I Write Poetry

Well I was taking a minute to wander through my mind and I remembered this poem I wrote and it felt about right.

Restless

Mind meandering through its vacant spaces

The wind blew away the dirt tracks to my favourite hiding places

So I sit amongst the light and the dark and the routines of night and day

And I feel the unfathomable existence and loss of a place I want to lay



A resting place for all my sorrows, and all my treasures too

A home whose door is always open with warm hands that pull me through

A sofa that lets me lay out a dichotomy of dreams and holds me in its arms and watches them with me

A kettle brewing with an eager listening ear and a strongly brewed mug of tea

A record player that plays our tunes, the scratches and repeats

And at the end of day a patchwork of your poetry spread on silken sheets



Alas this home is just a dream

A fleeting vision never seen

A thought, a hope that must demise

In my restless mind it won't survive



Restless because the open doors are locked and bolted

The forest of my imagination is dead and dreams are halted

There is no warm place to lay my busy head

No soft slumber only nightmares and dread



Only silence where I cast out my cacophony

Who could ever understand my manic melody?

My highs and my lows?

Going too fast, unable to be slow



Rapid restless ramblings

Saying nothing anything everything

Hoping one day to find a place

A peaceful restful loving space



A home where inside I am free

A home which loves when I am me