Melancholy Moments
In Prison.
In prison
With the whole world outside.
In prison
My thoughts spread far and wide.
Thoughts of prison
A boredom in itself.
Boring prison
No sound, no friends, no wealth.
Suicidal prison
I'll slowly twist the knife.
In prison
No hopes, no dreams, no life...
NB. I have never been in prison! This poem is owed partly to the power of the imagination and, being one of my earlier efforts in youth, representative of the grounded-to-your-bedroom feeling!
The Illusory Life
Like the Moon:
So grand and dominant
In the sky.
But reach and touch it?
No.
It’s only for the eye.
Like the Wind:
All around me so close,
Ever nigh.
But take and hold it?
No.
Through the fingers it slips by.
Like the Dream:
Right there inside my mind –
Vivid stray.
But stretch out for it?
No.
For it fades and backs away.
Like the Hope:
It surfaces so strong,
And I pray.
But try and cling to it?
Oh No.
For it retreats toward decay.
Body Heat.
Something is roaring within me,
It's a bubbly, fiery heat.
And the dagger flames
Are slashing about,
Looking for something to meet.
A shrill is echoing in me,
And clashing around inside.
Frantically darting, frustrated,
Violent venom's riotous ride.
A power is surging internally,
Tearing my heart and chest.
It rips through, so riled and tense,
Ploughing it's force without rest.
The noise so wants to die away,
And the fires extinguish their debt.
But the fuel is poured profusely,
And so I'm burning yet.
Silent
I have a voicebox smothered with cling film
I have a mouth full of tightly-packed flour
I have a tongue with now will
I have closed lips of sellotape
I have a mind trapped behind a roadblock
I have severed thoughts of no beginning or consequence
I have my confidence in a locker for which a key was never made.
Cross Roads.
Fasten our shoes, tread down Life's way,
There is my path, to take me astray.
Straight out it stretched, for years our guide.
Together we walked it, as one, side by side.
There's grit on the ground, it's scratching my hope.
The roadway has parted, and I cannot cope.
Why has Life made me this corner to choose?
I don't want to turn it with so much to lose.
You cannot follow this new direction.
So without you I step, as one, in dejection.
Untie my shoes, alone it's so tough
As I walk away, and stumble in rough.
Will my feet ever walk with yours again?
If not, this path leads me to eternal pain.
Yes, cut is the branch that might have grown straight.
Oh why have you killed me, cruel fate?
A Problem Shared?
Days of hurt and nights of pain,
I see your suffering, feel the same.
Perhaps too young to comprehend
But hear those screams I sense you send.
I feel close, frustration's clear,
And wish to aid, always be near.
Let the fate's flow carry you,
Look for colour, not just blue.
Please do not forsake your soul
To Life's sadness, stay you, stay whole.
You touched me, Midas, think this way -
You are your own light midst that grey.
Silent Words
Sometimes, in Life,
In Grief and Strife,
Words will not do
To help one through.
One's silent love
Must come above.
So simply I say
On this, and each day,
You're in my thoughts,
I care,
I'm there.
Odium on Melancholy.
Acute, intense, great Melancholy roams:
Deeper than where secrets are kept,
Deeper than where forgotten thoughts are stored,
Far deeper than the place where dreams are made.
It surges forth beyond the blackness,
Behind the imagination, past the conscience.
Unrelenting, unrepenting, unabated sin.
On and On it swells and melts within.
Mind is whirling by at all crazy
Indescribable speeds, plunging vividly
Through bubbly, bottomless oceans of light and dark,
Through waters awash with purples, cobalts and thick sapphire.
Without shape, form or size,
Ultramarines and emaralds breeze into the soul.
Inside, sorrow reeks it's riot.
Outside, the shell is cold and quiet.
Oh the plain! All else around is "life",
Trickling along it's busy, destructive routine,
Whilst I am shrouded, separated, a
Lonely, unimpressed onlooker from elsewhere.
Numbed and drowsy, like the English Poet
With his Nightingale - yet I hear no music.
I am, (why can't I taste the Flora?)
Enmeshed in the wind of pain's aura.
Heavy frosted twig's dry day,
Will soon come and the burden ease.
Hazy, warm sun will appease.
But just now, seems so far away.
Them and I.
Why do they all carry on?
When I am sat here in pain.
Why don't they feel the same?
When I am here feeling wrong.
Why are they all laughing out?
When I am crying inside.
Why can life they abide?
When I am riddled with doubt.
Why do they all look so warm?
When within, my heart's burning cold.
Why do they speak so bold?
When my words are pointless and torn.
Why do they all love this 'Life'?
When my Earth just crumbles to die.
Why are their spirits high?
When I will carry on, but in strife.
All poetry on this page is © Jonathan Fitzgerald and is the sole property of its owner.
It may not be used or reproduced without the author's expressed, written and signed permission.
All images are either personally designed or thought to be freeware.
Email: jonathan@poeticjustice.co.uk
