Emily Dickinson is one of my favorite people (and not because we share a name) in the whole world. I've always thought that she was an amazing poet, so I decided to site this poem as a tribute to her. Enjoy ;)
She sits at her desk
Silky ivory fabric
Clinging to dark wood
Yards of creamy, delicate lace
Neatly stitched in even rows
Puddles at her feet.
Her pen scratches at the paper
Signing her name
Emily
Rusty metal creaking
Ropes groaning
Small sticky hands
Reaching for treats
Still hot and sweet
Fresh from the oven.
A shy chorus of "Thank You"s
Are met with no reply
She smiles to herself
Silently mouthing
"You're Welcome".
They call her crazy
She never leaves the house
Not anymore.
She doesn't think herself mad
Only shy
The outside world doesn't understand
So she hides from it.
"Burn Them" she says
With her dying breath
They wondered about her
Pages filled with darkness
Lighter tales preferred
Her work was to follow her to the grave
Her words for her alone to enjoy
For most reality is hard to bear
We pray for every generation
To make our world better
To be kinder than those before us
She always knew the terrible truth
Our world is full of darkness
Awful things happen to good people
Some will be favored above others.
They called her mad
For she wrote the truth
Her favorite topic was death
For in death we are all the same.
A dark wooden desk
Worn with age
Sits vacant in the corner of the room
Facing outwards
Towards the garden below
Her once vibrant flowers
Wilting from neglect
Many poems written
Death their inspiration.
Death took her hand
Her carriage set off
Towards the horizon
Beyond the setting sun
Nearly empty
Only Death, and her
And Immortality.
YOU ARE READING
Poetry
PoetryJust a few poems that I wrote when I was in a depressing mood. I take requests for new poem topics. Enjoy :)
