Of Inspiration and Similar notions...

I reach out for my pen to put my thoughts down
In black and white,
And I wonder why I do that...
What joy,
What comfort,
In the written word is it that makes me write?
My inspiration?
I ask myself that question often
Never a concrete answer.
Appreciation
Or distinction?
Or the mere pleasure of creation.
I know not the answer to that.
Yet.
I write as I think to myself
Of things familiar,
Unknown and some imagined.
A random outpouring,
Senseless and yet coherent
The beauty of poetry...
No questions asked
None answered.
The freedom of expression.
Comfort and an unburdening of the soul
Of pleasures and experiences
My poetry
My solace
The foundation of my relationship
That most important relationship...
With the self.

The Other Side of The Mirror...

There was a crowd
A senseless crowd
Utter debauchery
And noone had the faculty of reasoning.
I sat there
A part of the crowd and yet aloof
Atop a stool at a counter
Contemplating over a drink
A drink I didn't want.
And I look at the crowd
Shoving behind me
Knowing not what they wanted
And yet all wanting the same thing.
And then I look back
Into a mirror
Behind the bartender
At a stranger
Who wears my clothes
Resembles me
And is not me
My alter ego.
A detachment occurs
As a numbness sets in
The speakers blare with loud music
Everyone head bangs
The stranger in the mirror sways along
As I look at her
Apparently enjoying the ambience
And yet as I watch
I sense a dormant rebel
Who doesn't quite know what she wants
Acceptance
Or resignation?
This crisis of identity
A Lack of knowledge of one's being
This utter ignorance
How is it preferred?
This facelessness
Anonymity.
And as I ponder I watch
The reflection turn away
An understanding smile escapes me
A deep breath...
And then
She's gone
To get lost in the crowd.
Homogenity
Or a loss of individuality?

And Then...

And then there was love,
An emotion that pervaded my soul
My very existence.
Groping in the darkness,
Looking for a way
Lost!
A feeling I had given up on,
One I didn't think I could feel again.
And then it resurfaced again,
For someone so unlikely,
I smile to myself.
Someone who knows not how I feel,
A friend, an acquaintance.
Who seeps into the corners of my very soul,
So slowly and surely.
And yet unintentionally...
Doesn't do a thing
And still am lost!
And this love is my cross to bear
And so I suffer in silence.
A suffering so beautiful,
It elates me.
Something so concrete
Almost tangible
And yet Elusive!!!

An Impossible Eternity...

Distraction galore happens,
Confusion sets in.
Lost in thought I wander around
About what I know not.
Unsure and unnerved,
This feeling that devours me.
I have not a name for it...
I look for solace in places I had not considered,
Befriending strangers,
Finding common ground in unchartered territory.
Alone in a crowd,
Alienated amongst friends
I look for something,
Something I can't see,
Can't touch.
Something that is a longing for me
A longing for something I do not know.
Is it a feeling,an object or a person?
Ask me not because I know not...
And so I stay lost
In my reverie.
This pondering about something intangible,
So necessary and yet elusive.
Evasive.
I wonder and brood,
Depression???
I ask myself.
There is a deficiency that is in me,
That I cannot seem to fill
Hard as I try.
And I am blessed
No lack of privilege
And yet...
And my trials and my tribulations are mine alone
I realise.
And I realise I am not sad,
I have no regrets
Just thoughts of what has passed,
What was and never will be.
Helpless as I am
I smile at the irony
A bittersweet irony.
A dream of a forever
A forever shattered for good.
An impossible eternity!
A nervousness seeps in
Into the blood that runs through my veins
And into the corners of my soul
Eating into me
My very existence.
The possibilty of the new
Of the unknown.
There is a nervous excitement
Anticipation
Of what can be, might be
And that the heart says
Should be...

To Write or Not...

With a purpose to write
I took up my pen,
To write of things beautiful and romantic
Of things happy and wondrous
And the paper would not fill.
To look for poetry in the mundane
A challenge.
I looked around for inspiration
Running into nothingness.
And then I looked within
At memory and experience.
The writer in me realised
There were things dark and grim
In the crevices of my mind...
Pain and anguish,
Confusion.
Denial.
And yet...
Hope.
And so I wrote of things I knew
Personal and yet universal...
Then flowed the words out of my pen
And then lay my pen to rest.

Lonely Paths

You are born alone
Into this world you are brought in by the Lord.
There are friends and there is family
And yet you are alone.
Alone and you walk
From stepping stone to the next
From role to role,
Living it up!
And yet there is emptiness.
And then you are in a crowd
And you are lonelier still...
And you wait for that someone
That someone you love.
Someone you know loves you
And yet has forgotten you.
And yet you wait, wait in vain?
I wonder,
This I wonder as I wander along my lonely paths...

Survival...

A fading memory
Of a distant past
Long gone
And yet an undeniable truth.
A realisation sinks in of what was
What is.
An ache,
A smile escapes me.
Forgiveness.
Acceptance of what was and will never be again...
And then faith
Hope of new horizons
New priorities
A shift in paradigm.
Hard yet necessary.
Something unfathomable
Sometimes exciting possibilities
Sometimes looming and fearful
The future.
Uncertainties and impossibilities
Imposing and worrisome.
The paradox and the extremes
Painful and yet addictive,
An experience.
I hope and promise myself then
Only to look ahead with undying optimism
And always an unwavering faith
The eternal cycle of life
An inevitable truth.