What words can one use, to describe the affair between myself and poetry? Though I don’t classify myself a real poet and keep my career title as ‘copywriter’, the poetic art form is my therapy, release, ever confiding friend. Since age 10 when my poem about a sneaky black cat was published, I’ve penned meaningful poems to better understand and conceal my emotions.
As I inched closer to your old apartment,
I remembered the time I first stayed over,
Two hearts thumping yet neutral together,
Our own little world like a child’s imagination,
Now your spirit has departed and left behind,
Ugly walls and dark, dreary scenic sights,
No light can stem from our Pretend Paris,
Post war erupts over possessions we touched.
When my ex-boyfriend moved away, I remember driving through his old area, going past his old house and old town, past the cinema where we watched a film together. And I thought about how great it all looked at the time; the excitement to see him. Once he was gone, the place felt dull – reality hit my childlike eyes. I experienced the sadness of realising change had occurred and our bond was forever diminished. One of my most meaningful poems written.
I do not doubt, anyone will ever take your place.
I do not fear, a new love will take mine.
In the same way I am comfortable rain will continue to splatter,
What we had is too much for movies and writers,
It’s the purest form of memory, a sincere love surpassing all ages.
Short and sweet. I wrote this to capture the consuming, uplifting feeling of having just fallen in love. Each time I fall, it always seems more unique, different and ‘meant to be’. They say ‘the first cut is the deepest’ when it comes to the heart, but I’m certain the deepest cuts mark from the people you truly foresee in your future.
An Angel You Fell
What made you unhappy in clothes of wealth?
Beauty cascaded your face and delicate hair,
Admirers followed as though a star pilgrim,
Still the perfection taught did not enrich,
Were you tormented in abstract resolute?
An angel you fell to cruel fate upon despair.
I wrote this poem thinking about a woman who appears to have it all. She’s wealthy, beautiful and popular. She’s been taught to appreciate these traits, and yet these traits haven’t made her happy. It’s like she’s permanently tormented – an angelic woman unable to rid herself from a cruel shadow. The shadow being her cruel, fated inner demons. Although it’s not directly personal, it describes how I’ve felt before: Both grateful for my life and saddened by destructive insecurities.
Thinking of you takes me back to rooftop restaurants and jazzy tunes,
Remember that bar where we sang out our hearts? Only we listened.
There was a street we ended up dancing on, next to the road I tripped upon,
You laughed the same laugh you shared on our first date, at a random place.
We never visited again, we were too busy smoking cigars and gambling cards,
Pretending our lives were young, planning the adventures we hadn’t begun,
We said starry-nights and sunset hues were the only skies acceptable,
Until we reached the city and realised street lights were only feasible,
I said I want to act as a lady, but you had me stepping on tables,
I wanted to clean up our evenings, but you were unable,
You stumbled along as I got a taxi home,
I met another and you stayed alone,
I reminiscence the past,
You continue to raise a glass.
When I think about meaningful poems, I consider the stories behind them. This one is based on a relationship where I fell quickly. My ex played a charming character. He honed the confidence to act as himself wherever, always discussing our future with ease. As the relationship started to show cracks, we stopped living by all the sweet notions we once said, and ended up going our separate ways.
Life Without Hope
If I stop believing, death cover my soul.
No pulse can alight upon dark sorrow,
If optimism gives up, my body shall collapse.
No strength can build upon hopeless joy.
If positivity shatters and wonders dissolve,
I shan’t travel another step. I shan’t breathe another breath.
I’d rather sleep thousands upon thousands of snores,
Then live in a world not feeding my imaginations.
A love letter to myself. A reminder to not lose faith in pursuing my dreams. I use to wish to have more cynicism. I grew up aware how negatively some perceive ambition that’s beyond the expected amount others assume possible. “You have to be realistic”, some would say. And while true, I’m never going to become an opera singer or the next Kate Moss, I believe you have every right to dream if you show talent and passion for something.