cliché line, upon the death of my past.
