So, the poems are listed by their date written, because I haven't titled them. The middle poem doesn't have a date on it, but I know I wrote it between the first and the third poem...
September 2. 2010
As a bucket there is no choice of what to carry.
At times it is unpleasant and sometimes too heavy.
What a task to haul whatever is thrown in,
Whether it be mud, feed, mortar or stone.
Or any other chore to carry when called upon,
At times it is much to carry, for one.
However, sometimes the bucket will overfill
and change the fate from overwhelm- to magical
The magic is made of sparkling water, which tickles metal skin.
It fills and overflows. And spreads magic within.
Nay, buckets don't carry this magic but, at times, rarely
But this moment - it's like Truly Loving and the moment you marry.
And yet, emotions swing back and forth like a floating fly's flight.
Perhaps it's sand, or brick... but helping one, makes it spark'ling light.
September 2010
Doctors can give an analysis
But can never see my paralysis.
In me,
There's no PHD
But he can never perceive.
The power to shun is great
But it's effects are far too late.
I try,
To fly
But mobility keeps me from growth.
It's an unclear uncertainty
To live in emotional monopoly.
I seek,
but sleep,
In an eternal pain that stays.
Peculiar, is the fact that all can see, but none choose,
My piece of mind is all I can lose.
I need, and plead...
But my voice is never heard.
September 21, 2010
It becomes a great pestilence -
To soften my tongue.
In spite of green need,
You turn shine into shun.
A gavel within your right hand,
Your left index weighs
I shudder in sorrow,
Sold sentence in days.
I walk along bound,
And see the glimpse of light.
As I'm shoved into the darkness,
With but a single ray that fights
This single, tiny beam
As small as a strand of hair,
Allows me to scratch lines
To see how long I've been there.
Little white blades of grass
Grow luscious on the wall
It seems I've been forgotten
Like green leaves in fall.