I started writing this monster poem a few weeks ago. It just kept growing and growing until it was close to three pages long and rather hard to follow. Today, I decided to split it up into three poems (they are all set up the same way) because there were really three different stories going on. I'll give you the first two, but the last one is not done yet. If I ever remember, I'll post it when I finish it.
"Dark Frozen Winters"
My life has been written on scraps of old paper,
scripted for me by those gone before.
I stand on this path with my life in disorder,
finding the doors are opened for me.
Listen, you will hear my pre-written story,
one to be told a million times more.
Not by you, not by me, but in lives yet to come.
See, there might even be déjà vu.
Wide eyes do scream out but my mouth has been sewn shut.
Gestures and hops will tell you the tale.
A tale of deep shadows and dark frozen winters,
some dead ends, a witch, my lost shoes.
I could talk of big castles, nice princes, fine balls,
but that would disguise the whole truth.
For you, I would certainly tell the real story,
knowing you would repeat it to none.
But, it seems my parts need repairs to tell stories
and my mind is tired of waiting.
My story will not come today for these reasons,
and, sadly, it may never come out.
You will do fine with one less tale of misery,
and I’m certain that I’m right with that.
And everyone in their cars is speeding away,
leaving me and my birthday for spring.
"New Day" (I don't know if I like this title)
The sleep in these cold nights goes quickly; it’s shallow.
But dreams haunt with stories of past days,
the meaning of labyrinths like these is still questioned.
But, projected still, are these strange dreams.
All night they do come but, by morning, forgotten.
Last night’s dreams might play tonight, too.
Maybe the projector up there is not working.
So, for me, there are reruns each night.
But reruns hold wonder and each time become new
because now I’m wiser than I was.
But sharp beeping does wake me to one more long day,
and I throw on some clothes that don’t smell.
Brush my hair and my teeth, smear deodorant on,
pack my lunch, grab my breakfast, I’m gone.
Gone into the morning to walk cold and alone.
But whispers and guitar cords still play
on a iPod that’s old- like a dog, it’s panting.
Dark pockets are dreadful conditions.
But I switch on a smile. Outside, I’m happy,
but little can hide what I’m thinking.
I stumble through each day, half-way there, half-way gone,
Surviving for lack of surrender.
