I'd rather write what I write,
Than tiptoe through the sand.
The experience of giving,
Not taking made me who I am.

I wish, I wish no I believe,
This life is a prelude.
To what's on the other side,
So I wait for the turning off the tide.

For me expression's very sanitary.
It wipes away the detritus.
That lays heavily within,
This withered frame.

I'm not trying to emulate,
What others do or say.
I've always listened carefully,
But within my broken mind.

It seemingly disappears;
Only to reawaken, In my,
Distanced flaying years.

I love to write,
It clears away the cobwebs.
Which transposes all my thoughts,
Of my imaginary life.

Living is my imaginary life,
Dying is my night time scream.
Have to clear away a cluttered mind,
No one hears me when I dream.

Poetry by Alan J Ripley The PoetBay support member heart!
Read 98 times
Written on 2023-08-13 at 00:46

dott Save as a bookmark (requires login)
dott Write a comment (requires login)
dott Send as email (requires login)
dott Print text

Uncle Meridian The PoetBay support member heart!
I concur. Nicely done, Alan.