A Collection of Poems

Death of the mind

20/01/14

Seems like the darkness is too bright

for my cold eyes,

And the light seems to hold

too many monsters.

Words on paper look like

shapes and patterns that,

Try as I might

I can’t understand what they

want to say.

The pen that writes

Used to write so clearly,

But the ink inside has dried;

Shrivelled remains of a mind that

Used to flow.

A broken melody

With no bass, no background, no support,

Lying as broken as it will stay.

The beautiful complexity that

Used to bring awe

Now lies dead in its own notes.

But is the sunrise the only beginning?

Must the sunset be the poignant end?

And the story that starts in the dead

Of the night

Is only promising its own downfall.