I was looking down the barrel
of a loaded calendar,
ages being torn away,
encircled dates left scattered,
fading into the floor,
under the steadily gathering dust.
Your money or your life they said.
Reply I did, I have neither.
These words stumbled drunkenly up my throat,
then slipped back down, a rumbled choke
as I tumbled slowly back across my timeline.
Poetry hasn't always been my mother tongue.
I was more an invisible mime.
Trying to find meaning in places all wrong.
When I was young
I devoured first story, then song,
like a plate of the finest delicacies
I pulled the words apart.
I played with them in my mouth,
letting the constants and vowels
form new worlds to try to work out.
What they meant? how they felt?
Why they got under my skin?
What was that feeling inside telling me?
I let them flitter across my eyelids,
like butterflies brushing my thoughts.
I spent days sat in my window,
watching the world cycle,
caught in a time loop
of fragile emotion, I'd bury myself in it,
to feel the grit and gravel
as it stuck into my skin.
I'd sit in that window
until my mind was spent,
Then I'd begin again
a constant soundtrack playing along.
Consistent, it was my meaning of existence.
I never had many friends,
I'd be most alive when hearing
the blends of voice and instrument,
the tones of pure youthful exuberance.
Inside I felt a call,
put pen to paper, let your words fall.
You have so much to say.
So many ways to portray
the emotion you feel today,
but I placed these words on the back page,
as life took my dreams away
day by wretched day.
Until, at my lowest ebb.
I listened to a song,
one I'd long ago forgotten,
and soon those same feelings
were treading through
my overgrown mind garden.
So, I put pen to paper,
electricity enveloped me.
I was a storm.
The lightning blinding me,
but it was not trying to frighten,
it was trying to enlighten,
to guide me. You see poetry
wasn't my mother tongue,
but it was a saviour when my life felt wrong.
It showed me that I was not alone,
I’d uncover stones
and find new storylines living on,
and I'd write them down
to keep them living
long after they have gone.
Now I listen to the sounds of words
I don't devour them, I delight on them.
Poetry has become my native tongue
I let the words form into one
and I live in the echoes of its song.
Thanks for reading
Follow this link for more.
https://linktr.ee/Wordsandfluff
continue to do this.
Peace, Love & Poetry
Kyle
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