I learned just recently when writing my poems that they aren't the same as they used to be. I remmeber when I used to gain inspriation from all the negative in my life and I would write a poem out of it. I even started to give myself the name "Dark Poet" But when I needed to write my poetry manusript for my seminar class, I was open to writing about anything that would come to my mind. I found myself getting inspired by many things such as people around me, weather, or anything else. I didn't have to stick to my usual inspriation pattern. If writing is truly something you like to do, it stays with you and follows you everywhere you go.
The Dark Poet
I’m quenched by the stillness
of ignored puddles against a curb
stepped over by those without time
avoiding unnecessary imperfections
My hunger vanishes from the grayness
I welcome and embrace
The sun burns away my thoughts
Tells me to use him for play
where all the world comes out from hiding
A union of laughter displayed
This picture is not my home
I am the cypress, a center piece
Known on an ordinary day.
The only light desired is imaginary
created in me by Erebus
where imagination is sparked
And words of power infuse together
born from the lightning
in the darkened sky
It's important to go with whatever words come to you because they are words full of truth and different moments in our life give us different inspiration. We aren't exactly the same person our whole life. We learn, grow, heal, hurt, and our writing goes right along with it because our words are who we are. When you try to go back to working on what you previously wrote, it may be difficult because it's not aprt of you at this time. So it is possible to write new things at different times or put aside what you previously wrote to go with something else. Follow it.
Day dream
Picture on the wall.
I'm there, framed inside
where I touch the cold ledge
slightly wet from the facing sea,
swaying in its sparkling dress.
The tingling salt on my face
I feel from each new current.
The sweetness of flowers
doing back strokes in the water,
waving their stems
back at me.
The twirling breeze brings me
back to the days of freedom.
A child's summer delight
to stay out until the setting sun,
welcoming the new day.
The seagulls call.
I hear my name
in their continuous song.
Sounding clearer now,
I turn away and sit
outside the painting again.