Back From the Crept

Back From the Crept

by BritNoonan

 

Health issues crippled me in the past ten months,

near comatose with bitter content I spent my days in a fog.

struggling to find the dreams that once seemed sensible,

while fools distracted precious time with their suicidal charms,

Now, alone, I vulnerably start over, a virgin in the arts,

unsure if the damage had already outlived my creativity ,

having the talent to express what I wish to accomplish,

failure’s possibility is high but only fools fear its pleasure.

Can I get out of the love affair with failure and befriend success,

or will I succumb to the sadistic game of a dying clock,

whose time seems to stall, a delusion of the reality,

of actually speeding with no brakes without realizing,

leading to a deadly collusion with other fools coned as well?

Still, regardless of the clock’s smirk and failure’s gleam,

I will reach for success even with a noose around my neck,

and continue writing regardless how little talent I possess.

 

(this slightly depressive poem is the result of the mixture of a melancholic movie with jetlag and injuries. Once you realize that time will run out, you tend to get more motivated to successfully accomplish your goals, even if there is no possibility of success, because once death collects you, you can never come back to finish what you never started or stopped working on)

The End of the Road

When the scenery never changes,

and the road never stops,

where reality gets dull,

and daydreaming an illusion,

and the mind travels too far ahead,

anxious to know where the road leads,

but having no destination in mind,

and a little voice that is to quiet,

pointing out other roads to try,

but this road will lead to great things,

due to a road sign that promises such,

and thus the road forever goes on,

and the scenery never changes,

except for billboards with hallow images,

and scribbled on signs every five miles

is a hollow promise that states,

that at the end of the road,

it will all be worth it.

But yet nobody ever questions,

why this road should be followed,

and for all anybody knows,

and the end of this road,

might be nothing but a broken bridge,

with smashed cars far beneath it.

Normal Way

My thoughts of the future,

lay uncertain and obscene,

with dreams of success,

weighed against,

the lack of knowledge,

of how to succeed,

in what I love,

for a chance to live,

the life I always wanted,

the beginning is rocky,

and I’m afraid of failure,

but I know if I don’t try,

I’ll never know for certain,

and instead of chasing dreams,

I’ll live a life more normal,

with work and marriage,

and die a normal death,

and be stuffed in a coffin,

and buried in a graveyard,

where my body will allow,

bugs to survive,

while I decompose,

in a normal way,

until my body,

has been eating away,

and relatives,

ceased to come visit,

and generations pass,

and I’ll be forgotten,

in a normal way.