Shifting Shades

Shifting moods like shifting shades, greys and whites drifting together as black shadows of ink run down the page.

Shifting moods like shifting shades, like the changing shape of molded clay, unfinished and unrefined,  I’m constantly shifting, this unsteady mind of mine.

So I attempt to change my colors, and shift this shade, I’ll alter this picture with the words put down on a page.

I’ll capture my sorrow, that deep grey tone, I’ll capture my fear, that inky black I’ve always known, I’ll paint my self free with these words of mine, since I can’t pick up the brush I’ll use this pen to put upon the finished touch.

I see my muse, that sorrow I know, and I’ll raise the stakes, I’ll write myself free of this dreary state. I’ll let myself go with these words to change these shifting moods.

My shifting shades.

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I don’t usually write a message or an after thought on my poems. Normally my poems are just things I have to get out of my head when I’m in a particular mood. It’s amusing I suppose that I try to tell people that I don’t normally have much inspiration past the thoughts in my head, the things going on and I feel must be said. This time though I can’t quite claim that, I can say quite clearly this came to mind after reading a rather wonderful piece by the author of this wordpress briannadawn. I wanted to be honest on that part because I feel reading that and then immediately posting that without at least a nod to them would have been rude. (Should the author of that page want the link and mention removed I’ll do so, I’ve never really done this before but I tend to keep to myself normally so I’m not really sure how these things work.)

For the Glory of My Muse

Out of hope, and out of time, this life of mine it’s empty, it’s bleak but I’ll find my way

My way to that glory at the mountain, that light found at morning’s peak

I’ll stop my mourning, I’ll stop my sorrow, I’m sorry I’m not sorry but it’s done now it’s over

I can’t do it anymore this mad dash for inspiration has left me empty, my muse is weary

The words I write do get so bleary, she’s tired of my dreary ways and she’s so thin

Her skin is wrinkled and she’s wasted away, she’s no longer young like she was that day

That day I decided that my path was right this path I write and I never knew it was wrong

How I mistreated, how I would write something only for it be trashed, deleted

I spurned my muse, and second guessed my nature, and now I’m in that shadowed valley

With fear looming over me, I take another step, upon those stairs leading to the peak

Outside of this darkness this mourning bleakness, wearied and depressed my muse is mute

But I know what to do, I know how to fix it, turn my back on the shadow and walk to the light once more.

I’ll find what I need to make my muse laugh and smile, and be like what we had before when she whispered those stories of old forgotten years into my head, my sleeping ear

The trip won’t be easy, she’s telling me not to go not to risk my gift that gift that I spurned by trying to this thing, this thing outside my nature

But you see I must, this mourning is tiring and sorrows are getting droll I see my muse getting old and we haven’t lived even a half-life as of yet this isn’t a choice but a task

So, out of hope and out of time I’ll find a way to carry this empty life of mine to that glory on the mountain, that light found at the top of morning’s peak

Perhaps once that light baths over us once again, once again to me my muse will speak, that’s all I want, all I need, to hear my muse again, to hear her speak

 

Don’t Call it Survival

Don’t call it survival

That’s not what I aim for, that’s not for what I wish

I want a revival, I want something more, I want the lights and the bells and all the whistles, I want the glitter, and the glisten and I want all of you to lend your ears to listen.

Don’t call it survival, that’s not what I aim for, it’s not for what I wish

Survival is empty, a thing of meeting needs, never wants, and it never ends and never gets better, it only gets worse. There is no dreams, no lights, no bells but the funeral bell that tolls, at the end that is forever and always foretold and known.

No, what I want is not survival, I want a life, a meaning, something more then an endless meeting of needs, of simply surviving, never truly doing, not striving.

Don’t call it survival, it’s not all that we should aim for, aim higher, and see the light, don’t call it survival.

It’s so much more than that, so don’t call it survival, don’t aim so low, remember your dreams, those stories you told that you would one day be, and look around, look at your now, and ask yourself, did I ever live? Did I try to strive to thrive?

Or did I simply try to survive?

Empty Air

I sit here and stare

At the empty Air

And wonder what it is I wish was there.

In that spot, that empty air.

Perhaps a muse, one to inspire my word and make me dare?

Dare to try and dare to do.

Dare to live and do more then survive.
Dare to thrive.

Or perhaps I see, in that empty air, a lover instead.

One to make me see the world, one to make care.

One to make me feel like more than words on a page.

One that might set me free of my own dreadful cage.

Oh I sit and stare at that empty air, and wonder what I wish was there.

Not that it matters, not that it changes.

The air remains the same, no wish comes true.

Nothing is there in that empty air.

No matter what I do.