Wednesday, 24 September 2014

Ensnared, a sonnet by Adam Common, poet

I cannot spell the words I want to write.
Cannot express the truth of my own heart.
My thoughts apparent, lay within my sight,
But float beyond the limits of my art.
  I suppose that such is love; a tempting pearl,
  That draws the mind up close in to its trap,
  And lost within the glory and the swirl,
  Its caught and captured in a sudden snap.
Inside this shell is warmth, and tenderness,
Embroiling comfortably around the core,
Leaving the bearer never feeling less,
And at the same time always wanting more.
 Inadequate and poor these words may be,
 But filled with worth to those ensnared like me.

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Tuesday, 2 September 2014

Imperfect People, a poem



What such a life will do to such imperfect people,
Carving its lines across them, like they were clay,
All malleable and soft; so easily changed.
So easily reversed from shining to shade.

I feel weak. I feel worried and worked.
I feel your honest hand on my strings,
Plucking and playing by instinct alone.
I feel worthless and lost. Guilty.
Ineffectual, with idle hands
That perform no fruitful task.

I want to act. I want to change something,
Or do that which none would ever ask;
Like today was a day fifteen years past,
When no life existed to stay my hand,

And

And I could drop everything; my life, my friends,
My world straight in to the sea, and let it sink away
Just so their was nothing left to focus on,
But a fearful friend facing that tragedy
That no burdened soul, no matter which,
Should ever encounter alone.

This is not this. This is not then. This is not them.
I repeat like a mantra, but the strings keep ringing.
The sleep evades me, and the grey is ever greying.
What such a life will do to such imperfect people.


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