Compass Points

 

My pen sits quietly,

it rests weary.

A traveller with no destiny.

My eyes can't see clearly,

no destination.

Navigation, way off track,

The compass points north, no heading back.

The map, just lines scrawled and scribbled

on a cigarette pack.

 

My pen, ink gone dry,

too much written about tears I've cried.

It rests, destination not yet set,

the compass points west.

But my words will attest,

That maybe another direction is best.

Only way to find out is to put my toe in,

get my feet wet.

 

My pen stopped flowing.

Had I used up my reserves unknowingly?

Now the compass spins south merrily.

There may be monsters,

my map says with glee.

Bring it on,

I've fought demons for too long.

I'll travel this road,

singing the same song.

 

My pen, will it write again?

Will my brain find words

through the smog and rain?

The Compass directs East,

But if I go that way

I'll be devoured by beasts.

If I tread water instead,

I'll finally say

that the compass points home,

the place I want to stay.

 

 

Thanks For Reading,

Peace, Love and Poetry

Kyle.

Seagulls

 

Just me and the seagulls,

we have become equals.

Searching the bay in the morning sun.

Them for food, me just for fun

I watch on, breathing the salty air,

not a care that I'm stood there

They squark and flap,

as they dive for scraps.

 

Low tide,

morning sky.

Took a slow walk

down by the waterside.

Just me and the seagulls,

at ease,

wistful, peaceful, no noisy people.

Watching cascading churning water,

crash and fall.

 

Just me and the seagulls,

as morning calls.

Sun hugging the horizon.

Embracing it with golden light,

reflecting off the waves,

delightfully quiet.

Feeling the pull

of the water,

of the sea.

Free,

from all that is troubling me.

 

Thanks For Reading

Peace, Love and Poetry

Kyle

Driftwood

 

Driftwood floats on the dark murky depths,

reminders of sunken dreams and regrets.

It sways on the turbulent sea,

crashing waves of memory.

 

On ocean wide it ducks and dives,

broken husks of shipwrecked lives.

Driftwood littered beach, sandy castaways,

lost history of bygone days.

 

Driftwood swept over reflective water,

tears tattooed into ink splattered blotter.

Treasure submerged underneath the waves,

those frothy deep blue murky graves.

 

Driftwood glides over the ice-cold abyss,

weathered storms, where all feels amiss.

Yet still it persists,

Floating along, it slowly drifts.

 

Thanks For Reading

Peace, Love and Poetry

Kyle