I’ve given up on poetry,
never really started painting
like I always thought I would.
Wood carving and metal working
were only passing thoughts,
copper pounded into petals,
bent and twisted into roses
and placed in a bed of lavender,
driftwood boxes sanded smooth
to hold waves of memories
and trinkets from babies that were mine;
I never made anything except excuses.
I’ve held myself unaccountable,
counting on enough time left
to cover over any sense of failure
for the unfinished and the broken.
I’m still afraid to go forward,
fearful that I’ll never shape driftwood
into something beautiful,
worried I'll forget myself,
that no one will remember me.
2 comments:
This poem pretty much sums up my entire existence to this point. I'm working on fixing it though.
Excellent job... as usual.
Regards
Anderson
You have a way of expressing yourself between the lines, that gets a lot of less direct meaning and emotion across. You were already a vg poet more than 2 years ago . . and you've improved . .
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