Midnight ramblings

 

 

 

Paper,

can it keep me safe,

wrap me like a package kept

precious?

What will keep me

if not this dust?

 

We are fading fast

going nowhere

on a long, long journey,

scribbling records of our time here,

no time here...

And what will I take to remind me,

the wind carrying memories away,

and washing the dust off my feet?

I lick the taste from my lips and try to remember

a time when I was not here.

 

There are books that I’ve written.

I’ve dreamt of them,

eerily knowing I should remember them all,

but never will.

And the television blares, love is all that there is,

screaming we have all the time in the world-

fade to black.

 

I should sleep,

but someone is always tapping me on the shoulder,

Don’t you know what you’re about?

My business is waiting.

You aren’t yourself these days.

You’re getting older and it’s fading.

 

I can’t stop wondering

when you will get up and look in the mirror

and get it one day.

I’ve been screaming such a long time now.

How many lifetimes

just sleeping?...

 

soft and sweet and dripping

promises.

Reviews

[M. Andre Vancrown]

I think this describes what I have always known as feeling "unsettled." It's not something you can pin down to any one particular thing. It's just there, hovering, haunting, like something you can't see or hear or reason with has just tilted the earth on some invisible axis only you can sense. There should be some way to fix it but . . . well, how can you fix a thing when you aren't even certain what it is? There's a sense of urgency but nothing to do. A sense of impending nothingness. The clock doesn't even tick anymore because it's digital but something inside you hears it shattering like glass.

We should be allowed more time. Or be assured that something we've done will remain, some tiny piece of consciousness passed on. Shared with those who come after . . . but after what?

And why does any of it matter?

[Creepy Swine Guy]

Ii hear this speaking of the fleetness of life. I hear it asking ... what evidence will you leave that you were here? This is such a relevant question one that torments me every day and so I write and wonder like you if my words will preserve any of who and what I was.

[bluessadmood]

oh you are talking about life...and death,what will become of me when i am passing
i do fade away i feel it
will i remember my books ,will they protect me
keep my memory after i am gone
i am getting old and cold and fading
it has been a long journey and i feel tired
You aren't yourself these days.
You're getting older and it's fading.
I can't stop wondering
when you will get up and look in the mirror
and get it one day.
lovely writing i could go on forever telling my thoughts ,for its a very vague thing to talk about

[Rain]

For me this just echoed of what I can do, and what I do. Time wasted on dreams of books written. How long do I have ? I just sensed this tangeled web of confusion. I loved it, whether that was your intent is not even important. It's what a write can make you feel. This was filled with many emotions, self doubts.
It reminded me of where I'm at. Perhaps I see what I want to see. Rain..

[Keith]

this reaches into a place of rebirth and tries to slay the unwilling of the protection of certainty, even if the familiar be damnation, whether designed to introduce introspective or observational it carries a common element which is a mean of society in whole.
Thoroughly enjoyed the write.

[Damien Dsoul]

There's a foreboding tremour in your words, more like tying to push back a harbringer of darkness from arriving ...

[Clavus]

In the writing of your internal struggles, you again have captured the feelings we all share. In the specific, us writers look upon these fears and ponder them daily at times. In the broader sense, your poem speaks to the masses about everything we hold precious about ourselves. Like all the great writers, poets, philosophers, and those forgotten, it speaks of mortality. Your poem brings about an updated version of the big question in a way that may have been akin to what people felt when Shakespear's, Hughes', Neruda's, etc. work was first publicized. This is beyond good and you should forever be proud of your creation.

[Michael Lasalle]

paper...
can it keep me safe,
wrap me like a package kept,
precious?
what will keep me
if not the dust?

midnight ramblings you say, penning
the soul, i would say, this is
breathtaking piece that seems in my
opinion, to be a conetemplation
of one of life's greatest mysteries,
through the eyes of a Poetess of Heart,
how many lifetimes
just sleeping

soft and sweet and dripping
promises" as you closed with this line,
falling in to the reprieve of a dream,
loved this, you talent is never ceasing,
peace, mike

[Michael Lasalle]

paper... can it keep me safe, wrap me like a package kept, precious? what will keep me if not the dust? midnight ramblings you say, penning the soul, i would say, this isbreathtaking piece that seems in myopinion, to be a conetemplationof one of life's greatest mysteries,through the eyes of a Poetess of Heart,how many lifetimes soft and sweet and dripping promises" as you closed with this line, falling in to the reprieve of a dream, loved this, you talent is never ceasing,peace, mike

[Bubo]

I should sleep
but someone is always tapping me on the shoulder
don�t you know what you�re about
my business is waiting
you aren�t yourself these days
you�re getting older and it�s fading

What a fab piece.
I related to this in myself, always desperate for sleep but thoughts, or memories come to me, then the feeling of life passing and i have achieved nothing that I really wanted, regrets prod.
You have written so well, a feeling of just doom but can't put your finger on it........worries....and does anyone care?

there are books that I�ve written
I�ve dreamt of them
eerily knowing I should remember them all
but never will
and the television yells, love is all that there is
screaming we have all the time in the world

And here you write some of my deepest thoughts.

[Leah Simone]

there are books that I�ve written
I�ve dreamt of them
eerily knowing I should remember them all

oh, how I relate - those plots and lines churn in my brain like buttermilk that only sours in the morning and I never can remember it all - We have so much inside us to share it seems - you expressed this angst and how it relates to communicating with others as well as our innerselves -Leah