Poems are piling up in a corner
Because somewhere along the way,
I lost my patience, my tolerance
And resentment builds, day by day.
But I'd rather the poems collect dust,
Pages yellowing under the dim lights
And words fading from cheap ink
As they remain unread. The plights
Of my impatient heart are better stifled
Than put out for the world to cross-examine
Because I think I was brought up with more class
Than to air my dirty laundry. I try not to step on mines
Left behind by my own displeasures and petty
Emotions because ticking time bombs
Do not wait for you to grow mature before they explode
With glee and they shatter everything you call home.
So I write feverishly still, peppering my angst
With less-than-shiny metaphors and half-meant similes
And I amuse myself by attempting wit
And drawing circles around squares prettily.
But I would rather these words kept unsaid
Because I like to think that I possess some restrain
In reducing the harm I can inflict on other people.
I rather not drop hints I cannot explain
Because I did the mind game situation before
And I'm weary enough to ignore codes and signs,
Tired enough to tell myself that the most I can do
Is try to be a better person, one that is fine
With the world being less pleasant than I expected
Because being human means making mistakes.
And I never want to live on ideals and fairytales
Because I will never have (ideally) what it takes.
YOU ARE READING
Poems for the Sad and Weary
PoesiaThis is my third book of poems and to be really honest, I'm thankful that I had even been able to finish the last two books. I feel like I'm a completely different person from the first book of poems I had started and that's okay with me. Maybe this...