I like writing poetry,
It’s not just me,
And there are other things –
I like to sing,
Which some say is the same thing,
A song is just a poem that you sing.
When I write, I feel warm like a light,
Shining on me real bright,
But not too bright ‘cos that hurts my eyes,
A light only I can see and feel,
Hidden in disguise,
A part of me that no one can prise,
Away from me.
Pouring warmth on me all over me,
Helping me process my thoughts and feelings mentally,
Evidently it’s not the answer to everything,
But I realise certain things,
That bulb in my head goes ding,
When I write down words I can sing.
I’ve got a mouth but I don’t always speak,
Thought expressing my feelings would make me weak,
Especially tears and anger and other emotions bleak.
So for a long time I held it all in,
Let nothing leak.
Like a bathtub filling up,
With the plug sealed in,
Everything overflowing again,
Mind spilling over like a dustbin,
Wishing I wasn’t so weak, so shy and so thin.
I’d be able to talk to girls and invite them in,
Not asked by my mum where I’ve ‘bin.
This wounded child,
He’s been hurtin’ for a while,
Hearing the grownups argue saying words that were vile,
But still having to open up his school file,
And file his own emotions away,
Hoping they stayed away,
Whilst his parents argued away,
Distracting himself to keep those feelings at bay.
Getting up to sh*t he shouldn’t do,
Instead of going out to play.
He still feels like a kid inside,
Young and innocent and child-like you’ll find,
Yet mature in certain ways and ever so kind,
But behind those eyes lies this hidden mind,
Full of all sorts of stuff you don’t wanna find.
But opening up he started dealing with it,
Working through it and leaving it all behind,
I think you’ll find you need to be kind to that mind,
That’s why I write.
It’s why I fight myself on the days I don’t wanna write,
Putting pen to paper,
Whether it’s now or later,
Lets me open up some craters,
No space for the haters,
For all I care they can go to the equator,
Burn up and die like Darth Vader.
No room for those invaders,
As bad as those thoughts that stayed here,
Set up camp and played here,
Like a band on stage held a rave here,
Tryna instil me with anxiety and fear.
But the end is near,
In a good way I hear,
I’m being sincere.
Because I write and I fight,
By my bedside I see the light,
Though now it’s night and it’s gettin’ dark,
I’m losing sight, of these words I write.
But I don’t need to see them or read them,
I just need to free them and feel them.
Which is why I’m putting this pen down,
and counting to ten.
– – – – –
✏ Written: Saturday 14th April, 2018