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.